#i’m typing this with my eyes half closed and without my glasses

[i2sunric]

𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌 (s.jy)

PAIRING: nerdy!jake x reader (f)

SUMMARY: well, it’s not your fault that your boyfriend is perfect, good at school, kind enough tutor you in math and so skilled in bed chem.

WARNINGS: smut. freshman college (they’re 19), jake lives with his parents, grinding, dirty talking, pet names (baby, jakey), manhandling, overstimulation, protected sex (wrap your willies guys), missionary, doggy, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 18th April 2025.

WC: 2.7k

TAGLIST: (permanent) TAGLIST: @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @slut4hee

Jake’s room smelled of books, fresh laundry, and that faint scent of cologne he always wore— clean, crisp. It smelled like home. 

His desk was cluttered but organized in a way that made sense only to him: thick textbooks stacked neatly, a cup overflowing with pens and mechanical pencils, and his laptop open to what looked like an impossibly complicated physics simulation. 

You, on the other hand, were sprawled across his bed, your maths textbook abandoned beside you as you dramatically flopped onto your stomach.  

"Jake," you groaned, voice muffled against his pillow. "I’m going to fail this test, you have to accept that."  

You thought that after high school, all you problems would be resolves. What you didn’t expect, though, was to be forced to take an extra curricular trigonometry lecture that made you want to smash your head against the wall.

Jake, who was sitting at his desk, barely looked up. "You’re not going to fail," he said. "You just need to focus."  

"I have been focusing," you argued, rolling onto your back and stretching out like a starfish. "For, like, fifteen minutes."  

"Exactly," he deadpanned, finally turning to look at you. "That’s not nearly enough."  

You pouted. "But I hate math, it’s stupid and unnecessary. When am I ever going to need to find the limit of a function in real life?"  

Jake sighed, closing his book with a quiet thump. "Math is everywhere," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, a habit of his that you found way too attractive. "It’s in physics, engineering, technology, everything that makes the world work."  

You rolled your eyes, sitting up. "Okay, Professor Sim, but I don’t want to make the world work.” You scoffed, “i just want to pass this stupid class and never think about numbers again."  

Jake gave you a pointed look. "And I want to make sure my girlfriend doesn’t flunk out of college."  

You grinned, crawling off the bed and walking over to him. "Speaking of your genius brain," you murmured, sliding into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thighs as his chair rolled back slightly from the sudden weight. "How’s your project going?"  

Jake tensed for half a second before exhaling, hands automatically settling on your waist to steady you. 

"It’s going well," he said, though his voice was already shifting, lower, rougher. "But I’ll never finish it if you keep distracting me."  

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "I’m just curious," you purred, looping your arms around his neck. "Tell me what you’re working on, baby."  

Jake sighed, but you could see the way his lips twitched, like he knew exactly what you were doing and was helpless against it anyway.  

"Fine," he said, adjusting his glasses again. "I’m designing a new type of microprocessor, something that can process data faster and more efficiently than the ones currently in use..."  Blah blah blah. 

You weren’t really listening, if you were being honest. 

You liked hearing him talk, loved the way his voice got all passionate when he explained something he cared about, but the actual words? They went right over your head.  

Instead, you focused on the way his hands, so warm and steady, were resting on your waist. Absentminded, like he wasn’t really paying attention, he traced slow circles against the fabric of your sweater, fingertips dipping just beneath the hem to brush against your bare skin.  

You bit your lip, shifting slightly on his lap. "Mmm, keep going."  

Jake didn’t seem to register what you were doing at first. "Right, so,  the idea is that instead of using classical bits, ones and zeroes, you use qubits—"  Again more smart words. 

You rocked against him, slow, almost imperceptible, but enough. Jake inhaled sharply, fingers digging into your skin.  

You smirked. "Go on," you teased.  

His jaw clenched. "You’re evil."  

You hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "No, I just really like hearing you talk, baby."  

His hands flexed on your waist, like he was debating something. Then, as if giving in, he exhaled a low chuckle. "You’re such a fucking brat," he muttered, and the way his voice dropped made heat pool between your thighs.s

He moved one hand up, running it along your spine, pushing your sweater up just enough to expose more of your skin to the cool air. The other hand slid lower, gripping your thigh as you ground against him again.  

"You’re not even listening, are you?" he murmured, his lips grazing your ear now.  "Not really," you admitted, breathless.  

His grip tightened, guiding your movements now, encouraging you to move against him with more purpose. "You just like teasing me, huh?"  

"Mmh," you hummed, pressing another kiss to the corner of his lips, then his jaw, then his throat. "I like how worked up you get."  

Jake let out a soft curse under his breath, his hips shifting up just slightly to meet yours. "You’re lucky I love you," he muttered, voice strained.  

You grinned. "I know."  

Then, finally, he broke. His lips crashed against yours, his hands gripping you tighter as he deepened the kiss, swallowing the little sounds you made as you melted into him. 

His glasses pressed against your cheek, cool against your flushed skin, but neither of you cared.  

"You drive me crazy," he murmured against your lips, his breath warm, his hands wandering. "Always so fucking needy."  

You whimpered, rolling your hips again, and he groaned "Jakey," you breathed.  

He exhaled shakily, then kissed you again, hungrier this time, like he couldn’t get enough. "You should be studying," he muttered between kisses, even as he ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your sweater higher.  

You smirked. "Make me."  

And, oh, he did.

Jake groaned against your lips, his grip on your waist firm as he lifted you from his lap, standing up with you in his arms. 

Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, and you buried your face in his neck, feeling his pulse race under your lips.  Your core pulsated with need, and he could feel it even through your shorts. 

"You’re gonna be the death of me," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration and desire as he carried you across the room.  

Jake pushed your math book on the floor, and he laid you down, his body pressing against yours as he kissed you again,, like he’d been holding back for too long. 

His hands roamed, slipping under your sweater, pushing it up over your ribs. You arched your back, helping him, and he pulled it off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.  

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes raking over you. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he pushed them up absentmindedly before leaning down to kiss you again.  

His hands moved with practiced precision, knowing exactly where to touch, where to squeeze, how to make you shiver beneath him. 

His fingers brushed over your thighs, pushing up the fabric of your shorts before he hooked his thumbs in the waistband and dragged them down along with your panties,leaving you bare beneath him.  

"You really don’t like making things easy for me, do you?" he murmured, fingers tracing up your inner thigh. 

You smirked, breathless. "Where’s the fun in that?"  

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, but it was strained, like he was barely holding himself together. 

He sat back for a second, pulling off his sweater in one swift motion, revealing the toned muscle beneath. 

His skin was warm under your fingers as you reached up, running your hands over his stomach, his chest, feeling him tense beneath your touch.  

"Condom," he muttered, reaching into the drawer of his nightstand.  You groaned, letting your head fall back against the pillow. "You always do this."  

"Yeah," he said, tearing the foil packet open with his teeth, "because I’m not stupid."  

You pouted. "I’m on the pill."  

"And I like knowing you’re safe." He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours, his glasses sliding down again. "Quit pouting."  

You sighed dramatically but let him roll the condom on, watching as his long fingers worked quickly.  

Then he was over you again, lips on your neck, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he lined himself up.  "You have to be quiet," he murmured, his voice rough as he kissed along your jaw.  

"Or what?" you teased, just to test him.  

Jake exhaled sharply, then pushed into you in one slow, deep stroke. Your breath hitched, your fingers gripping his shoulders as your back arched off the bed.  

"Or I’ll make you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.  

Your eyes fluttered shut as he started moving, slow at first, like he was savoring every inch of you, but then he set a pace that had you struggling to keep quiet. 

He knew what he was doing, exactly how to angle his hips to make your breath stutter, exactly how to roll his hips so you were gripping at his arms, trying so hard not to moan too loudly.  

His glasses fogged up from how close he was, the heat between you making them useless, but he didn’t stop to take them off. 

You did it for him, reaching up with trembling fingers and sliding them off his face, setting them aside on the nightstand.  

He thanked you with a warm smile. 

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, met yours as he thrust deeper, harder, stealing the air from your lungs. His hand came up, covering your mouth as you let out a soft whimper, muffling the sound.  

"Shh," he murmured, his voice like gravel against your skin. "Don’t want my mother hearing how good I’m fucking you, do you?"  

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, your nails digging into his back as he snapped his hips into you again. It was all too much.  

You clenched around him, your thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. Jake cursed under his breath, feeling you squeeze around him, and his grip on your hip tightened as he sped up, chasing your release.  

"Come for me," he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. "I wanna feel you."  

That was all it took. 

Your body tensed, pleasure hitting you like a tidal wave as you bit down on his hand to keep from crying out. Your vision blurred, your fingers digging in his skin as you came undone beneath him.  

Jake groaned, his movements faltering for half a second before he found his rhythm again, his thrusts rougher now, more desperate. 

He grabbed your leg, hooking it over his hip, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that had you gasping against his palm.  

He hadn’t slowed down. His rhythm was deep, fast, relentless. the bed creaking under both of your weight, the headboard softly hitting the wall in time with his thrusts.

You were still whimpering from your second orgasm, your thighs trembling around his waist, your nails digging red crescents into his shoulder blades. Your breath hitched, another moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it. “Jakey! oh—” 

His hand came up instantly, covering your mouth again, palm warm and firm.

“Quiet,” he hissed against your cheek. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

Your body arched off the bed beneath him, mouth smothered by his hand, eyes rolling back from the sheer pressure, the stretch, the heat. Your muffled cries only made him thrust harder.

“You like this, huh?” he breathed, watching your every twitch, every gasp, every time you tried to cry out under his hand. “You like when I fuck you like this.”

You nodded desperately, the pleasure building again even though your body felt like it couldn’t take more. Your skin burned, your thighs ached, but none of it mattered. Jake was everything— all you could feel, all you could hear, all you could take.

You released against him, hard, back arching as your whole body seized up and shuddered. Your vision blurred. You felt tears sting your lashes, your voice cracking beneath his hand as your second orgasm ripped through you.

He grunted, letting his hand slide away from your mouth only when your cries became soft gasps His lips found yours in a hungry, breathless kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance.

“Shit,” he panted, pulling back just a little to brush his hair from his eyes. He kissed your jaw, your throat, sucking a mark just below your ear before whispering, “Turn over for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Jake, I can’t—” 

“You can,” he said firmly, kissing you again. “Just one more, baby, you’re doing so good.”

And because it was him uou obeyed.

You turned, limbs shaky, chest pressed to the mattress, ass in the air as you grabbed onto the pillow and buried your face into it. Jake groaned softly behind you.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he muttered, dragging his fingers over your lower back, down to your ass, squeezing firmly. “Messy and fucked out… all for me.”

You felt him line himself up again, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your slick folds before pushing into you in one hard thrust that had you biting into the pillow to stifle a scream.

“Oh my God… Jake.”

“Shhh,” he hushed you, hand curling around your hip to pull you back into him, setting a brutal pace that left your legs shaking, your voice broken into helpless sobs. “You have to be quiet.”

“I can’t,” you cried into the pillow, half-laughing, half-sobbing from how good it felt, how completely he wrecked you. “Jake— it’s too much—”

“You’re taking it so well,” he said, voice strained, one hand gripping your waist while the other slid up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades to press you further into the mattress. “So fucking good for me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, dragging cries from you no matter how hard you tried to bite them back. You fisted the sheets, knuckles white, body trembling as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot over and over again until your legs gave out.

Jake leaned down, chest against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, “You pretend to be all innocent, all shy in front of everyone… but in here? With me? You just want to be ruined.”

You moaned, louder than you meant to, and he growled, his hand flying to your mouth again, fingers pressing your cheek into the pillow.

“You don’t listen,” he hissed, thrusting harder, until the sound of skin against skin echoed through the room. “You want my mother to hear how desperate you are for my cock?”

You shook your head wildly, sobbing beneath his hand as he slammed into you again, and again, and again, until your entire body clenched and your mind blanked. One last orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and dizzying, tearing a scream from your throat that was completely muffled by his palm.

Jake groaned into your neck, biting your shoulder as he came hard, his body collapsing against yours, twitching with aftershocks as he held you tightly, his breath loud and shaky in your ear.

You both stayed like that for a moment, tangled, gasping, hearts pounding like they wanted to leap out of your chests.

Jake pulled out gently, sighing contentedly as he rolled to the side and took the condom off, tying it quickly and tossing it into the bin beside the bed.

He turned to you immediately, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your exhausted body. Your skin was damp with sweat, your legs trembling, your eyes heavy with sleep and satisfaction.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, your bodies tangled together, sweat-slicked and trembling.  

Jake finally lifted his head, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed. He looked wrecked, but somehow, still devastatingly handsome.  

"You okay?" he murmured, pushing your hair out of your face.  

You nodded, still catching your breath. "Mh.. It was so good.”

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "You are a menace."  

You smirked. "You love it."  

"You’re exhausting," he muttered, but his arm was already tightening around you, pulling you close.  

You grinned, snuggling into his chest. "You love that too."  

Jake sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Yeah," he admitted softly. "I really do."

[viviansturns]

𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 - wc: 15k+

... shy!matt x reader—a love story told in all their first moments

cw: flirting, kissing, sub!matt, p in v, riding, squirting, humiliation, jealousy, angst, fluff, literally everything. its a love story!

First Time Meeting

The library was almost empty.

It was late afternoon, the kind of time when the sun starts to filter in sideways through the windows and paint golden lines across the floor. Matt liked it then—quiet, still, safe. The way the shelves muffled everything, the way people whispered by default. He came here more than he liked to admit, always with a book or a sketchpad, always ending up in the same worn seat by the back window.

That’s where he saw you.

He noticed you before you noticed him. You were standing near the psychology shelf, one hand on your hip, head tilted like you were sizing up a row of books for a fight. He thought you were gorgeous— to put it lightly.

There was something about how still you were, how focused. Like you didn’t care who else was in the room. That alone made Matt’s stomach do something embarrassing.

He looked away. Then back again.

You pulled out a book, flipped it open, and sighed. It was almost imperceptible, but he heard it. And then, as if drawn by some invisible, stupid force, Matt stood up.

He didn’t plan on saying anything. He really didn’t. But somehow, he ended up a few feet away, pretending to look for something on the shelf beside you.

You glanced at him once, then twice.

“You need something?” you asked, not unkind, just direct.

Matt blinked, caught. “Oh—uh. No. I was just…”

He trailed off. What was he just?

You raised an eyebrow, book still half-open in your hand. “Just hovering weirdly near me?”

Matt’s face flushed instantly. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t—”

You smiled then, subtle but real. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh.” He blinked, shoulders tensing, then easing. “Right. Okay.”

You closed the book and tucked it under your arm, turning toward him a little more fully. “You hang out here a lot?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. Kind of my place, I guess.”

“Yeah? You seem like the library type?

That made him tilt his head. “What’s the library type?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Glasses? Button up shirts? Tote bags or some shit??”

He laughed, caught off guard. “I mean, I do have many tote bags. And glasses. And button up shirts.”

You nodded toward the sketchpad under his arm. “You draw?”

Matt looked down like he forgot he was holding it. “Oh—yeah. A bit.”

“Can I see?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Now?”

“No,” you said, mock serious. “In a couple days.”

He laughed nervously. “Right. Sorry.”

He flipped open the sketchpad without thinking, hands clumsy, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were. The pages showed a mix of quick studies—hands, faces, street scenes—done in pencil, loose and warm.

You looked for a moment, quiet.

“These are really good,” you said.

Matt blinked, startled. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No, like—actually. I don’t usually say things I don’t mean.”

“I—okay.” He tried not to grin like an idiot. “That’s... really nice of you. Um t-thank you.”

You glanced at him again, more carefully this time. “You always this twitchy, or is it just me?”

He flushed. “Just you, probably.”

You smiled again. “Cute.”

His ears turned red. “You, uh… you come here a lot?”

“Sometimes. When I want to think. Or avoid people.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s why I come too.”

You looked at him for a moment longer, like you were deciding something.

“I’m gonna go sit over there,” you said, motioning toward the window seat he always used. “You can come too, if you want.”

Matt hesitated just long enough for you to raise an eyebrow again.

“Unless you’re scared,” you added.

“I’m not scared,” he said quickly, stepping forward before his brain could stop him.

You gave a soft hum of approval and led the way. When you sat, you didn’t spread out or mark your space—just leaned back, casual, like you belonged there. Matt hovered for a beat too long before settling beside you, sketchpad in his lap, palms sweating.

“So,” you said after a moment. “What’s your name?”

“Matt.”

You repeated it under your breath, then nodded. “I’m y/n.”

Silence again. Not awkward—just expectant.

“I really wasn’t trying to be weird earlier,” Matt blurted.

You looked at him sideways. “You kinda were.”

“I know,” he groaned, covering his face.

You nudged his knee with yours. “But I didn’t mind.”

He peeked at you between his fingers. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, letting your smile grow slowly. “You’re cute when you panic.”

Matt didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He just looked at you—composed, unreadable, and yet totally disarming—and felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under him.

You nudged his knee again, gentler this time. “Cat got your tongue, sketchboy?”

He blinked like he’d just surfaced. “Sorry, I’m—this is just... a lot.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Me sitting near you is ��a lot’?”

“No, it’s just—you’re really…” He trailed off, like the word had gotten stuck somewhere between his brain and mouth.

“I’m really…?” you prompted, leaning in slightly.

Matt swallowed. “Distracting.”

You grinned. “I’ll take it.”

He laughed under his breath, nervous again, thumb grazing the corner of his sketchpad like it was grounding him. “You make it hard to think.”

“That’s the goal,” you said casually, watching him squirm. “But if it helps, you’re doing okay.”

He tilted his head. “Okay?”

“Better than I expected.”

“Better than—wait, what were you expecting?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t important. “I don’t know. More stammering. More sweating.”

“Oh, I’m definitely sweating,” he muttered.

You smirked and leaned back against the window, eyes squinting at the slats of sunlight spilling across the floor. “You’re funny, though. Kind of sweet.”

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You’re just… saying that.”

“No,” you said, without looking at him. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

And that quiet between you returned—just long enough for the tension to shift from playful to something heavier. More real.

“I, um…” Matt started, then stopped, biting his lip.

You glanced over. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking absolutely anywhere but at you. “I’ve got a lecture that I have to head to. Would it be super weird if I asked for your number?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a second too long. Then:

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re actually gonna use it.”

His head snapped up. “I—yes. I will. I mean, I want to.”

You pulled a pen from your tote and reached for his sketchpad. “Then I guess it’s not super weird.”

You scribbled your number in the corner, dotting the “i” in your name with a tiny star. Then handed it back like it was no big deal.

Matt looked down at it like it might vanish.

“Don’t overthink it,” you said as you stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Just text me.”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

You paused, gave him one last look. “Nice meeting you, Matt.”

And then you walked away, as calm and unreadable as when you’d arrived, leaving him blinking in the gold light, sketchpad in hand, heart doing things he didn’t know hearts could do.

First Texts

Matt: hey It’s me, matt, from the library?

You: Hey matt Whats up

Matt: so hypothetically if someone wanted to see you again in a setting that wasn’t just surrounded by dusty psychology books how would you feel about that?

You: i’d feel like that person should stop hiding behind hypotheticals and just ask me out

Matt: okay uh  d’you wanna go have a picnic? I know a quiet spot. Nothing fancy. Just food and you I guess.

You:  Food and me?? Sounds fun

Matt:  Good. I’ll bring snacks and a blanket. You just bring yourself.

You:  Deal. Saturday afternoon work?

Matt:  Yeah that works! I’ll pick you up.

First Date

The park was quiet, with just enough afternoon sun slipping through the trees to make the grass glow golden. Matt spread the blanket carefully, trying not to fumble too much with the snacks he’d brought. He’d overthought everything—the perfect spot, the right food— chocolate covered strawberries, all sorts of fruits and cheeses, and chips.

You plopped down right beside him, knees touching, grinning in surprise.

“Wow,” you said, eyeing his arrangement. “Look at you, all organized and stuff. I half expected you to show up with a bag of chips and maybe a soda.”

Matt’s cheeks flushed, a little overwhelmed by your energy. “Hey, I put some thought into this. Quality counts.”

You leaned in closer, voice low and teasing. “I like a guy who tries. Those fuckin’ nochalant guys piss me off.”

He swallowed hard, blinking, sort of unable to focus. He really liked your eyelashes. You did your makeup in the way that made them clumped together in triangles and spikey, framing your eyes. “I—yeah, thank you.”

“No, thank you.” You add, picking up a strawberry from the bowl. “You seem really sweet. Kinda random, but did you bring your sketchbook by any chance?”

Matt shifted, breaking out into a cute smile. “Yeah! I did, actually Why?.”

You laughed, the sound light and infectious. “You’re so excited!”

He smiled shyly, glancing down at the blanket like it was a lifeline. 

You dug into the basket again and pulled out the sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page. “Alright, Picasso, impress me.”

Matt’s eyes brightened, and he took the sketchbook, already grabbing a pencil from his bag. “Okay, but be warned—I’m better at drawing nature than people.”

You smirked, nudging him playfully. “Then you better start with me.”

He bit his lip, concentrating, pencil moving carefully. You watched him, fascinated by the furrow of his brow and the way his fingers trembled just a little.

“I-I don’t know if it’s going to be good.”

You reached out and brushed a stray hair from his face, smiling softly. “You’re doing just fine.”

Matt’s heart did a weird flip-flop thing. “You’re way too nice.”

“Nah, I just like making cute nerds blush.”

He coughed awkwardly, cheeks flaming. “I’m not blushing.”

“Sure you’re not.” You grinned, then changed the subject, “So, what’s next after strawberries? I’m expecting a grand tour of your snack stash.”

“Grand tour? Wow, you really know how to flatter a guy.”

You laughed again, flicking a crumb at him. “Flattery and flirting—my specialties.”

Matt tried to catch the crumb but missed, ending up with it on his shirt. You giggled, and he gave up, just grinning like a total dork, then going back to draw.

“You’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to yours as his pencil moved in short, careful strokes.

“Am I?” you teased, voice lilting.

“Painfully,” he replied without looking up, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You sat back a little, giving him space, watching the way his hand moved. He was quiet for a bit, just sketching, tongue peeking out in concentration.

Finally, he stopped, blowing gently across the page like it’d smudge if he even breathed wrong. “Okay, um. It’s not perfect, but…”

He turned the sketchbook around and showed you.

It was you—your hair a little messy from the breeze, lips parted like you were mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged with a strawberry in one hand. Soft lines, but so intentional. Warm. Kind of how he saw you.

Your teasing fell away for a second.

“Holy shit, Matt,” you said, actually stunned. “That’s… that’s really good.”

He looked like he was about to short-circuit. “You think so?”

You nodded slowly, eyes still on the drawing. “It’s not even about the lines or whatever—it just… feels like me. Like how I felt sitting here. That’s kinda magical, you know?”

Matt blinked, definitely blushing now.

You leaned in, elbow nudging his. “You’re kinda magical, Matt.”

He looked away, smiling so wide he couldn’t stop it. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned back on your hands, stretching your legs out across the blanket as the sun dipped a little lower, turning everything hazy and golden. The strawberry stem still sat between your fingers, forgotten.

Matt was watching you like he didn’t mean to. Like every time he looked away, he had to check again to make sure you were still real.

You caught him. “You good?”

He blinked, startled. “What? Yeah—yeah, I’m just…”

“Mesmerized by my beauty?”

“I mean…” He trailed off, but you saw the grin creeping onto his face.

You laughed, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm. “Relax, I’m just messing.”

“Kind of wish you weren’t,” he muttered under his breath, quiet but not quiet enough.

You stilled for half a second, then smiled—gentler this time. “I’m glad I came.”

He looked over at you again, blinking slowly, eyes all soft. “Me too.”

There was a pause—comfortable. The kind you don’t notice until it’s over.

Eventually, you helped him pack up, folding the blanket between you, hands brushing once, twice, until he finally just said, “Let me,” and took it from you, a little too careful, a little too flustered.

When you got to the path back toward the street, you slowed down. “Hey, Matt?”

He looked over, hair mussed from the breeze, sketchbook tucked under his arm.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. Just barely, but definitely enough to make his ears go red.

“Thanks for today,” you said.

Matt blinked. “Uh. Yeah. No. Yeah—thank you. Too. I mean. You’re welcome. I mean—”

You grinned. “God, you’re cute.”

He laughed, finally letting out a breath. “I don’t know how you do that”

“Good,” you said, turning to go. “I don’t want you to.”

And with that, you walked off, glancing back once to see him still standing there, grinning like he couldn’t believe his life.

First Kiss

You’d been on a few dates by now—enough that Matt had stopped flinching every time your knee touched his under the table, but not enough that he’d figured out how to look at your mouth without going pink.

Tonight, it was a walk. No real plan. Just you, Matt, and the city lit up like it was showing off for you.

He kept sneaking glances. You kept pretending not to notice. Then purposely brushing your shoulder into his just to make him stumble over his words again.

“You know,” you said as you passed a quiet little streetlamp, “you’re starting to look at me like you wanna kiss me.”

Matt nearly tripped. “What—? I’m—No, I mean—yes? I mean—”

You stopped walking, turning toward him with a teasing smile. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite. Unless you’re into that.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I, uh. I do want to kiss you. Kinda a lot.”

A sold moment passed.

“Then do it.”

His eyes widened a little, like he wasn’t expecting you to just say it. He opened his mouth then closed it like a fish, unable to get words out.

But he stepped in anyway, one slow inch at a time. Close enough to see every little shimmer in your eyes. Close enough to get nervous again.

You reached up and tugged gently at the collar of his hoodie. “C’mon, Matt. You’ve drawn me twice. You can kiss me once.”

That made him laugh, nervous and breathless. His pretty eyes behind his glasses kept flicking between your eyes and your lips as you just watched him carefully.

Then he leaned in. It was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he messed it up. But your hands found the sides of his face, grounding him, and when you kissed back—just a little firmer, a little more sure—he melted into it. 

His hands came to go around your waist as he tilted his head slightly to slot his lips perfecty against yours. His glasses make contact with your nose as he kisses you a bit harder.

When you pulled away, barely, his forehead bumped gently into yours.

“You okay?” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, dazed. “Just—processing. That was...wow.”

You grinned. “You’re cute when your brain short-circuits.”

“You’re cute,” he said, quickly, confidence boosting his ability to compliment you.

You laughed, threading your fingers through his. “True. But you’re especially cute when you’re flustered. Which, lucky for me, is always.”

Then without hesitation, put his hands around your face and kissed you again, this time without overthinking.

Progress.

First Sleepover

You were early. Not by much. Just thirty minutes. You had your reasons: the streetcar came fast, your outfit (which was just your pajamas) had come together better than expected, and… okay, maybe you just wanted to see him a little sooner.

What you didn’t expect was for Matt to answer the door shirtless and confused, hair wet and curling at the ends. He blinked at you, eyes wide behind his glasses, water still dripping down his collarbone. 

He clearly had meant to shave you had interrupted his frantic getting ready based on the slight scruff on his jawline— he usually had it cleanly shaved, and you couldn't help but love this look.

“…You’re early.”

You smiled like you hadn’t just swallowed a breath. “Yeah. Guess I missed you.”

Matt looked panicked. “I—I just got out of the shower.”

“I can see that,” you said, gaze shameless. “And you look very clean. Very damp. Very shirtless.”

He flushed to the tips of his ears. “Oh my God.”

You leaned against the doorframe, all teeth. “Should I wait out here while you compose yourself? Or do I get a pre-movie show?”

He made a strangled noise, yanked the door open wider, and turned away too fast. “Just come in—give me two seconds—Jesus—”

You giggled and stepped inside, not bothering to hide the way your eyes trailed after him as he disappeared down the hall.

By the time he reemerged, shirt clinging slightly from rushed dressing and curls still drying, you were perched on the couch with your legs tucked under you and the popcorn he had laid out in your lap. “Much better,” you said. “I mean, I prefer the previous look, but I’ll survive.”

“y/n,” Matt muttered, sitting down beside you. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Nah. Not yet.”

After a while when Matt had turned all the light on and gotten settled, the movie played. Sort of. You weren’t really watching it. Neither was he.

You commented too much. He laughed too easily. He kept glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, and you definitely noticed.

At some point, his arm had somehow ended around your shoulder.

Neither of you said anything. It just stayed there, warm and loose between popcorn refills. Eventually, you leaned your head onto his shoulder. His breath caught.

“I really like this,” you whispered.

“Me too,” he said, even softer.

You turned your head slightly to look at him. Your faces were closer than you realized.

He didn’t move.

So you leaned in and kissed him—slow and easy, like you’d been waiting all week to do it again.

Matt made a soft sound, almost surprised, and kissed you back. It was warmer this time, a little more sure. In his mind, all he wanted to do was launch forwards and kiss you harder. You were just so captivating that it’s all he could think of, but he tried keeping self control, and pulled away.

He pulled away with a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open like he was waking from a dream. His lips were pink, his cheeks flushed, and you could feel the restraint vibrating off him.

You tilted your head, voice teasing. “What, that’s all I get?”

Matt laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I didn’t stop, I wasn’t gonna stop.”

Your brows lifted, amusement flickering in your smile. “Wow. Bold of you to assume I’d mind.”

He groaned, flopping back onto the couch dramatically. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’ll combust.”

You leaned on him, gently resting a hand on his leg that laid right beside yours. “You’re so cute when you’re like this.”

He looked up at you, still flushed, eyes dark with something and caught-off-guard. “You’ve mentioned,” he says sarcastically.

With a gasp of indignation, you gave a soft slap on the leg where your hand was resting. “Don’t you build up an attitude with me, Matthew.

He just opened his mouth then shut it, clearly not knowing how to feel about you saying his full name like that. He liked it, so he decided right then.

Before he could respond, you kissed him again—this one short, smiling against his mouth, before sitting back and curling into his side like nothing had happened.

Matt took a full sixty seconds to reboot. Then quietly—carefully—he draped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in closer.

You didn’t say anything. You just rested your head back on him and let yourself melt.

After a couple moments, Matt shifted carefully, adjusting so he was lying down on the long couch. You moved with him, settling against his side, your body fitting naturally against his. The movie kept playing, the flickering light casting soft shadows across the room.

You blinked slowly, your breathing evening out as sleep started to claim you— you were a pretty early sleeper for people your age.

Matt’s eyes stayed on the screen for a moment, but his attention quietly drifted to you. The peaceful way your eyelashes fluttered, the slight rise and fall of your chest—it was like watching something fragile and beautiful.

When the movie’s credits began to roll, Matt reached out without a sound, grabbing the remote from the edge of the couch. His fingers hovered for a second, then he pressed the button to turn off the TV.

The room went dark except for the soft glow of streetlights outside.

Matt didn’t move, just held you a little tighter as you slipped fully into sleep, a small smile tugging at his lips.

First Time You Made it Official

The sun dipped just below the horizon, the sky swirling with peach and lavender as Matt pulled up outside your place. He jumped out of the car, already rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Ready?” he asked, flashing that awkward-but-sincere smile you were already hooked on.

You nodded, sliding into the passenger seat. The car smelled faintly of popcorn and something sweet — maybe.

Matt started driving, stealing glances at you from the corner of his eyes. “So, this is kind of a last-minute thing,” he muttered, voice a bit shaky. “I hope you don’t mind.”

You grinned, heart fluttering. “I love surprises.”

The city lights blurred past as you drove out of town, the orange glow of the sunset melting into the cool blues of twilight.

Finally, you reached a quiet hilltop overlooking the drive-in. Matt parked, and you both sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft hum of the engine.

“Okay,” he said, suddenly breaking the quiet, “close your eyes.” 

You raised an eyebrow but obeyed, heart thudding in your chest. Slowly, you heard him walk around to your side of the passenger side of the car and open the door, holding both of your hands to guide you out, then eventually leading you around the car. You were grinning so hard it hurt. Then, he let go and you hear a little click and switch.

“Alright, open ‘em,” Matt whispered.

You blinked, and the trunk was wide open, spilling out a soft golden light from twinkling string lights Matt had strung up with obvious care. Cushions and blankets were arranged in a cozy nest, and a spread of snacks — popcorn, chocolate, fruit — sat invitingly in the center.

Right there, taped to the inside of the trunk lid, was a sign written in his handwriting:

“Can I be yours?”

Your breath hitched. You looked up at Matt, who was now practically glowing with nervous hope. 

“So…?” he said, voice cracking just a little.

You didn’t hesitate. You threw yourself into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing your face into his neck.

Matt stumbled backward, laughter bubbling up as he caught you effortlessly.

“Matt!” you yelled with a squeal, leaning back and pressing a passionate kiss into his lips.

“Is that a yes,” he said, voice rough with emotion against your lips.

You pulled back just enough to smile, then leaned in once again, kissing him slow and soft, full of all the excitement and relief and warmth you’d both been holding back.

The world shrunk to just you two, the twinkle lights glowing softly, the sound of the movie starting in the background, and the feeling that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

“Of course I’ll be your girlfriend, Matt. Of course.” 

First Time you Gave him a Nickname

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of old vinyl records you’d pulled out from her collection. The soft crackle of the music filled the room.

You smiled and handed Matt one. “You always pick the best ones, baby.”

Matt froze. His face went bright red, and before he could stop himself, he covered his face with his hands.

“Wait... did you just call me… baby?” His voice was shaky and muffled.

You laughed, watching him squirm. “Yeah. So?”

He peeked through his fingers, cheeks burning hard. “I—uh—didn’t expect that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find words. “It’s… nice, I guess. Um. Um, sorry..”

You reached out and tucked a stray hair behind his ear, then leaned in and kissed him.

Matt’s eyes went wide. His heart was racing so fast he thought it’d jump out. He froze for a second, then kissed her back, shy and slow.

When they pulled away, his face was even redder.

“That was… really nice, baby,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half smiling.

You grinned. “See? You’re getting used to it.”

First Time You Cried in Front of him

You’d been at it for hours—highlighting, rewriting notes, flipping through textbooks—trying to force your brain to understand the material that just wouldn’t click. Your desk was a chaotic mess, pages strewn about like a storm had passed through. The clock ticked on, but all you felt was your chest tightening, breaths growing shorter, and the walls closing in.

Matt was lying on your bed nearby, earbuds in, half-asleep, his music washing over him like a soft wace. But then, even without hearing you, he noticed the subtle change—the way your fingers trembled, the catch in your breath.

Involuntarily, you gasped your vision swimming. Panic swelled fast and fierce. You couldn’t do it. You were going to fail your midterms. You couldn’t do it.

Matt was up instantly, heart pounding. He yanked the earbuds out, voice gentle but urgent. “Hey, hey, baby, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

You couldn’t answer. You were drowning in your own panic, breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts, tears slipping down your cheeks.

Matt closed the distance, taking your shaking hands in his. “Okay. We’re gonna slow this down. Just breathe with me. In—hold it—out. Again.”

You tried, but your lungs felt tight, like air was slipping away.

Without hesitation, he guided you away from the desk. “Come sit with me. You’re not alone.”

You let yourself be pulled onto the bed, curling into him as he wrapped his arms around your trembling frame. His chest was steady beneath your head, his heartbeat a quiet anchor against your chaos.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, voice low and soft. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

The warmth of his touch, the calm in his voice—it started to pull you back, like a lifeline.

You felt yourself start to relax, breaths becoming deeper, less frantic.

Matt’s fingers traced slow circles on your back. “You’re okay. You’re so brave for even letting me see this.”

You pressed your face against his shirt, embarrassed but too exhausted to care. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like this. I’m just... so tired. And I don’t get it. I’ve been trying so hard. I feel like fucking shit, Matt.”

Matt kissed the top of your head. “You don’t have to explain. I’m not going anywhere.”

He tightened his hold, voice thick with care. “I hate that you’re hurting. But I’m proud of you for pushing through.”

A shaky breath escaped you, comfort blooming in the quiet room. “Thank you... for being here.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache in the best way. “Always. Now, how about we put those books away for tonight? I’ll even let you pick the movie. Something dumb, something that makes us laugh.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling a flicker of light through the panic haze. “Yeah... I’d like that.”

Matt brushed a stray tear from your cheek and whispered, “You’re the strongest person I know, y/n, don’t you forget it. And with that, he planted a firm kiss on your lips.

First I love you

It was a lazy Sunday. You were sitting cross-legged on Matt’s bed, eating fruit straight from the container while he lay next to you on his stomach, sketchbook open in front of him. The soft hum of music drifted from his speaker, blending with the late afternoon light that poured in through his window.

You popped a grape into your mouth and looked over at what he was drawing. “Is that supposed to be me?” you teased, leaning closer. “Why are my eyes so big?”

Matt huffed. “They’re not big, they’re expressive. It’s artistic exaggeration.”

“You just called me cartoonish.”

He glanced up, grinning. “Well, you’re my favorite cartoon character. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echoed, smirking.

He returned to his sketching, but you saw the smile that lingered at the corner of his mouth. You stretched out beside him, stealing one of his pencils just to annoy him. He didn’t stop you.

You were halfway doodling nonsense in the margin of his page when he muttered, casually and without looking up, “God, I love you.”

You froze.

So did he.

He blinked. Then his pencil dropped. And slowly, like his brain was catching up with his mouth, he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, already flushing pink. “Wait. I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean it like—well I did but—” He sat up too fast and knocked the sketchbook off the bed. “I wasn’t gonna say it like that, not now, I—ugh—”

“Matt,” you said softly.

He ran a hand through his hair, now fully red in the face. “I was gonna wait for, like, a perfect moment. Maybe flowers? Or a sunset? Not while you’re bullying me over eyeballs—”

“Matt.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Yeah?”

You reached for him and held his face gently. “I love you too.”

He blinked again. “Wait... seriously?”

You nodded, smile growing. “Seriously.”

His whole body relaxed like he’d just exhaled a week’s worth of breath. “Oh thank god,” he said, then added in a rush, “I mean—not that I was worried. I mean, I was. But like—” He paused. “You love me?”

“I do.”

He grinned, giddy and dazed. “Sick.”

You laughed. “That’s your response?”

He shrugged, all flustered and glowing. “I panicked. But I’m really happy.”

Then he kissed you — not clumsy or rushed, but slow and sweet, like he finally knew where he stood.

And where he stood was exactly where he wanted to be.

First Makeout Sesh

It started like any other night. You were sitting cross-legged on Matt’s bed, half-watching a movie while your fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie that you’d stolen weeks ago. He was beside you, leaning against the headboard, looking very boyfriend-coded in a black tank top and sweats, hair still slightly messy from earlier. 

His glasses were set to the side of his dresser, and he had that slight stubble that you just loved.

You weren’t really paying attention to the movie. Not when he kept tracing soft patterns on the side of your waist, not when he looked over and smiled like that—all shy and soft and so obviously in love.

At some point, you climbed into his lap.

It wasn’t planned. You were just tired, or at least that was your excuse. He blinked up at you, wide-eyed, his hands hovering near your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch.

“You okay?” he asked, voice a little breathier than usual.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “More than okay.”

And then you kissed him.

It started soft, familiar. You’d kissed before—quick, sweet pecks, slow moments on quiet afternoons. But this one deepened fast. You tilted your head, one hand sliding into his hair, and Matt made the softest sound—half gasp, half sigh—against your mouth.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it.

His hands settled on your hips, tentative at first. You shifted a little, straddling him properly, and his breath hitched hard.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me,” he mumbled against your lips, cheeks flushed pink.

You smiled. “You like it.”

His eyes fluttered shut when you kissed down the side of his jaw, your lips grazing the edge of his throat. His hands gripped you tighter, like he needed to hold on to something.

“God,” he whispered, “you’re unreal.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his lips were red and kiss-bruised, hair all messed up from your fingers. He looked completely dazed.

You let your fingers trace the line of his collarbone, just barely under the tank top strap, and he whimpered.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice cracking with pure embarrassment. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—”

“—you’re so cute when you’re desperate,” you interrupt, brushing your nose against his again.

Matt looked humiliated and so turned on. “That’s so unfair.”

But he didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t stop pulling you closer, as you both held onto each other and made out in a rhythm.

“y/n…” he said, voice a little wrecked already.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“I—um.” His hands flexed on your hips again, eyes darting down to where your bodies pressed together. “You should probably stop,” he mutters with embarrassment. 

You smile and begin placing kisses down his neck. “Why?”

“B-because,” he tries to say, until you fully sit down onto his lap, making contact with his bulge. He groans, totally forgetting what he was trying to bring up.

“Fuck— this feels like a dream.”

You smirked. “Do your dreams usually include me grinding on you?”

Matt choked. Literally choked on air.

“Jesus Christ—” He threw his head back against the headboard, face flaming. “You’re evil.”

But he didn’t stop you when you rolled your hips, just barely.

He whimpered. A real, honest-to-God whimper. And it made you grin so wide you had to hide it against his neck.

“Y-you can’t just do that,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ear. “You like it.”

His hands slid up your back now, hesitant but eager. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

“Good.”

You kissed him again—hotter, more open-mouthed. This time he gave in completely. He let you take control, lips parting under yours, breath stuttering as your tongues brushed. His hands were gripping the hem of your hoodie like he was afraid he might float away if he let go.

You pulled back just long enough to tug the hoodie off. Matt’s eyes widened like he’d just short-circuited.

“You’re so—” he started, then stopped, then swallowed. “I don’t even have words.”

You leaned back in, resting your forehead against his. “You don’t have to talk, baby. Just feel.”

That got a sound out of him that went straight to your stomach. He kissed you again, this time with urgency, with need. His hips shifted under yours involuntarily, and you both gasped at the friction.

You dragged your nails gently up his arms, feeling the tension there. “Tell me what you want,” you whispered.

Matt shook his head, dizzy. “I don’t—I.”

Then you heard a knock at the door.

Matt froze.

You both stared at each other, breath caught, hearts hammering. Another knock. Louder.

“Bro!” a voice called. “Open up—we brought snacks!”

Matt groaned like it physically hurt. He flopped back against the headboard, arms thrown over his eyes in pure agony. “No. No, no, no. I forgot Chris and Nick were coming.”

You laughed—quiet and breathless—as he muttered a string of hushed curses.

“They’re literally the worst,” he whispered, like he was being hunted. “Fuck m’sorry.”

You leaned down, still straddling him, brushing a kiss against his jaw. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait.”

He whined. You loved it.

The knock came again, followed by a chorus of his brothers’ voices arguing about who was supposed to text ahead. Matt looked at you with the most tragic expression. 

“Another day, baby,” you add. With a groan he tries to subtly tuck himself into the waistband of his sweatpants without you seeing, then begins trudging downstairs to open the door.

First Fight

It started with something small. 

Matt had been quiet all night. You’d asked if everything was okay once, twice—he just nodded and said he was tired. But when you made a joke at dinner, one you’d made a hundred times before, he barely reacted. And when he did, it was sharp.

“God, do you always have to say stuff like that?”

You blinked. “What?”

He sighed. “Just forget it.”

“No,” you said. “Say what you mean. You’ve been weird all night.”

“Maybe I’m tired of always feeling like a joke to you.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Matt, what the hell are you talking about?”

He rubbed his eyes, clearly frustrated. “You tease me all the time, y/n. And I usually don’t care. But lately it just—it feels like you don’t take me seriously. Like I’m just some soft guy who can’t handle anything.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s not true. I—I tease you because I like you. You know that.”

“I thought I did,” he said quietly.

Silence stretched. You felt it like a pressure in your ribs, heavy and awful.

“N-no, no baby,” you whisper, eyes widening. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” you said, voice smaller now. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Because I didn’t want to seem pathetic,” he mumbled.

That cracked something open in you. “You’re not pathetic, Matt. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

He wouldn’t look at you. Just sat there, hands clenched in his lap, trying not to crumble.

You crossed the room and knelt in front of him. “I’m sorry. If I made you feel like you’re not enough—God, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes finally met yours. “I just want to feel like I matter to you. Like… not just the flirty version. The me version.”

“You matter,” you said, pressing your hand to his chest. “This version. All of it. I see you, Matt.”

His face crumpled, just a little. And then you were hugging, both of you holding on too tightly, too long, like the space between your bodies had been unbearable.

“I’m sorry Matt,” you whisper, tears stinging your eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I swear I will.”

After a long time of you laying in his arms, he says into your hair. “I forgive you, baby.”

First time you cared for him while he was sick

Matt did not look good.

The second you opened the door to his apartment—code he’d barely managed to text you—you found him lying sideways on the bathroom floor, half-conscious, sweaty, and pale like a ghost with heatstroke.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, rushing to kneel beside him. “Matt?”

He groaned in response, one hand feebly waving in the direction of the toilet. “I threw up. A lot. I think I’m dying.”

You ignored the dramatics and brushed his damp hair back. He was burning up, forehead hot under your fingers, skin clammy and gross in a way that made your heart squeeze with worry.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?”

He mumbled something unintelligible and dramatically buried his face in your lap. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“You’re literally on the bathroom floor,” you said. “I want to be bothered for that.”

You helped him up slowly, got him into a clean shirt, and tucked him onto the couch with a cold compress and a puke bucket beside him. The whole time, he just let you do it, too weak to argue, blinking up at you like you were a hallucination sent by some benevolent god.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled, grabbing your hand as you went to get him water.

“I’m getting you electrolytes, drama queen,” you whispered, kissing the back of his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

You set up camp with him after that—cool cloth on his forehead, hand in his hair, rubbing his back every time he groaned or whimpered. He kept mumbling delirious things like "You're so nice to me" and "I feel gross and you still look at me like that?"

At one point, as you were carefully helping him drink tiny sips of water, he whispered hoarsely, “If I die, tell my brothers I love them, but tell you… you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You snorted. “Shut up and sip. You’re not dying. You just had gas station sushi.”

He groaned into the pillow. “I’m never eating fish again.”

You kissed his clammy temple anyway. “You’ve got the immune system of a Victorian child. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

He sighed deeply, miserable but comforted, and whispered something like “Love you” before passing out halfway through. You stopped for a second, looking at his flushed, peaceful face, and tucked the blanket higher on his shoulders.

“Love you too, dummy,” you whispered. “Even when you’re disgusting.”

You stayed the whole night, checking up on him every hour and replacing his cold compress. Just in case.

First Time

It started with a kiss.

Not the rushed kind, or the one pulled between jokes and giggles—this one was different. Slower. Hungrier.

You’d been curled up beside Matt on his bed, talking about nothing. His glasses had slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, his curls soft from running his fingers through them all evening. You leaned over to fix them, and his eyes flicked to your lips instead.

“Can I…?”

You nodded before he finished, and the kiss melted into something deeper. Something needier.

His hands trembled a little when they found your waist. Yours weren’t much steadier.

You pulled away, forehead resting against his, eyes searching his face. “We don’t have to,” you whispered. “But I kind of… want to. With you.”

Matt's eyes went wide—so wide you half-thought he’d forgotten how to blink.

“I—I want to too,” he said, voice shaking, cheeks already flushed. “I’ve just never—well, I mean I have, but not like… not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… with someone I actually care about. Who makes me feel like I’m not gonna mess everything up.”

You leaned in and kissed him again—gently this time. “You’re not messing anything up.”

His breath caught when you shifted, pressing closer.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He nodded too fast, then stuttered, “Yeah—I mean, yes. I just—can’t—um, function when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” you asked, already smiling.

He covered his face with his hands, groaning. “Hot. Okay? You’re so fucking hot. This is unfair.”

You giggled, reaching to tug his hands away. “Then I’ll go slow.”

And you did.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone—feeling the way he trembled beneath you. Every time your lips brushed his skin, a soft, surprised sound escaped him, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You let your fingertips trail down his chest, pausing just above his waistband.

Matt looked like he might self-destruct.

“Still okay?” you asked.

He nodded, biting his lip. “Please don’t stop.”

You kissed him again. “I won’t.”

Then you eased your shirt over your head.

He made a strangled noise and squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them again—like he was bracing himself for a heart attack and couldn't not look at you.

“You’re literally glowing,” he whispered. “How are you real?”

You took his hands and pressed them to your bare waist, guiding him.

He stared, completely flushed, completely in awe.

You straddled his lap slowly, carefully, watching the way his breath hitched as your bare skin met his. He was already half-hard in his boxers, twitchy with nerves, eyes flickering everywhere—your eyes, your chest, your lips, back to your eyes like he was overwhelmed but desperate to see everything.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a hand through his hair.

He nodded, breathless. “Y-yeah. Just… you’re on top of me. And you’re, um. Naked.”

You leaned in, nipping his jaw. “And you like it?”

His laugh was breathy, nervous. “I love it. It’s just—my brain isn’t working. You’re so pretty. I don’t know where to put my hands.”

You took his wrists gently, guiding one to your hips and one over your breast. “Here’s a good place to start.”

He groaned, head tipping back against the pillows. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed down his neck, lingering just below his ear. “You’ll survive.”

Your fingers slipped into the waistband of his boxers, giving him a moment. He nodded again—flushed, trembling, but sure. You helped him out of them, and when he was finally bare beneath you, he looked like he might actually pass out.

You paused just to look at him—legs spread slightly, cheeks red, chest rising fast. You let your fingers trail down his stomach, feather-light.

“You're beautiful like this, Matt.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, like he couldn’t handle hearing it. “You make me feel like I am.”

You leaned in again, kissing him slow. “I want you to feel good. You ready?”

He nodded again, a little more desperate this time. “Please. Just… tell me what to do.”

You reached for the lube and condom you'd stashed earlier, heart thudding at the way his thighs tensed under your touch. Once everything was ready, you settled over him, guiding him to your entrance.

“Go slow?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Always,” you whispered.

And when you sank down onto him, inch by inch, his hands gripped your hips like they were the only things keeping him tethered to the earth. He let out the softest, most broken moan you'd ever heard—like pleasure punched the air right out of him.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “y/n, I—holy shit, you feel so good.”

You gave him a moment to adjust, and when he opened his eyes—dazed, overwhelmed, reverent—you started to move.

“Y’so warm,” he gasped “n’tight, oh fuck.”

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rough. It was messy, breathy, and achingly sweet. His hands roamed your waist like he didn’t know what to hold onto. He whined every time your hips rolled just right, whispered your name like a prayer, told you over and over how good it felt.

“I don’t wanna come yet,” he whimpered. “I wanna stay inside you forever.”

“Don’t worry baby, we’ve got forever.”

And when he finally did come—loud, gasping, eyes wide and pupils blown—you leaned down and kissed him through it, riding him slowly, comforting, grounding him as he trembled beneath you, whimpering into your ear.

After, his hands curled around yours like a lifeline.

“You okay?” you asked softly, brushing sweat-damp curls from his forehead.

He was still catching his breath, face buried in the crook of your neck, but you could feel it. The little twitch of his hips. The subtle way his fingers dragged up your back. The soft, broken whisper of your name.

You pulled back to look at him. His face was flushed, hair curling damply around his ears, pupils still wide and glassy.

“You okay?” you asked again, gentle.

He nodded, but his voice came out hoarse. “Y-Yeah. I’m just… I still want you. Like, really bad. Is that normal?”

You smiled, brushing his lips with yours. “Hmmm. Maybe.”

Matt blinked up at you. “We can keep going, right? I-I know I came already but—” His voice cracked, and he squirmed under you, breath hitching as his soft cock twitched against your thigh. “You’re still hard,” you said softly.

He covered his face with both hands. “I know, I don’t even—like—how?? Fuck you’re ruining me.”

You gently pulled his hands away. “In a good way?”

“In the best way,” he mumbled. “Please keep going.”

And you did.

You kissed your way down his chest, making him squirm and gasp, mouth trailing over sensitive skin and leaving flushed marks behind. 

When you took him into your mouth—half-hard, still twitching—he let out the most pathetic sound you'd ever heard.

“F-fuck, you don’t have to—oh my god—”

But you wanted to. And the way he bucked slightly, trying not to, hands twisting the sheets like he was afraid to touch you, made you feral.

You pulled back a bit, letting it pop out of your mouth to speak. “Matt, you’re allowed to be greedy.”

“I’m not! I swear, I just—” He whimpered again as your tongue dragged over the head. “God, I am greedy. I don’t care. I want you so bad it hurts.”

When he got hard again, fully and shamelessly, you moved slowly, sliding back on top of him, watching his face as you sank down again. This time he cried out, high and breathy, thighs trembling under your hands.

“It’s so fucking much,” he panted. “It’s—it’s too much—but don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

You rocked your hips, slower this time, just enough to make him arch into you.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You,” he gasped. “Just you. All of you.”

So you gave it to him.

You took your time, moving against him with slow, grinding rolls. His eyes fluttered, and he gripped your hips like he was trying not to float away.

He got vocal—filthy in a way that surprised even him. Whimpers, moans, broken phrases between gasps:

“Y-you feel so good inside, holy shit—” “I can’t believe this is real—” “Please, I’m gonna—gonna come again—”

And when he did, he almost cried.

His body tensed, shuddering, then collapsed into you, face buried against your chest, mumbling soft things you couldn’t quite make out. You held him through it, kissing his forehead as he shook in your arms, your own pleasure humming hot under your skin.

You were just on the brink as well, but you could tell he needed a break.

“I wanna make you feel good too,” he whispered.  “Lie back. Please. Let me try.”

You blinked. “You just came twice. You need to rest. ”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I didn’t even get to touch you properly. And I—I think I’ll explode if I don’t.”

You smiled softly. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cut in. “You made me feel like my whole body was on fire and full of stars at the same time. I want to do that for you. Or at least try.”

Well. How could you say no to that?

You laid back slowly, watching him move between your legs—awkwardly at first, like he wasn’t sure where to put his knees. His cheeks turned scarlet when he got a full view of you, mouth parting in a silent “oh my god.”

You reached for his hair, tugging lightly. “Breathe, baby.”

“I a-am,” he said, sounding like he absolutely was not. “You’re just—you’re so—how am I supposed to—” His sentence died as he kissed your thigh, soft and reverent. “Tell me what to do.”

You guided him at first. Where to put his mouth. How to use his tongue. What kind of pressure felt good. And oh, Matt was a quick study.

Tentative at first—gentle, nervous licks, like he was afraid to go too far. But once you let out that first real moan, he got brave. Gripped your hips tighter. Groaned into you when you said his name. Got messier. Needier.

“Right there?” he gasped when your back arched. “Like that?”

You nodded breathlessly, thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You taste so good. Why didn’t anyone tell me this would be like—like this?”

He buried his face in you after that, moaning softly, like he was the one getting off. His entire face was trying to push further and further into your sopping pussy, licking up every juice you were letting out.

His nose nudged just right, his tongue flicked faster, and when you clenched his hair and gasped out his name

He groaned loudly.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, hot and overwhelming, and Matt just held on, staying there through every aftershock, every twitch, like he refused to come up until he was sure you were completely undone.

When he finally pulled back, his face was soaked down to his chin, lips kiss-swollen, and his smile was dazed and proud.

“I did okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You reached down, “M-matt, that was,” dragging him up to kiss you. “Insane.”

He buried his face in your neck and let out a muffled, exhausted, “Best. Day. Ever.”

First time you got jealous

It started off fine.

You and Matt had come to a small get-together at a friend’s apartment—just a cozy group of people, some music, snacks, and low lighting. At first, you were curled up next to him on the couch, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder, the two of you in your own little bubble.

And then she showed up.

You didn’t know her name. You didn’t want to know her name. All you knew was that she laughed a little too hard at Matt’s joke’s, and she touched his arm a little too long when she complimented his hair.

Matt didn’t even notice. He was just being his usual charming self—smiley and sweet, answering her questions like she wasn’t clearly flirting with him while you sat literally two inches away.

You excused yourself to get a drink. More for emotional support than hydration.

When you came back, she was still there, still giggling, and Matt—Matt was smiling— AND blushing, and it was the smile he gave you when you made him laugh.

You plopped down next to him and not-so-subtly rested your hand on his thigh. Matt glanced down and smiled at you, oblivious.

“Hey, you good?” he asked, leaning in slightly.

“I’m great,” you replied, a little too cheerily. Then you turned to the Flirt and said, “Do you need something, or were you just raised to hover?”

Matt choked.

The girl blinked, gave you a weird look, then mumbled something about checking on a friend and walked away. You watched her go like you were manifesting a trapdoor beneath her.

Matt blinked at you, wide-eyed. “Babe…”

You turned to him. “What?”

“She was just being friendly.”

You scoffed. “Friendly? Matt, she was one compliment away from climbing into your lap.”

Matt blinked a few times, still recovering from your snark. “I really think you’re overreacting. She wasn’t flirting.”

You stared at him. “Matt. She touched your arm three times. I counted.”

“She was just... touchy,” he said, weakly. “Some people are just like that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you blushed.”

Matt flushed even more. “I didn’t blush.”

“You so blushed. It was your flustered blush too, not the ‘it’s hot in here’ blush. The one that means you’re shy and you liked the attention.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated.  “No-But I wasn’t trying to like it—”

“Oh my God,” you said, pulling your hand from his thigh and crossing your arms. “You did like it.”

Matt looked stricken. “No! That’s not what I—babe, no. I didn’t like her, I liked—it’s just—you weren’t there and someone was being nice and it caught me off guard, and it didn’t mean anything, I swear.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

Matt groaned and scooted closer. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.” When you didn’t, he gently cupped your jaw and turned your face toward his. His expression was soft, earnest. “I swear, I didn’t even realize it until you pointed it out. And if it made you feel even a little bit bad, I’m sorry. I would never want you to think anyone could even come close to you. I’m yours. Fully.”

You tried not to melt. Failed.

“…You liked the attention a little bit,” you muttered.

“I swear I didn’t. But like your jealousy? Way hotter. Honestly, if you’d actually fought her I would’ve passed out.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned in anyway, bumping your nose against his. “Next time someone flirts with you, I’m not warning her. I’m swinging.”

Matt grinned, brushing a kiss to your lips. “Got it. I’ll start wearing a “I have a girlfriend” shirt to social events.”

“You think I won’t get you one?”

He kissed you again, and this time, there was no one else in the room. Just him, you, and the quiet satisfaction of winning.

First time he made you squirt

You were tangled up in your sheets again, the low hum of your fan spinning overhead, the room dim with only the lazy spill of golden-hour light pushing through the curtains. Matt’s fingers were fidgeting with the hem of your sleep shirt, his eyes darting from your collarbone to your lips, then away again, like the sight of you was too much all at once.

“You’re looking at me weird,” you teased, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

Matt flushed. Flushed. That deep pink that crawled from his ears to his cheeks, like you’d caught him doing something scandalous. He groaned softly and buried his face in your neck.

“I’m not,” he mumbled into your skin. “You just—look really pretty right now.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Right now?” you echoed, grinning. “Not, like, always?”

He whined, lifting his head just enough to glance at you. “Stop. You know what I mean.” He was smiling, but his voice had that hushed, almost whimpery quality it got when he was overwhelmed. You loved it. Loved the way his hands were already slipping up under your shirt like he was asking permission without saying a word.

Matt made a small, needy sound and melted against you, his fingers still trembling just slightly as they traced along your ribs, then lower. When you pulled back to look at him, his pupils were wide, his lips parted.

You were already bare-chested, sitting up and straddling Matt’s lap, but he still looked overwhelmed.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, smiling against his jaw.

“I’m not—” His voice cracked as you shifted against him. “Okay, yeah. Maybe.”

Your hands slipped into his hair, tugging gently. “You nervous?”

You smirked. “Good.”

Eventually, you flipped them over, guiding him to kneel behind you as you braced on your elbows. You heard his breath hitch when he got the full view. He wasn’t touching you yet—just looking, frozen like you were art he was scared to ruin.

“You can touch,” you teased, voice low and warm.

That broke the spell. Matt’s hands slid over your hips, tentative at first, thumbs brushing the dip of your lower back. You could feel him trembling again, but it didn’t stop him from leaning down and pressing the softest kiss to your spine.

Then another. And another.

His fingers trailed lower, between your thighs, and you let out a quiet gasp as he explored with slow, shallow strokes.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Feels good. Keep going.”

Matt obeyed instantly, licking his lips like he was trying to stay focused. You could hear his ragged breathing as he slid his fingers inside you—so careful, so hesitant. And when he felt you clench around him, he made the softest sound: “Oh my god…”

His fingers started to curl, slow and searching. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing—he just knew he wanted you to fall apart. That he loved hearing your breath catch, loved the way your thighs trembled the more pressure he added.

He plunged his fingers in and out, leaning down to place his lips around your clit and swirl his tongue around.

You gasped at the contact.

Matt froze. “Was that okay?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—just—don’t stop—”

He didn’t even think. He kept that same pressure, same rhythm, his other hand anchoring tight on your hip as you pushed back into his touch. He was panting now too, overwhelmed, lips parted like he was barely holding it together.

“Matt,” you choked out, “you’re—holy shit—don’t stop—”

It hit fast. A wave crashing through you, intense and blinding. Your body tensed—and then gushed.

Matt jolted as wetness sprayed onto his wrist and thigh. His mouth dropped open.

“What the—” He stared at his soaked fingers. “Did I—?”

You collapsed forward, breathing hard, too stunned to even speak. You’d never—ever—done that before.

Matt sat back on his heels, still blinking like he was in shock. His boxers were damp now. His arm was soaked. He looked wrecked.

“…Did I make you… squirt?” he whispered.

You huffed out a breathless laugh. “O-oh my god.”

He looked down at you like he’d just unlocked a cheat code. Still blushing. Still dazed. And maybe—just a little—proud.

“…That was insane,” he mumbled.

You could only nod, hips still twitching from aftershocks.

Almost hesitantly, he leans forwards and licks you, slurping up the juices.

Matt reached out, brushing his fingertips along your spine. “Can I… still be inside you?”

You turned your head, eyes heavy. “You better be.”

First Anniversary

You hear a soft knock before dawn, and when you open the door, Matt’s there— holding a small, slightly wild bouquet of flowers. They’re not fancy, but perfect. “Happy anniversary,” he says, cheeks pink, eyes bright but shy.

You smile, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing. “You’re early.”

He shrugs, grinning like he’s won something. “I wanted to surprise you. Today’s all planned. No backing out.”

You grab his hand, feeling the warmth that’s not just from the flowers. With a quick motion, he sweeped you around dramatically, kissing you while you leaned back all the way.

You let out a surprised giggle, then put your hands on either side of his face.

“I love you, baby,” you whisper.

His face turns pink and crinkles with joy. “I love you more.”

_______

He lets you change out of pajamas while he waits in the kitchen, and when you come out, he’s set up a little breakfast picnic on the floor: toast, strawberries, whipped cream, and a small thermos of your favorite drink. There’s even a playlist softly playing in the background—he made it himself, and it’s all songs that remind him of you.

You raise a brow. “You made this whole playlist?”

He flushes. “It’s kind of embarrassing. One of them has your name in the lyrics.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He actually smiles a little when you do that, then tries to play it cool and offers you a strawberry like that will make him less flustered.

After breakfast, he hands you a tiny envelope.

“Open it when I tell you,” he says mysteriously. “No peeking.”

Then he leads you outside, clearly trying to hide how excited he is. You walk to a small park you used to visit all the time when you first got together. There, under your favorite tree, is a little setup: two foldable lawn chairs, a sketchbook, and a small box of supplies.

“I thought… maybe we could draw each other.”

You waggle your eyebrows and grin. “Like one of your French girls?”

“No—!” His face flushes. “I—I mean if you want? I—!”

“I’m messing with you, Matt.” You’re laughing as you sit across from him, and the two of you draw, occasionally glancing up at each other and bursting into giggles.

Lunch is homemade—by him. He packed it himself: sandwiches with little hearts cut into the bread (yes really), a tiny note tucked under the tupperware that says “ur hot and I love you :)”

You keep the note.

In the afternoon, he takes you to a local art exhibit—something quiet and beautiful. You walk through slowly, sometimes holding hands, sometimes just letting your pinkies brush. He leans in close during one painting and whispers, “That one reminds me of the way you look when you’re sleepy.”

You turn to find him already looking at you.

“I’m so glad I met you.” you whisper.

He ducks his head with a smile. “Me too. You have no idea.”

As the sun starts to set, he finally lets you open the envelope.

Inside is a small card and a single pressed flower from the first bouquet he ever gave you.

On the back is a list: “Reasons I’ve loved you every day this year.” There’s 365 of them.

“I was gonna just write one,” he says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “But then… I couldn’t stop.”

You fling your arms around him and don’t let go for a while.

That night, he cuddles you in bed, forehead pressed to yours, still pink when you say he’s the sweetest boy on earth. He mumbles something into your neck you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?” you whisper.

“I said I’m gonna love you for a lot more years.”

You kiss him again.

He kisses back— entirely, completely yours.

FINALLY.

It’s just after sunset when he takes your hand.

The sky is that kind of soft—streaked with violet and gold like it’s blushing for you—and there’s a quietness in the air that feels intentional. Like even the wind knows what’s coming.

“Come with me,” he says gently, fingers warm in yours.

You follow him up a familiar path—a small hill where the two of you used to come to watch the stars back when you were still unsure of what this was. It’s quieter now. Grown. Like both of you.

At the top, there’s nothing fancy. No flowers. No decorations. Just a soft, folded blanket, and a lantern that glows like candlelight in the middle. He lights it with a flick of his thumb and sits down, patting the space next to him.

You sit. And your heart starts thudding when you see he’s nervous.

Not shy nervous.

Trembling-hands, can’t-meet-your-eyes nervous.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Breathes in.

“I’ve been trying to plan the perfect way to tell you this,” he says, voice quieter than usual.

You tilt your head, completely obvious and confused. “Matt, are you good? You can tell me anything you know.”

He grins at that, but doesn’t look at you right away. He picks at the edge of the blanket instead, like he’s walking himself toward something.

“I know,” he says finally. “That’s kind of the problem. You make everything too easy. I had this whole dramatic thing planned. Flashy. Big. Public.” He glances at you. “You would’ve hated it.”

You snort. “Correct.”

He laughs again, but this time, his eyes flick to yours and hold. His hand slides over to yours, fingers curling between yours slow and deliberate.

“So I thought maybe I’d just take you here,” he says, “where it all started. Just us. The stars. A blanket. Like the first time you made fun of my hoodie and accidentally made me fall in love with you.”

You’re still grinning, still thinking this is just some sweet, nostalgic moment on a hill you both love. 

He shifts onto one knee.

You still don’t register it.

You’re smiling at him, waiting for the punchline, until you realize—

he’s still down.

And he’s pulling something out of his jacket.

Your heart stutters.

“Matt,” you say, a whisper.

“I didn’t want you to see it coming,” he says softly. “Because I want this to feel like how it’s always felt with you—sudden. And perfect. And exactly where I’m meant to be.”

He opens the box, and the ring inside catches the warm flicker of the lantern light.

You go still.

Completely, utterly still.

“I love you,” he says. No trembling. No hesitation. Just truth. “And I want to keep loving you. In every version of our life, every phase, every morning-after and fight and late-night grocery run I love you more than anything in this entire world, and I will spend the rest of my life for you, with you.”

A moment passes.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Your hand is over your mouth. Your chest is a mess. There are tears in your eyes and you don’t even remember them starting.

“Are you—Matt, are you serious?”

He smiles—wide and boyish and a little cocky now. “Yeah. Been serious for a while.”

You’re grabbing his face and kissing him so hard you both fall sideways onto the blanket, the box somewhere between you, forgotten for now because—

“I love you I love you I love you,” you whisper again, voice breaking against his skin as you pepper kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

He’s blinking up at you, stunned by the force of it. “Is that a yes?”

“YES!!” You shout it. “YES—of course it’s a yes—you insane, incredible, perfect man!”

He lets out a choked little laugh and finally gets the ring on your finger, both of you shaking, neither of you letting go.

“I was trying to be smooth,” he mumbles into your neck.

“You ambushed me,” you giggle back. “I didn’t see it coming at all.”

And he smiles, eyes bright, because your heart’s still racing, and your hands are still clutching his shirt, and you keep whispering—

“I love you I love you I love you,”

Like you’ll never get tired of saying it. And he’ll never, ever, ever get tired of hearing it.

a/n- if you got this far, I LOVE YOU!

i put my entire soul into this fic, and I am praying to every god that this doesnt flop and people are actually willing to read all 15,000 words.

if this does flop, i'm going to release each part as an au, bc i worked way too hard on this for people to not read it.

anyways thats day 1 of my special!!

comment to be added to taglist

[kiyoomiee]

one. two. three. four. five.

How can you avoid Sukuna if his door was directly in front of yours?

It didn’t help that you moved in during the hottest summer of the year.

You had to endure seeing him half naked, all the damn time.

You almost dropped your glass of water when he strolled in the kitchen wearing nothing but his sweatpants on.

He didn’t even look bothered, flaunting that muscled body of his with tattoos. As if he needed to add to the heat of the climate.

“You’re staring, girl.”

“I’m not.” Yeah you were, shamelessly.

“Tch, you walking around my house like that?” He eyed you from head to toe.

“You’re literally half-naked, Sukuna.” You frowned and defended yourself.

What’s wrong with your shirt and shorts? Oh right, you were not wearing a bra.

“Who says you can call me Sukuna?”

“You call me girl all the time! I have a name you know.”

“Yeah I know, but you are a girl too. And that’s all you’ll ever be in my eyes. Now go back upstairs and change your fucking clothes, you’re irritating me.”

“You can’t order me around like that! What are you, my father?”

“No, but you’ll be homeless without me.”

“Fine, daddy.”

You brat. You’ll be the death of him.

Sukuna noticed your little antics after that.

Purposefully wearing your tighest and shortest clothes around him. Brushing past him intentionally when you pass by each other. Looking up at him with those doe eyes fuck-.

He’s done nothing but notice you and it’s pissing him off.

Yuuji threw a pool party not realizing that Sukuna will get off early from work.

So when he stumbled upon you in his room alone wearing the most sinful bikini he’s ever seen, he’s done for.

All the smooth skin on display, how could he not look?

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” You jumped in surprise causing your boobs to jiggle slightly, which Sukuna was really aware of.

“S-Sukuna, Yuuji told me you kept the speaker in here. I was trying to find it.”

He walks up to you and you can feel the heat of his body because of how close he is. He’s caging you in.

“Hmm, is that right? Tell me girl, why would a fucking speaker be on my bed?”

“I-I was looking for it!” Your voice came out a pitch higher than you wanted to.

You were breathing hard. In this angle, Sukuna can see the tops of your soft tits with every breath.

Fuck, he’s losing his mind.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? All those flimsy clothing and the little touches. You wanna try to seduce all the guys out there? Go ahead. But you can’t seduce me, girl. Don’t you even dare try.”

The way he says girl. So cold and detached.

Girl.

“Fuck you, Sukuna.” You stare up at him defiantly, not caring about the tears that formed in the corners of your eyes.

A laugh comes from him.

“You wish. Sorry sweetheart but you’re not my type.” He stares right back at you with a smirk.

Yeah, that kinda hurts.

But you didn’t move. The two of you were locked in a staring contest.

“Let me pass, I want to go back outside.” You broke the silence and relented.

Sukuna didn’t say anything, he walked to his closet and pulled out a shirt then threw it to you.

“Wear it, can’t stand looking at you with your tits out like that.” Fuck, what’s wrong with him?

Seeing you like this had him feeling like a horny teenage boy who’s seen a pair of boobs for the first time.

“It’s a pool party. Every girl down there is wearing a bikini. They don’t care about what I wear because they’re all with each other.” You threw the shirt back at him and went for the door.

“Besides, the only one staring at my tits in this goddamn house is you, Sukuna.” You stated before disappearing from his sight.

Fuck, ain’t that the truth?

——————————————————————

tags: @emyyy007 @thebumbqueen @domainofmarie @cheriiepies

[smutmind]

When It Doesn't Fit ft. Ryujin

Itzy Ryujin X BBC

Seoul gleamed like a circuit board under glass.

You watched from the 38th floor, forehead resting against the cold window. The city didn’t sleep—neon bled into haze, horns echoed off glass. It was almost midnight, and the sky hadn’t gone black yet.

This wasn’t just another road trip. It was a political stunt.

An NBA-KBL goodwill game, they said. Bridge two basketball cultures, they said. You were the poster boy. Six-foot-nine, MVP finalist, America’s most marketable savage in sneakers.

You'd barely stepped off the jet before cameras were in your face. And something had felt… off.

Too many smiles. Too many eyes that lingered.

Coach had warned you. “You’re the prize they wanna claim. You drop 40, they look weak. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”

But it wasn’t the opposing team you noticed watching you. It was their PR staff. Their assistants. One of the security girls at the press conference.

They looked… expectant. Like something was planned.

—

The hotel was too nice.

Private elevator. Champagne in a silver bucket. Suite big enough to shoot a commercial in.

You ate half a protein bar and stared at the untouched king bed. Sleep wouldn't come easy. Not here. Not with your instincts humming.

You checked your phone. No texts. Just a single message from your agent: “Play nice. This is bigger than basketball.”

You tossed it aside.

The air conditioning purred. You sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, rubbing tension out of your thighs. Ten-hour flight. Two-hour media wall. And something else—this low, crawling heat you couldn’t shake.

You poured water. Opened the balcony door.

And just as you turned to kill the lights—

Three quiet knocks at the door.

You pulled the door open, expecting room service.

Instead: five women. Silent. Poised. Beautiful.

ITZY.

Your brain hesitated. You recognized them from the press conference—now dressed in sleek neutrals, like they belonged more in a designer showroom than the hallway of your hotel. No entourage. No cameras.

They walked in without asking.

You stepped back. Blinking.

Yeji moved first, a cool nod like she was used to being first through doors. Ryujin followed, hands in her pockets, casual as hell. Lia glanced at the room, then at you, like she was measuring how much of it you owned. Chaeryeong’s gaze skipped your chest, then dropped fast. Yuna closed the door behind them with a soft click.

No one spoke for a full beat.

You reached for your shirt on instinct. “Uh... can I help you?”

Ryujin smiled, faint. “No need to act surprised. You knew something was coming.”

“I didn’t think it’d be this,” you muttered.

Lia walked to the window. “You’re the game tomorrow.”

Chaeryeong added, “They want you... tired.”

There it was. Clear, shameless. You stared. Not angry. Not scared. Just... stunned.

Yuna leaned on the back of the couch, arms crossed under her chest. “They figured if one of us could... keep you busy tonight, maybe you won’t drop forty.”

You exhaled. “This is a joke, right?”

Yeji stepped forward. “You get to choose,” she said, voice even. “One of us stays. The rest leave.”

Your jaw clenched. “And if I say no?”

Ryujin cocked her head. “You won’t.”

She said it too calm. Like she wasn’t guessing.

Your heart thudded once. Hard.

You looked at each of them. Five stares. Five bodies. Five different types of confidence.

None of them moved.

And you still hadn’t answered.

You crossed your arms. Let the silence stretch.

“I’m not choosing.”

Five pairs of eyes blinked. Subtle shifts. Yeji raised a brow. Lia’s lips parted, surprised. Chaeryeong looked down. Yuna smirked like she expected it.

Ryujin just stared at you. Blank. Focused.

“I don’t need help losing a game,” you said. “And I don’t need someone sent to my room to prove I’m human.”

Nobody moved.

You nodded toward the door. “We’re done here.”

Yeji exhaled and turned first. “Fair enough.”

No drama. No pushback. Just quiet footsteps and the soft snick of the door swinging open. One by one, they walked out.

Except Ryujin.

She didn’t flinch.

You glanced her way. “You forget how doors work?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to threaten. Just enough to be inside your air.

“You’re not scared,” she said. “You’re annoyed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I didn’t want to be part of it,” she added, gaze steady. “Not really. I volunteered because I wanted to see you up close. To see if the hype was real.”

You laughed, dry. “And?”

She looked you over—head to toe, slow and shameless. Then back to your eyes.

“It’s worse than I thought.”

You stared. She didn’t blink.

“I’ll leave if you want,” she said, voice calm. “But I’m not here to seduce you. I’m here because I want to find out what you’re like when nobody’s watching.”

Your heartbeat kicked, sharp.

Still shirtless, you walked to the table, poured water just to have something to do. “You expect me to believe this has nothing to do with the game tomorrow?”

“I don’t care about basketball,” she said.

You turned.

She stood in front of the window now, city lights painting her in neon glow. No makeup tricks. No media smile. Just Ryujin—low voice, loose stance, one corner of her mouth tugged up like she already had your answer.

“I’m not a fan,” she said. “I’m curious.”

You studied her. Long enough that the silence thickened.

Then you nodded once. Just enough.

Ryujin pulled one leg under herself on the couch, fingers laced over her knee. She looked at home. Like this wasn’t the penthouse suite of Seoul’s most expensive hotel. Like she belonged exactly here—with you watching her, trying not to want her.

You sat across from her, water untouched. Every breath a little shallower than the last.

“You really don’t care about the game?” you asked.

She tilted her head. “I care about what happens after.”

That landed heavy between you.

You leaned back. “Why me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you don’t flinch.”

Her eyes dragged across your chest, slow and deliberate.

“Everyone else stares like they’re waiting for you to crack. You stare like you’re already picking out their weak spots.”

You smirked. “You’re analyzing me.”

“Mind if I ask you something?” she said.

You nodded.

“If I hadn’t said anything tonight… if I’d just stayed quiet, sat on this couch—what would you have done?”

You didn’t answer at first. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I would’ve kept watching you. Trying to decide if I was imagining the tension.”

Ryujin smiled. “You weren’t.”

She stood, slow. Walked toward the minibar. You watched the shape of her move, too aware of how little stood between you and the edge.

She poured herself a drink. One finger trailed along the rim of the glass.

“You want one?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I want you to stop playing with me.”

She didn’t turn around. “Who said I’m playing?”

You rose, crossing the floor with measured steps. She felt you close—your height wrapping around her like heat. Her breath hitched.

You didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“You sure you didn’t come here to seduce me?” you asked, voice low.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I came to see what happens when I get too close.”

You stepped closer. Your chest brushed her back. She didn’t pull away.

But you didn’t push.

You let the tension coil between you, tight and humming.

And then you whispered against her ear:

“Keep going. Let’s both find out.”

Ryujin took a slow sip from her glass and leaned back against the counter. The hem of her sweatshirt rose slightly, showing just a slip of her waist. Her eyes lingered low, then climbed back to your face.

“I’ve never been this close to someone built like you,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Tall?”

She smirked. “Tall. Big. American. Black.”

There it was—no filter, no apology. Just curiosity sharpened to a fine, gleaming point.

You held her gaze. “You’re wondering about the stereotype.”

She didn’t deny it. Just stared at your mouth like the answer might come from there.

“You think I’m going to confirm it?” you asked.

She stepped closer. “I think you don’t have to.”

Her voice dropped into something breathy. Something confessional.

“I’ve seen photos,” she said, almost like a dare. “Clips. I’ve heard things. But hearing isn’t the same as…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking down again, her lip caught between teeth.

You moved closer. Close enough that her breath hit your chest.

“And you think if I showed you, you’d be able to sleep tonight?”

Her cheeks flushed—just a flicker—but her stare didn’t waver.

“No,” she whispered. “I think it’d fuck with my head.”

You laughed, low and rough.

She stepped back just slightly, like the distance would help her breathe.

“You’re not even touching me,” she said. “Why does it feel like you already are?”

“Because you want me to,” you said. “And because you’re letting yourself wonder what it’d feel like.”

Her thighs shifted. Subtle. Wanting.

“You want to know how I got here?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. Just watched her—shoulders tight, breath measured, like she was about to jump or confess.

“I didn’t win anything by singing,” she said. “Not really. Not enough.”

She walked to the couch, sat like a dancer—back straight, knees tight, chin lifted. “But when you know how to move… how to look at someone like you already own the room…”

Her sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder. Intentional. Every move was.

“You don’t need to beg for deals,” she said. “You make them beg to sign.”

You stood across from her, arms crossed. “You saying you fucked your way to the top?”

She laughed softly. “No. I made them think I would. That’s all it took.”

She lifted her legs onto the couch. Turned sideways. Bent one knee toward her chest. It pulled her loose shorts higher on her thighs. Every inch was choreography.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I’d sit in a director’s lap just long enough to ruin his focus. Whisper things while adjusting my bra. Let fingers slide under a table and stop an inch too soon.”

Her eyes found yours.

“I never had to fuck anyone,” she said. “But I learned exactly how much power a body has—if you know how to use it.”

You stepped forward, slow. Sat across from her, knees nearly touching.

“And you think I’m one of them?” you asked.

She shook her head. “No. You’re not a man who needs tricks. That’s why I want to show you anyway.”

She shifted forward. Placed one hand on your thigh—not bold, not demanding. Just there. A test. Her nails grazed the fabric of your sweats.

“Let me show you what I’ve learned,” she said. “Not for a deal. Not for fame. Just for you.”

You didn’t stop her.

Her fingers slid higher. Her breath hitched.

And then she dropped to her knees between yours, slow as a curtain falling.

Eyes locked to yours.

Mouth parting.

Worship in her posture.

No more teasing.

No more pretending.

You stopped her before she could go further—fingers in her hair, firm.

Ryujin froze on her knees, eyes wide, breath short.

You didn’t speak.

Just leaned down.

And kissed her.

Hard.

It knocked the air from her throat. Her lips opened against yours, soft, then hungry. She melted forward, hands climbing your thighs, fingers curling into your skin like she needed to anchor herself.

You pulled her up by the waist, lifting her into your lap in one smooth motion. Her legs straddled your thighs, sweatshirt rising, skin hot.

She gasped as your hand slid up the inside of her shirt—tracing ribs, the undercurve of one breast. You palmed her through thin fabric, thumb circling her nipple until she moaned.

"You're not ready for this," you murmured into her ear.

"Try me," she whispered.

You slid your sweats down just enough. Her eyes dropped.

And widened.

She swallowed.

"Fuck," she breathed. "It won’t fit—"

"It will," you said, steady. "But only if you stop thinking and start feeling."

You pushed her shorts aside—no panties. She was soaked. She trembled in your lap, breath hitched, hips already shifting.

You lined up. Gripped her hips.

She whimpered as the head pushed against her entrance. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder.

"Too much," she whispered.

You kissed her neck. "Then take it slow."

She lowered herself, one inch at a time.

Her body rolled—slow, unsure, trembling. She gritted her teeth and rocked forward, trying to open wider. You held her still. Guided her hips.

"You want to impress me?" you said against her collarbone. "Then ride me like this is your debut stage."

Her laugh cracked—nervous, breathless. Then she moved.

She slid down further, tight heat dragging every inch.

She cried out—half moan, half disbelief. "I can’t—"

"You’re doing it," you said.

She buried her face in your neck, nails digging into your shoulders. Her hips rolled again, tighter this time. Rhythm building. Skin on skin.

She wasn’t graceful. She was raw. Messy. Desperate.

And it was beautiful.

You held her, lifted into each stroke, let her grind deeper, feel every impossible inch.

“God,” you muttered, voice low. “These are fucking perfect.”

Her mouth twitched into a breathless smile. “You like Asian flavors?”

You grinned. “Didn’t think Korean cuisine would feel this soft.”

She laughed against your mouth—then gasped as you rolled her nipples between your thumbs. Her whole body shivered.

“Oh my god—right there,” she whispered, eyes fluttering.

You leaned forward, mouth brushing the curve of one breast. “You ever let anyone taste you like this?”

She shook her head. "They never… touched them like they mattered."

“They matter now,” you growled.

You sucked one nipple into your mouth—slow, focused, teasing. She cried out, grinding harder on your cock as your tongue circled, teeth grazing gently. You switched to the other, wetter this time, letting her squirm in your lap while her thighs quaked around you.

“You feel everything so deep,” she gasped.

You pressed her down, full length inside her again.

“I want you to feel it in your chest,” you said.

Her lips trembled. Her fingers curled behind your neck.

You moved together—her riding, you thrusting up to meet her, both of you moaning now, louder, breath tangled. The wet sound of your bodies slapping echoed off the walls.

She arched back suddenly, hands braced on your thighs.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Please—I want all of it.”

You gripped her waist. Slammed up into her once. She screamed. Again. Again. Her tits bounced wildly with every stroke, nipples slick and flushed.

“You’re handling me like a fucking champ,” you groaned.

“I’m not done,” she panted. “I want to feel sore. Wrecked.”

You flipped her.

Flat on her back, legs hooked over your arms. You drove in again, deeper now, fucking her slow and hard, watching her face twist—pleasure, disbelief, surrender.

“Never had a black man fuck you like this?” you growled.

She moaned so loud it cracked.

“Never had one, period,” she gasped. “You're ruining me.”

You bent down, kissed her mouth, her neck, her chest—then bit softly over her nipple.

Her body was twitching, lips parted in a moan she couldn’t control, nipples shining from your tongue. Her thighs trembled every time you thrust up into her—deep, thick, stretching her wide enough to leave her gasping.

“Fuck,” she choked, hands pressed flat on your chest. “I—wait—something’s—”

You knew.

You felt it—tight around you, wetter than before, her whole core pulsing.

Then it happened.

Her hips jerked once—twice—and she screamed. Not a polite moan, not a staged gasp. A raw, guttural, high-pitched wail as liquid burst out of her and soaked both of you.

“Oh shit,” you said, eyes wide.

She blinked, dazed, and then looked down.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did I—? I did—”

You both started laughing.

You wiped your face with your forearm, still buried inside her. “Jesus, Ryujin. I thought you were about to pass out.”

She collapsed onto your chest, giggling. “I might. That was—holy shit. Did I just… squirt?”

“You did,” you said, grinning. “Like a fucking geyser.”

She looked mortified. You kissed her anyway.

“Don’t be shy,” you murmured. “That was beautiful.”

She exhaled, messy and breathless, still smiling. “I’ve never—no one’s ever made me—”

You kissed her again. Softer now. She tasted like sweat and heaven.

Then she shifted in your lap, still breathless, and looked down between your bodies.

“You didn’t finish,” she whispered.

You shook your head. “Didn’t want to yet.”

Her hand curled around your jaw, pulling your face to hers. “Tell me how to do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Teach me.”

She licked once, from base to tip—slow, deliberate. You exhaled through clenched teeth. Her tongue circled the head, then slipped over it like silk. Her lips followed—soft, warm, swallowing you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you muttered, head tilting back.

She moaned around you, the sound vibrating through your length. Her pace was slow at first, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked to yours. Every bob of her head was smoother than the last. Deeper. Greedier.

Her spit coated your shaft. She pulled back to stroke it, watching her own hand move with a little awe.

“You feel insane in my mouth,” she said.

“You’re making it hard not to finish.”

She smiled. “That’s the goal.”

She went back down—lips tighter, cheeks hollowed, tongue working every sensitive nerve. You watched her: ponytail swaying, jaw working, throat stretching around you.

You warned her once—voice rough, barely holding back.

“Ryujin, I’m close.”

She pulled off, breathing hard, mouth slick and red.

“No,” she whispered, climbing into your lap. “Not like that.”

You blinked, chest heaving. “What?”

She kissed you hard, then lined you up between her legs again.

“Inside me,” she breathed. “I want to feel it. All of it.”

You grabbed her waist and thrust up—deep. Her mouth fell open. She dropped all the way down with a shuddering moan.

“That’s it,” she panted. “I want to keep it this time.”

You gripped her hips, lifted her up, let her slam down again. Her body clenched around you, tighter now. Hot. Desperate.

You didn’t hold back.

Each thrust shook her. Her tits bounced against your chest. She was babbling now—broken Korean, breathy English, fingers clawing your shoulders.

You warned her again, voice rough. “I’m gonna fill you.”

“Do it.” she gasped. “Please—I want it.”

You came with a growl—hips locked, cock pulsing deep inside her. She cried out as the heat flooded her. Her nails left marks. Her breath staggered.

But she didn’t get off.

Not in the emotional sense.

Not yet.

She stayed straddling your lap, hips resting against yours. You felt her shift—just a little.

You flinched.

“Too much?” she whispered, eyes wide and innocent.

You nodded. “Sensitive.”

She rolled her hips again.

Your whole body jerked.

“Still so full,” she said softly, like it was a compliment. “Still hard enough.”

You groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled—and started moving.

Slow at first. Lazy. Just the barest grind.

Your cock was softening, but still thick, still inside her. Her warmth kept you there, her slick body teasing you without mercy.

Your thighs trembled.

“Fuck, Ryujin…”

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You shouldn’t have let me stay.”

You blinked.

She kissed the shell of your ear. “You really thought I came here for fun?”

You opened your mouth—but she rolled again, deep. You gasped instead.

“I told you I volunteered,” she whispered. “What I didn’t say… was why.”

You were dizzy. Sensitive. Helpless.

She rode you with soft, deep strokes now, not fast, just steady. Every nerve in your cock lit up. Your whole body was trembling, too wrung out to fight it.

“You’re not playing tomorrow,” she said gently. “You’re not going to move.”

You tried to grab her waist, slow her down. She caught your hands and pinned them to your chest.

“You think you’re still in control?” she teased. “Sweet.”

Your hips twitched. You were barely inside her now—just the head—and she still worked you like she owned you.

“I made you come inside me,” she whispered. “Made you spill every drop. And now I’m keeping you here.”

You groaned. You couldn’t stop her.

“You’re twitching,” she giggled. “Are you gonna cry?”

You laughed—breathless. “You’re fucking evil.”

Her eyes softened. “You loved it.”

You did.

You hated how much you did.

She leaned down, kissed your jaw. “Sleep, starboy. Tomorrow’s game’s canceled.”

She kept moving. You couldn't stop shaking.

And then… you went under.

You woke to warmth. Soft skin. Bare thighs straddling your hips.

And Ryujin’s nipple brushing your lips.

You blinked, disoriented.

She giggled, already grinding slow, teasing, like she hadn’t just ridden you into unconsciousness hours ago.

“Rise and shine,” she whispered. “Literally.”

You groaned. Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. She rolled her hips, and you twitched—half hard, half helpless.

“Ten rounds,” she said softly, tapping her chest. “One for each time you finish today.”

She leaned in, slipped her nipple between your lips.

You sucked.

She moaned, arching against you, hand braced on your chest. “You ditch the game,” she whispered, “you get both tits and the rest of the buffet.”

You looked up, dazed. “You’re serious.”

“Totally.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What if I want just two rounds?”

Her smile turned slow and wicked. “Still worth it.”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You looked at her. Then at her chest, rising and falling against your mouth.

You grabbed the phone, turned it off.

Then stood up—naked, cock rising, muscles shaking.

She clapped, beaming.

And then—

A second knock at the door.

You froze.

It opened on its own.

Yeji stepped in first, hair loose, wearing nothing but a silk shirt and that same unreadable smile from two nights ago.

“Game’s canceled, huh?” she purred.

Lia followed, in boyshorts and a lace bra. “Good. Now we get to play.”

Chaeryeong peeked in from behind them, blushing, holding a tray of food—actual food—but her eyes said something else.

Yuna walked in last, stretched like a cat, wearing Ryujin’s discarded hoodie. She winked. “We brought dessert.”

You stood there stunned—naked, hard, marked by Ryujin’s bites.

And five idols stood before you, all in various states of undress, all with the same look in their eyes:

Hungry.

Ryujin leaned into your ear. “Full Asian course meal, starboy.”

Yeji blew you a kiss.

And the door clicked shut behind them.

----- m night shyamalan twist ahha

[seospicybin]

BAD.

Han x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: You’ve always known Han Jisung is trouble—the kind of guy who flirts like it’s breathing and disappears like smoke when things get real. But the more time you spend with him, the deeper you fall—despite knowing he’ll probably break your heart. Again and again. (20,2k words)

Author's note: This fic is based on this song and spoiler alert: Han Jisung is a bad boy here. You've been warned ⚠

You hadn’t meant to go out that night. You were tired, two drinks behind everyone else, and already half-set on ghosting your own friends with a quiet Irish exit. But then you saw him—leaning against the bar like he owned the place, all dark denim and lazy posture, twirling a lime wedge between his fingers like he was bored with the world.

He wasn’t your type. Too cocky. Too casual. Messy dark hair pushed back like he didn’t care how good he looked, a silver chain hanging loose around his neck, and a smirk that looked like it came with a warning label. There was something sharp in his eyes—something dangerous, like he knew exactly how to get what he wanted and had never once been told no. You should’ve known better.

He looked up right as you glanced his way, and he didn’t miss it. That smirk widened just enough to make your stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said, with that deep, velvet-soft voice that felt too smooth for a stranger. “Did it hurt?”

You gave him a look and a low scoff. “Seriously?”

He tilted his head, unfazed. “I mean, falling from heaven? Yeah. But I had to try. You looked like you needed saving.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your half-finished drink, determined not to entertain him. Guys like that were a headache. Pretty smiles and pretty lies, and way too much effort for someone who’d already break your heart before you learned his middle name.

However, Han didn’t take silence as rejection—he took it as a challenge. He dropped into the barstool next to you, close enough that you could smell the sharp citrus of his cologne, feel the warmth of his presence even without touching.

“I’m Han,” he said. “And you are…?”

Still, you stayed quiet.

“Alright,” he said with a lazy grin. “Mystery girl. I like it. But just so you know, I’ve got, like, five minutes before I charm you.”

You hated the way your lips twitched at that. Hated that he was already chipping away at your resolve with nothing but a few words and a well-timed smile.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve finished your drink and left without looking back. But instead, you turned to him and said, “Alright, Han. Five minutes starts now.”

Han grinned like he’d just won something. He leaned his elbow on the bar, gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “So,” he said, swirling the ice in his glass. “Are you always this hard to read, or am I just off my game tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you said coolly, lifting your drink. “Is this your game?”

He laughed—low and boyish, the kind of sound that made it too easy to forget he was probably trouble. “God, you’re fun. Most girls just giggle and fall right into it.”

“Maybe you’re not my type.”

Han raised an eyebrow, like that was a challenge. “Then what is your type?”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either. That was enough to make his grin stretch wider, all teeth and charm and a little too pleased with himself. He glanced across the bar and nodded toward the dartboard in the corner. “Wanna make this interesting?”

“I don’t play games,” you said, setting down your glass.

“Lucky for you, I do.” He was already halfway off his stool. “Come on. You beat me, I buy you a drink. I beat you, you give me your number.”

You snorted. “What makes you think I’d want to give you my number even if I lost?”

He shrugged, holding out a hand like a dare. “Because deep down, you kinda want to.”

You scoffed at his audacity and stared at him for a beat too long, then you took his hand.

The dartboard was tucked in a quieter corner of the bar, just dim enough to blur the line between friendly competition and flirtation. Han let you go first, leaning against the wall with a drink in hand, watching you like he was trying to memorize your moves. You missed your first shot by an embarrassing margin.

Han chuckled. “Okay, maybe we should change the bet. You give me your number now, and if I lose, I’ll delete it.”

You shot him a glare, but it didn’t land. Not when he looked at you like that—like you were the most interesting person in the room.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered.

“And yet,” he said, stepping up behind you, his voice brushing your ear, “you haven’t walked away.”

You told yourself it was just a game. Just a drink. Just one night. But when Han’s hand brushed yours as he passed you the next dart, you didn’t pull away.

And when he whispered, “Careful. You’re starting to like me,”

you laughed, because he was right.

You don’t remember how many rounds of darts you played after that. Or how many drinks. Just that the more the night stretched on, the more dangerous Han started to feel.

He was easy to talk to—too easy. Every sentence laced with flirtation, every smile a silent promise. He leaned in when he spoke, laughed too loudly at your jokes, and somehow always found a reason to touch you—his hand brushing your wrist, fingers grazing your back as he passed behind you, knuckles tapping your knee under the table like a secret rhythm only the two of you understood.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You weren’t drunk. Just warm. Buzzed and comfortable and a little too aware of the way his knee kept knocking into yours, the way his eyes kept dropping to your lips.

“I’m trying to be good,” he murmured once, after your third drink.

You looked at him over the rim of your glass. “Are you?”

He seductively smiled. “Trying. Failing.”

He leaned in then—slow, testing the waters—but you turned your head at the last second, pretending to laugh at something on the TV above the bar.

“Mm. Cold,” he said, sitting back with a grin.

“You’ll live,” you casually respond with a sly smile.

Another drink later, you were having your drink facing the counter and Han was standing behind you, his chest pressed firmly against your back and one of his arms wrapped around your waist. You could feel the weight of his gaze as you peacefully sipping your drink.

“You’re still thinking about kissing me,” he whispered right into your ear, like it was a fact, not a guess.

You ignored the way his hot breath brushes your skin as you raised an eyebrow and said, “You’re very confident.”

He shrugged, eyes dropping to your mouth again. “You keep looking at mine. I’m just connecting dots.”

When you turned your head to the side, he leaned in close enough until his lips made the slightest contact with yours, intentionally or not. But you made him work for it, you leaned in and when he was about to capture your lips, you pulled back with a smug.

“You're persistent,” you said, though your voice wasn’t as steady as it had been.

He only smiled triumphantly, taking your words as a compliment and it seemed to only give him motivation to keep trying. One hand held your face by your chin, holding your head still as he leaned in again. He brushed your nose with his before finally aiming for your lips.

You stopped him by putting your fingers over his small mouth. “Not tonight.”

He exhaled, slow, like he was trying not to push. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll behave.”

He didn’t. Not really. Because later—when the bar was emptying out and the city felt quieter than it should’ve—he walked you outside, his hand brushing yours, barely touching but somehow lighting your whole arm on fire. He asked if you wanted a cab. You said you’d walk.

“I’ll walk you, then,” he offered with his charming gummy smile.

Two blocks into the walk, you turned down a quieter street. The air was cool, but you felt warm under your jacket. Han walked close, so close you could feel the swing of his arm next to yours, hear the way he slowed his steps to match yours exactly.

When you stopped at the corner, he stopped too. He looked at you, staring into your eyes and briefly glanced at your lips, tempting, inviting. And you, you looked at him with the glow of the streetlights created a halo on his dark hair, hesitating, considering.

Should I? You asked yourself. You figured out the answer as he leaned in and you didn’t move away. You felt his breath against your mouth first—hoping, waiting. When your lips parted just slightly, like an invitation… He kissed you. Soft, at first. Careful. Then again, firmer—like he’d been holding back all night and finally got permission.

You let yourself fall into it for a moment too long. Just long enough to forget that he wasn’t your type. That guys like Han never stopped at one kiss. And that deep down, you already knew—this wasn’t going to end well.

-

One moment, Han had you pinned against the door, fingers tangled in your hair, his kiss rougher and more urgent, like he’d been waiting all night for this. In the next one, you ended up on your bed, feeling the press of his mouth against yours and his hands mapped your sides like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. And then, he was everywhere.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and Han followed, lips trailing down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. He kissed like he meant it—deep and consuming, like he wanted to swallow the sound of your sighs. His hands were firm on your hips, but not greedy—like he could take his time, like he wanted to take his time.

Suddenly, he slowed. He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, lips red and swollen from the kiss. His gaze lingered on yours, asking a silent question—one you didn’t need to answer aloud because you were already reaching for him.

He sat back on his knees, his hands gripping the hem of his black t-shirt. In one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. Your breath caught at the sight. His body was lean but toned—defined in that way that made you want to reach out and trace every line. Broad shoulders and small waist. And there, on his right shoulder, was a black ink tattoo: sharp edges, elegant curves, something that looked both dangerous and deeply personal. The other one ran down his side in a smooth line, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans, teasing your imagination and making you wonder where does the tattoo ends.

You sat up slowly, eyes dragging across his chest, down to the subtle V of his hips.

He looked like sin wrapped in skin. He knew it, too. That stupid, perfect smirk curved at the edge of his mouth as he caught you staring.

“What?” he asked, voice low, a little smug.

You swallowed. “You’re just…”

“Hot?” he offered with a wink.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you admitted quietly, your voice soft as your fingers brushed over the tattoo on his shoulder. “You really are.”

Han leaned down, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Careful,” he whispered, “you’re making it very hard to behave.”

You didn’t tell him to stop because even though you knew better… you didn’t want him to.

Han leaned and hovered over you, lips brushing against yours in slow, languid kisses that made your breath catch. His hand moved with a practiced ease—fingertips grazing the zipper at the back of your dress, a silent question in the way he tugged, lips still coaxing you deeper into him.

You didn’t say a word. You let him. Then you heard the sound of the zipper cutting through the silence in the room. The fabric slipped down your shoulders, warm air brushing over newly exposed skin. He pulled the dress down until it's off of you and you were bare except for the matching underwear you were wearing.

His gaze dropped, jaw tightening just slightly, like the sight of you like this did something to him he couldn’t put into words. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone, then lower, down the center of your chest.

He buried his mouth in between your soft mounds and drinks in your natural scent. “What kind of spell are you putting on me?” He murmured with his lips against your skin.

You let out a soft laugh, but it caught in your throat when his lips found your stomach, then the curve of your hip. His hands smoothed along your sides, slow and reverent, like he wanted to worship every inch of you.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect.”

He came back up to kiss you again—deeper this time, his mouth claiming yours like he couldn’t get close enough. Your hands gripped his shoulders, felt the heat of his skin under your palms, the sharp inhale he took as your fingers trailed along the tattoo on his ribs.

And then— Something shifted. It happened all at once. A flicker of hesitation in your chest, the way your body stilled beneath his, the sudden tightness in your throat that you couldn’t quite explain. His kiss slowed, but your hands had already gone slack at your sides. The fire was still there—but your heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Han noticed immediately. He pulled back, just enough to look you in the eyes. His brows furrowed, voice softer now, careful. “Hey… you okay?”

You hesitated for a second, trying to find the right words. “I—” You bit your lip, avoiding his gaze. “I think I’m changing my mind.”

His weight shifted off you a little more. “Yeah?”

You nodded, cheeks hot. “I don’t want to do this. At least… not tonight.”

There was a pause. Not heavy—just quiet. And then Han gave the smallest, most genuine smile. “Okay.”

You anxiously clutched the sheet under you. “You’re… okay with that?”

“Of course I am,” he said, brushing your hair gently behind your ear. “You think I’m gonna get mad because you're being a decent human with boundaries? Please.”

The relief hit you like a wave. You leaned up and gave him a soft peck on the lips, more grateful than anything. “Thank you, Han.”

He laid down beside you, still shirtless, arm behind his head as he looked at the ceiling like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t just hit pause on something you both clearly wanted.

“You’re really sweet,” you said quietly.

He smirked. “Don’t ruin my reputation like that. I’ve got a bad boy image to maintain.”

You laughed as your head fell back onto the pillow, finally relaxing again. “Sorry. You’re so dangerous and mysterious.”

“That’s better,” he said with a wink. “Now c’mere. I wanna cuddle and sulk dramatically about being denied.”

You rolled your eyes but moved closer, letting his arm wrap around your waist, your head finding the space between his neck and shoulder. He was warm. He smelled like cologne and the night and something that already felt too familiar.

-

The air in the room had shifted—less charged, more peaceful. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there in silence, his arm still wrapped around your waist, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. His fingertips were brushing soft, aimless patterns along your side when his gaze drifted across the shelves by your bed.

“You’ve got a lot of books,” he murmured.

You smiled against his skin. “Yeah. I like to collect them even when I don’t have time to read.”

Han tilted his head, scanning the spines. “The Song of Achilles,” he said, pointing. “That one wrecked me.”

Your brows lifted. “You’ve read it?”

“Twice,” he said proudly. “And cried like a loser both times.”

You laughed, shifting slightly so you could see him. “You don’t strike me as the Greek tragedy type.”

He grinned. “I’m full of surprises.”

The conversation spilled easily from there—first about the book, then about other favorites, stories that moved you, characters you felt too much for. You didn’t realize how natural it felt until you noticed the hour on your phone and blinked.

“Wait… it’s almost four?”

Han chuckled, voice gravelly now from the lateness. “Guess you’re just too interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was soft. “I don’t remember the last time I stayed up all night just… talking.”

He looked at you, expression gentler than usual. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Then, maybe without meaning to, you spoke.

“I think…” you began, voice low, almost unsure. “I think that’s why I hesitated earlier.”

Han stayed quiet, just watching you.

Your voice small as you kept going. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve never felt really… confident. About my body. I’ve had a few… not-so-great experiences, and sometimes it just gets in my head, you know?”

Han didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush to fix it or brush it off. He just listened.

“Sometimes I feel like if someone sees too much of me, they’ll change their mind.”

His fingers tightened slightly around your waist—not in a harsh way, just grounding. Reassuring. “You know what I see when I look at you?” he said quietly.

You looked up at him, throat tightening.

“I see someone brave enough to set boundaries. Someone smart and kind and way, way too good at darts. I see someone who didn’t have to let me in—but did anyway.”

Your chest ached in the best way, not expecting the talk turns this personal when you only have met this person merely hours ago.

“You don’t have to earn being wanted,” he added. “You just are.”

You blinked fast, trying not to let the sting behind your eyes win. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He shrugged, a teasing smile returning. “I’m trying to impress you. My shirt’s already off, and you said no, so I had to resort to personality.”

A laugh broke out of you, honest and full. You nudged his shoulder. “It’s working.”

The warmth between you softened into something tender—quiet and still and when you turned your head to look at him again, you found him already watching you. Something shifted in that moment. Something slow, sweet, inevitable.

Without overthinking it, you leaned in and this time, the kiss was gentle. No rush. No heat. Just a quiet surrender to the connection already blooming between you.

The kiss deepened naturally, without hesitation this time—just the slow, steady build of heat that had been simmering between you all night. Han’s hands rested on your waist, anchoring you to him as your mouth moved with his, the closeness buzzing with electricity.

You shifted, gently pushing him back against the pillows as you moved to straddle him. His hands slid down your sides, his eyes fixed on you now, wide and dark with something more than lust—something softer, deeper.

“You’re…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “God, you’re beautiful.”

The words landed right where your insecurities had been moments before, like he somehow knew exactly what to say to quiet them. His admiration wasn’t just in his voice—it was in the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something rare. Something precious.

It gave you a surge of something bold. A confidence you hadn’t felt in a long time. Your fingers moved behind your back, unclasping your bra. You let it fall between you, leaving you completely bare before him.

For a moment, Han just stared—lips parted slightly, eyes drinking you in like he didn’t want to miss a single detail. “I must be dead,” he said, voice still thick with awe. “Because there’s no way I’m this lucky and still breathing.”

You laughed—soft and real, your body finally relaxing as the tension slipped away. “Shut up,” you said while covering his mouth with your hand, even though the corners of your mouth were still curled in a smile.

“I’m just saying,” he added with a smirk, hands sliding up your thighs, slow and steady. “How am I not blind after seeing that?”

Your heart fluttered, warmth blooming in your chest and between your ribs, in all the quiet spaces where doubt used to live. There was something about being seen like this—not just touched, not just wanted, but seen. And even more than that… adored.

You leaned down again, brushing your lips against his. The kiss was softer now, but no less full of promise. In that moment, you let yourself believe—for just a little while—that this thing between you might be more than a night.

-

Han sat up slowly, eyes still fixed on you, the sheets rumpled around his waist as you remained straddling him. The way he looked at you made your skin tingle—as if you were the only thing that matters in this world.

He reached up, cupping the side of your neck with one hand, his thumb brushing just below your jaw. Then he leaned in and kissed you again—deeper, slower, savoring the way your lips moved with his.

His hand trailed downward, fingertips gliding over your collarbone, then lower, tracing the curve of your chest with a delicate touch that made you inhale sharply against his mouth. He hummed softly into the kiss, the sound low and pleased, like your reaction was exactly what he hoped for.

His other arm slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth, heartbeats syncing into something that felt more intimate than you expected.

In the next moment, the kiss growing needier, more consuming with every second. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails grazing the back of his neck as his lips claimed you again and again, with no sign of stopping. It felt like you were falling—into him, into this and you didn’t want to stop it.

Han dragged his lips down the slope of your neck, slow and heated, making your breath catch in your throat. You tipped your head back as a low moan escaped you, helpless against the way his mouth explored your skin—biting softly, then soothing the sting with warm kisses that made your spine curve and your fingers grip his shoulders tighter.

When he reached your sternum, he paused—just long enough to look up at you with a wicked glint in his eyes—before burying his face in the valley between your breasts. His kisses were open-mouthed, and lingering, lips moving with reverence as he worshipped every inch of your soft mounds. And then he took your breast into his mouth, hot and wet, the sudden suction making you gasp.

“Han—” you breathed out, nearly a whimper as he rolled your nipple against his tongue, then sucked harder—hard enough to make you yelp in surprised pleasure.

The sting was sharp, but the heat it sent rushing through your core was sharper. Your hips shifted beneath him instinctively, your body already responding faster than your mind could catch up.

When he looked up at you again, his lips glistened, and that smug little smirk you were starting to know too well curved at the corner of his mouth. “You sound so pretty,” he murmured, voice heavy with desire. “Don’t hold back.”

And then his mouth was on you again—trailing fluttering kisses down your stomach while enjoying the way your body arched into his. You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted, his hands finding your hips, and with one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, slipping easily between your legs.

You gasped, a mix of surprise and heat curling inside you as he looked down at you—his pupils blown wide, his hair a mess, and his mouth already back on your skin.

His kisses continued down your front, warm and teasing, until his lips hovered at the edge of your underwear. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss right against the thin fabric, eyes flicking up to meet yours just as you gasped—your hips twitching in response. You moaned, unable to stop the sound, your body trembling slightly under his touch.

Han smirked against you. “Still doing okay?” he asked, voice thick, dark, and laced with mischief.

You could only nod, breathless, your fingers threading through his hair again. Without giving you a moment, Han places an open-mouthed kiss on your clothed core, ignoring the way the fabric already damp with your arousal. Even with a layer of barrier, you felt his tongue tracing your bundle on nerves and continuously circling on it.

Han pulls away with a smirk. His fingers curled around the band of your underwear, his touch is unhurried like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You just watched him, heart pounding as he pulled the fabric down your legs, inch by inch, until you were bare beneath him.

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened. He lifted your leg by the back of your knee and leaned down, pressing light, fluttering kisses to the inside of your thigh—so delicate they felt like sparks dancing over your skin. The closer his mouth got to your center, the harder it became to breathe. Your body reacted on instinct, legs trying to snap shut from the overwhelming vulnerability of it all.

He looked up at you, eyes full of patience as he waited for you to open yourself to him.

“I—” you started, voice barely a whisper, “I just… it might take me a while... to come.”

There was no judgment in the way he looked at you. No hesitation. Instead, he smiled—soft, a little amused, endlessly kind. “You’re not in a hurry, right?”

And then, with that signature glint in his eye, he added, “Should I get you a book? Something to keep you busy while I work my mouth on you?”

You let out a startled laugh, your nerves cracking open into something lighter, easier. “You’re such an idiot,” you mumbled, smiling despite yourself.

“Mm, but I’m your idiot tonight.” He leaned up and pressed a kiss to your lips—slow, grounding, warm. “Just relax,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

With that, he moved back down, settling between your thighs like he belonged there. His arms curved under your legs and his hands resting on your abdomen, anchoring your hips gently.

The first contact of his mouth on your bare sex was gentle at first—exploring you with soft, unhurried licks between your folds that made your entire body tense and then melt into the mattress. He was careful, attentive, like he was learning every part of you with his lips and tongue, every little sound you made guiding him deeper into the rhythm that left you trembling.

You gasped and moaned, your fingers clutching at the sheets, legs trembling on either side of his shoulders. But then—his hands reached for yours. You felt his fingers lace through yours and pull them down to rest flat on your stomach. The unexpected intimacy of it made your chest swell with something tender. Even while he was driving you completely wild, he was grounding you—keeping you connected to him, reminding you that he was here, with you, for you.

Your back arched as his tongue found that perfect spot again and again, moving with a precision that made your breath stutter and your hips buck toward his mouth. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He just tightened his hold on your hands and kept going, lips and tongue working you over until you were gasping his name, your moans a helpless melody echoing off the walls of your bedroom.

You were undone—squirming under him, your body drawn tight with every wave of pleasure building inside you, held steady only by the feel of his hands wrapped around yours and the determined, reverent way he worshipped you with his mouth.

You felt it cresting—slow and intense, like a wave building higher and higher until it crashed through you all at once. Your body arched, a helpless moan tearing from your throat as the pleasure hit, all-consuming and warm, unraveling every thread of restraint you had left. Your fingers tightened around his, your thighs trembling around his head as you came apart under his mouth.

Han didn’t stop right away. He eased you through it with soft, fluttering kisses along your inner thigh, then up your abdomen, tender and patient as you slowly came down from the high, your breathing ragged and your skin still buzzing.

“You were perfect,” he murmured against your stomach. “So damn good for me.”

You let your eyes flutter open, dazed and breathless, and found him already looking at you. A teasing smile tugged at the corners of his lips—his mouth and chin glistening with the evidence of what he'd just done to you. He didn’t wipe it away. He licked his bottom lip instead with his eyes never leaving yours.

Then he leaned in, kissing you deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself on him. It was intimate, almost possessive—like he wanted you to feel everything, to know exactly how much he’d enjoyed every second of you. Your hands slid around his shoulders, pulling him closer as your heart pounded against your ribcage.

Han didn’t rush you. He laid beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand lazily trailing up and down your side. Featherlight touches. Just enough to make you shiver, even now.

“You’re kinda quiet,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Did I break you a little?”

You turned your head and gave him a weak glare, but your smile betrayed you. “A little. Yeah.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and smug as he nuzzled against the side of your neck. “Not a bad first impression then.”

You huffed a laugh, still catching your breath but that didn't stop him from kissing you again, his lips dragging over your cheek and then down to your collarbone. Each one lingered just long enough to keep your skin tingling.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against the curve of your waist, slipping lower for just a second before rising again. “You... under me. Breathing like that. Looking at me like I just rewrote your nervous system.”

“Cocky much?” You said with a raised eyebrow.

He smirked against your skin. “Only because you’re not denying it.”

You rolled your eyes and before you could fire back, he caught your lips in another kiss . It was gentler now—slow, drawn-out. His tongue moved lazily with yours, coaxing you back into that hazy warmth you were just coming down from. All the while, his hand never stopped moving—light strokes over your ribs, the underside of your breast, the dip of your waist. Not pushing. Not asking. Just... building. Again.

“You good?” he whispered when he pulled back, his voice all gravel and honey now, his eyes searching yours like he really meant it.

You nodded, already feeling the ache of wanting him again as his body pressed flush to yours. You answered him by kissing him. Your fingers curling into the nape of his neck.

Without breaking the kiss, he took your hand in his and slowly guided it down his chest, over the smooth lines of his torso. Your breath hitched, unsure of where he was leading you—but then, just when you thought he was going to push your hand lower, he slid it around to the back of him instead. Your palm met the firm muscle of his ass, and he grinned against your mouth.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice thick and teasing. “Tell me that’s not the finest ass you’ve ever touched.”

A surprised laugh escaped you, and you gave it a playful squeeze. “I mean… I’ve touched worse.”

“Ouch,” he gasped dramatically, feigning offense. “After all I’ve done for you tonight? That’s the best I get?”

You giggled, rolling your eyes. “Okay, fine. You’ve got a great ass, Han.”

“There it is.” He beamed proudly, his voice smug and affectionate. “You’re so good at flattering me. I should keep you around for morale.”

You gave it another squeeze just to mess with him, and he let out a low laugh, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back to look at you—really look at you.

In that moment, between the laughter and the heat, something softer flickered in his eyes. He didn’t say anything about it. He just leaned in to kiss you again, and you let yourself fall into it, warm and breathless and beginning to wonder how someone could be this addictive after only one night.

He let your hand linger where he’d placed it, his own hand coming up to cup your jaw as he kissed you slowly, deeply, addictive. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, his body pressed against yours, every inch of him alive with tension and need.

So you took initiative by sliding your hand down with clear intent, and he groaned softly into your mouth as your fingers wrapped around his swollen cock. The way he responded—jaw tightening, breath catching—only encouraged you, but you kept your pace slow, teasing him the way he’d teased you earlier. Your thumb rubbed over the crest and applied gentle pressures on it, then you began slowly stroking it.

His hand eventually joined yours, fingers curling around yours as he guided the motion with a rhythm he liked, each stroke making him pulse harder in your hand. Together, you pumped his cock in slow, steady motion. His forehead pressed to yours, and his eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure rippled through him.

“You’re really testing here,” he murmured, voice ragged.

You only smiled, tightening your hold around his length, feeling him twitch with growing need.

Before things could blur too far, Han’s hand paused yours. “Wait—condom?”

You nodded toward the drawer on the bedside table. “Inside. Right side. There’s a box.”

He reached over without fully detaching from you, retrieving one and giving you a look that was somehow both focused and teasing as he tore it open with his teeth. He rolled it on carefully, his eyes flicking to you every few seconds—watching you watch him.

When he was done, he raised an eyebrow. “So... how’s my form? Did I pass the test?”

You gave him a smirk and a playful nod. “A+ in safety and presentation.”

“Good.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours. “Now let’s see if I can get extra credit.”

With that, his mouth was on yours again, harder, deeper yet more certain. The anticipation hung thick in the air between your bodies as he pressed closer, your legs parting to welcome him in, the heat between you impossible to ignore.

Han moved slowly, his body flush against yours as he guided his cock into your entrance with care. He ran his length between your folds, drenched it with your arousal, giving your clit enough stimulations for what’s coming next.

When he began pushing his tip into you, his eyes never left your face, watching you, searching for any sign of hesitation. He kept going, eyebrows furrowed as he penetrated you with utmost care and carefulness.

The second his cock buried to the hilt inside you, you gasped—not from pain, but from the overwhelming closeness—he kissed you softly as if he tried to make up for the unpleasantness.

“Good?” he whispered, his voice breathless but gentle.

You nodded, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Mm-hmm… I’m good.”

He stayed like that for a moment, fully buried in you but still, giving it a moment for your bodies to adjust to each other's. When he finally moved, he moved in slow, measured thrusts that made your body tremble with each drag of his cock against your tight walls.

In the heat of the moment, his mouth found yours again, kissing you through every shift in rhythm, as if he wanted to share every part of it with you. “You feel amazing,” he murmured into your skin, a quiet confession between kisses on your neck, your collarbone, your lips. “Like you were made for me.”

His hands cradled your waist, keeping you close, and every so often, he paused just to glance down to where your bodies joined, where you took all of his cock inside you and wrapped tightly around him. He kissed you again and again before picking up the pace.

The tension between you grew hotter, sharper, but the tenderness never left his touch. He wasn’t just trying to make you feel good—he was trying to imprint every second of this in the back of his mind.

The way your bodies moved together was effortless, like some rhythm you'd always known and with every breath, every breathless moan escaped your lips, Han was right there—present, connected, real. You clung to him, and he to you, as though the moment might vanish if you didn’t hold on.

And when it finally crested—your body arching into his, tightening and fluttering around him, making Han coming soon after, groaning your name as he held you through the aftershocks, not once letting go. He went still for a moment as he released, filled the condom with his seed.

For a while, neither of you said a word. The room was filled with the sound of your mingled breaths, soft and slowing, hearts still racing under flushed skin. He was the first to move, gently pulling you into his chest, his arms wrapping securely around you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice low and tender against your hair.

You nodded, your cheek resting just over his heart. “Yeah… Okay.”

His arm stayed snug around your waist, the other trailing lazy fingers up and down your back as your breathing slowly returned to normal. Then, in the quiet hum of the room, he tilted his head down toward you and murmured, “So... would now be a bad time to ask for a Yelp review?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, your body still buzzing. “Right now?”

“I just think it’s important to gather feedback,” he said, grinning smugly. “You know, for quality assurance.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “Five stars for effort. Four and a half for the bad jokes.”

Han gasped dramatically. “Excuse you—my jokes are premium content.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, snuggling closer to him.

“I know,” he said, and kissed the top of your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You softly exhaled, eyes fluttering shut in drowsiness as his lips continued placing little kisses on your skin, reverent and steady, with a quiet devotion that left you feeling like you were falling—into something deeper than lust, something dangerously close to trust.

-

Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, warming your bare shoulders, gently waking you up from your slumber. You stirred, stretching out a hand to the other side of the bed—only to find it empty and cold.

Of course. You muttered in your head as you heart sank a little. You let out a quiet sigh and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You should’ve known better. One night, a little charm, and then gone by morning. Classic. Still, you couldn’t help the flicker of disappointment curling in your chest. Because, as much as you tried not to… you liked Han.

And then—there it was. The unmistakable clatter of something in the kitchen, followed by a low curse.

Pulling on whatever piece of clothing from the floor, you padded out of the bedroom and found him in the kitchen.

Han was shirtless and under the pale sunlight, his tattoos were contrast to his honey skin, his hair messily tousled, standing in front of your coffee machine with a deep frown on his face. His fingers were poking at buttons like they personally offended him. He looked up the moment he sensed you and broke into a sheepish grin.

“Morning. So, I may or may not be losing a fight to this highly complicated coffee machine.”

You squinted, walking closer to assess the issue. “Did you… plug it in?”

He paused and then he checked the back of the machine, finding the unplugged cord hanging limply beside the counter.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head while sheepishly chuckling. “That explains the lack of coffee. I was just about to blame capitalism.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head as you plugged it in. “Are you always this charming in the morning?”

“24/7 actually,” he said, watching you with that same lopsided grin.

As the coffee started brewing, the warm scent beginning to fill the kitchen, you turned toward the fridge. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Han leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest as he watched you. “Are you sure? I mean, I was planning to impress you with my gourmet bowl of cereal.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the eggs. “How about you handle coffee duty, Chef Cereal and I’ll take care of the rest?”

“Copy that, Kitchen Commando,” he said, reaching for two mugs with a mock salute.

The two of you moved around each other in quiet rhythm, filling the kitchen with soft clinks and sizzling sounds. No awkwardness. No morning-after weirdness. Just warmth, quiet laughter, and the smell of coffee and toast. It was… easy, strangely easy and you couldn’t remember the last time something felt like that.

The two of you sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, plates filled with scrambled eggs and toast between you, steaming mugs in hand. He took a bite, chewed, and gave you an impressed nod. You held the urge to chuckle at the way his cheeks puffed as he chewed on his food.

“Okay, chef,” he said with a grin. “This is actually good. I had low expectations after seeing your coffee machine situation.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean your coffee machine situation?”

He pointed at you with his fork. “Fair.”

Between bites and sips of coffee, the conversation drifted into something lighter. Easier.

“So, what do you do?” you asked, wiping a crumb off your lip.

Han leaned back a little, stretching his legs under the table. “I work at a music studio. Mostly sound engineering. Some producing. It depends on who’s asking.” He smirked. “But yeah, I help make people sound better than they actually are.”

You laughed. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Long hours, weird clients, but music’s kind of the only thing I ever wanted to do. Even when I was a kid.”

There was a flicker of something sincere in his eyes, and for a moment, it made your chest warm.

He tilted his head. “What about you?”

“I co-own a vintage clothing store with a friend,” you said, reaching for your coffee. “We do a lot of curating, reselling, sometimes minor alterations. I’m there most days.”

Han perked up. “Wait, so you’re telling me I know someone with taste and access to cool jackets?”

You smirked. “Maybe.”

“Do I get a discount if I come shop there?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“That depends. Do you plan on plugging in the coffee machine next time?”

He let out a laugh and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Harsh but fair.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of coffee refills, inside jokes already forming, and conversations that slipped from playful to surprisingly thoughtful with ease. It felt oddly natural—like the two of you had known each other long enough to tease and jab without hesitation.

And maybe that was what made it so dangerous.Han, with his charm and his grin and his casual warmth—he was the kind of trouble that came wrapped in comfort.

When it was time for him to go, you followed him to the front door, your sweater sleeves pulled down over your hands, fingers gripping the hem to keep yourself from reaching for him. He crouched slightly to put on his sneakers, and a strange heaviness pressed on your chest—the kind that came with goodbyes, especially the ones you didn’t want to say out loud.

This is it, you thought. A fun night. A morning after. And then he disappears like they always do.

But just as he finished lacing up his shoes, Han straightened and turned to face you again. His eyes flicked across your features, lingering in that way that made it feel like he was seeing more of you than he should.

“So,” he said slowly, almost cautiously, “can I see you again?”

Your breath hitched—just for a second. “Well... You know where to find me.”

A smirk crept onto his lips, cocky and triumphant, like he’d just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. “That I do.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you stretched taut with something unspoken. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, and when he stepped forward, it was deliberate.

Han reached up, his fingers gentle as they found your chin and tipped your head slightly toward him. He leaned in slowly—so slowly—and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. It wasn’t lustful or teasing this time. It was tender, like a promise.

When he pulled away, his voice was lower than before. “I’ll see you soon.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say it back, but you barely got the words out before he leaned in again and kissed you deeper this time, stealing the air from your lungs. It left your head swimming, your hands balled into the fabric of your sweater to keep yourself from holding onto him. And then he stepped back, letting go of your chin with frustrating gentleness. You almost frowned at the absence of his touch but caught yourself, painting a smile on instead.

Han turned toward the door, opened it, and paused—just for a beat. His eyes found yours again, like he was trying to burn the image of you into memory, then he stepped out.

You stood frozen for a moment after the door shut, the silence of your apartment suddenly deafening, and without meaning to, you were already counting the seconds until you saw him again.

-

The bell above the door jingled as someone left, the fading sound echoing in the stillness of the vintage shop. You barely looked up from where you sat behind the counter, chin resting in your hand, watching the second hand tick around the clock mounted on the wall.

Five days. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a stupid emoji. You hated how often you found yourself checking your phone, hoping for a notification from Han. Even more, you hated that your heart still fluttered at the thought of him—even now, after all the silence.

Your friend, Morgan, appeared from the back room with a new rack of denim jackets and gave you a knowing look. “Still nothing?”

You shook your head, sighing dramatically as you slumped over the counter. “Maybe he died.”

Morgan snorted. “If he’s dead, the universe just did you a favor.”

You groaned, burying your face into the crook of your elbow. “Don’t say that. What if he’s just…busy?”

She shot you a flat look, raising an eyebrow. “Busy? Please. That boy is a smooth-talking, fine-ass ghoster, and you know it. You're not the first girl he made promises to with his shirt off and that dumb pretty smile.”

You sat back up, whining like a child being told no. “I know, okay? I know. You’re right. He’s just a typical fuckboy. I just…” Your voice softened. “It didn’t feel like that.”

Morgan sighed and leaned on the counter next to you. “That’s how they get you. They make you feel like you’re the one exception to their pattern. That you’re the one they actually mean it with.”

You stared down at your hands, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s just,” you muttered, “my heart’s being stupid. I know he’s not coming back. I know that night probably meant nothing to him. But…”

“But it meant something to you,” Morgan finished your sentence with a fed-up sigh.

You nodded, lips pressing together in a hard line.

Morgan gave your shoulder a squeeze. “It sucks. And I hate seeing you like this. But you’ve gotta stop feeding the fantasy. He ghosted you, babe. Whether it was deliberate or not, you deserve better than that.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the bitterness of the truth down your throat. “Yeah.”

“And I mean—look at you.” She gestured at your outfit. “You’re a catch. Hot, smart, funny. And you run a kickass vintage store. You think he's the only guy who’s gonna notice that?”

You managed a laugh, weak and watery. “He better not be.”

“There she is.” Morgan grinned. “Now, go fix that rack of leather jackets and start forgetting about that doe-eyed, tattooed piece of—”

The bell above the door jingled again and you both turned to look. Your heart nearly stopped only for some customers coming into the store.

“Better put my focus on work,” you sighed in defeat as you grabbed the rack of leather jackets and hauled it.

Morgan gives you an encouraging slap on the butt. “Atta girl!”

Rearranging a rack of vintage coats did help distracting you from thinking about Han and how a part of you still hoping that your phone chime with a message from him. It worked until a familiar voice sliced through the low hum of the store.

“What do you think?” he said. “Is this totally my color, or am I giving discount magician vibes?”

That voice. That joking, cocky, annoyingly charming voice. You turned slowly, fingers still clutching a velvet blazer, and there he was—Han—standing under the warm light of the shop’s interior, holding up a glittery gold button-down shirt with a grin that was clearly meant to disarm you.

“Or should I add this?” he asked, grabbing a feathered boa and wrapped it around his neck.

Your heart kicked up painfully in your chest, but your face remained neutral. “Can I help you?” you asked flatly, like you would with any other customer.

Han’s smile faltered. He let the shirt fall against his chest, his eyes searching yours. “I—uh. Okay. I deserve that,” he admitted, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called. Texted. Something. I’ve just… things got complicated.”

You didn’t say anything, you just moved on to the next rack, slipping hangers back in place like you hadn’t heard him.

He followed behind, undeterred. “I’m not trying to make excuses. I just got overwhelmed with work. Studio stuff’s been nonstop. I kept meaning to reach out, but it felt like the longer I waited, the worse it would seem.”

You paused, glanced at him, and then kept walking. He was doing it again—smooth talking, saying all the right things, making you almost want to believe him.

From behind him, Morgan stood at the counter, arms crossed, and as soon as your eyes met, she silently pointed at Han and mouthed: Bad news.

You sucked in a breath and walked past Han, heading toward another rack of clothes. He caught up with you and gently grabbed your elbows, halting your steps.

“Please,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m really sorry. I’ve been thinking about you. About that night. A lot. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just—I handled it badly.”

You looked up at him, heart racing. His eyes were wide and vulnerable, but you couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just an act to win you over. His grip on you wasn’t forceful, but there was something desperate in the way he held you there—like he needed to fix this, needed to make you hear him.

However, your head was swimming. You couldn’t trust your instincts around him. Not when your chest still ached from pathetically waiting for a text from him.

So you gently pulled your arms free and walked toward the counter. “Morgan, can you help this customer?” you asked, barely looking back.

Without waiting for an answer, you gave him the cold shoulder and pushed open the backroom door. You stayed there and only came out after Morgan texted you that Han has left.

When it came to close the shop, you and Morgan worked together to tidy up the store. You turned the keys repeatedly and pulled the door to make sure it was securely locked before dropping the keys into your bag.

As you were about to turn away, Morgan tapped your shoulder and you turned just as she tilted her head toward the street. “Behind you,” she murmured.

You followed her gaze—and there he was. Han, sitting on the hood of his car like some hopeless romantic cliché, bundled in his jacket, arms crossed, breath visible in the cold night air. He’d been waiting.

Morgan sighed, already exhausted with him. “You want me to scare him away?”

You shook your head. “It's okay. I got it.”

She hesitated, watching your face with that same mix of concern and curiosity, before stepping back with a parting, “Text me.”

Then you were alone with the sound of distant traffic and your footsteps clicking against the pavement as you approached.

Han stood up when he saw you. Despite the chill, he smiled. “Hey.”

You raised a brow. “You’re still here.”

“Well,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “I’m not leaving until you forgive me.”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your expression unreadable. “You really think freezing your ass off is going to make up for ghosting me for five days?”

He grinned. “I mean... it’s a start.”

You tried to hold back, but then he added, “And next time, I’ll remember to plug in the coffee machine.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Your resolve, carefully built up over days of annoyance and disappointment, began to crumble.

He grinned wider, gently reaching for your hand. His fingers were cold, but his touch was careful, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him hold on. “I really am sorry,” he said, quieter this time. “I messed up. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just got in my own head.”

You looked at him, and despite everything, part of you softened. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t charming his way out. He just looked... sincere.

You sighed, lips twitching. “You’re forgiven… if you wear that glittery gold button-down shirt. With the feathered boa.”

He blinked, then burst out laughing. “Okay. Go on, unlock the shop. I’ll wear it for you right now. Right here. Right now. I’ll even strut.”

You laughed too, finally, fully and the last bit of tension eased from your chest.

“I’d rock it,” he added, his voice cocky and bright. “I’d look amazing. I just know it.”

That made you burst into laughter, and Han looked at you like he’d already won the lottery, like he knew, somehow, this was the start of something… complicated. Messy, even. But it was a start.

-

It’s been three months now, and somehow, Han Jisung still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The months slip by in a blur of warmth and laughter, and if someone told you this was all a dream, you might believe them. Because dating Han feels exactly like that—like you’re floating through something too good to be real.

You remember slow mornings when he kisses your forehead before you're fully awake, the scent of coffee already filling your apartment because he learned how to use the machine properly—though he still jokes about nearly short-circuiting it every time. You eat pancakes in bed, syrup sticking to your fingers, and Han kisses the corner of your mouth like it's a reward for just being there.

There are late-night grocery runs when you both pretend you’re on a secret mission. You race down the snack aisle, Han hiding behind displays and jumping out to make you laugh. Once, he wore a banana costume he found in clearance and asked you to take him seriously. You couldn't.

There are cozy nights in, wrapped in blankets, a record playing low in the background as he hums along and runs his fingers through your hair. He reads to you sometimes— the lyrics he wrote on his journal, silly memes from his phone, even the tag on the cereal box—just to make you laugh at the way he over-dramatizes it.

He holds your hand in public like it’s second nature, like he can’t imagine a world where it wouldn’t be. He tells you you’re beautiful at the most random times—mid-bite at dinner, when you're makeup-free in sweats, when you're annoyed and pacing the room ranting about work. Always. Like it’s a fact of life.

Sometimes, you catch him just staring at you, soft-eyed and completely gone, and when you ask what he’s thinking, he shrugs and says, “Just wondering how I got so lucky.”

He surprises you with sticky notes stuck to your fridge door. Some have compliments, others doodles of the two of you. One just said, You make the world less scary.

And the fights? They happen, sure. But he never lets them last long. He listens. He apologizes. He makes an effort. Every single time.

Your life with Han isn’t perfect—but it’s golden. It’s honest. It’s filled with laughter, affection, and a kind of safety you didn’t know you’d been missing until he gave it to you.

You’re not sure where it’s all headed, but right now? You’re exactly where you want to be.

-

“... And then she had the audacity to tell me our vintage pieces were overpriced, like ma’am, it’s literally a 70s designer coat—what do you want, a time machine discount?”

You wipe your hands on a dish towel, still fuming from your earlier encounter at the shop. You glance toward the living room, expecting some kind of sympathetic sound from Han—but he’s sitting on the sofa, phone in hand, thumbs moving with casual focus.

Your rant comes to a halt, your mouth forming a small pout. Seriously?

You storm over with exaggerated drama, snatch his phone from his hands, and toss it onto the cushion beside him. Without missing a beat, you plop down onto his lap, straddling him with a huff.

“I was talking,” you say, pouting deeper. “And you were scrolling.”

Han grins up at you, arms already winding around your waist like it’s the most natural place for them to be. He tilts his head back slightly to look at you, eyes gleaming with fond mischief.

“I was listening. Something about a demon woman who tried to steal a sacred relic from your temple of vintage fashion.” He raises his brows, then he runs his hand through your hair. “Want me to kill her for you?”

You laugh, cooing at his ridiculousness. “How romantic of you,” you murmur, leaning in for a kiss.

His lips meet yours eagerly, his hold on you tightening like he’s anchoring himself. When you pull away just enough to tease him, his mouth chases after yours, making you giggle.

His hands travel down your sides, settling on the curve of your ass, and he hums against your jaw. “I gotta head back to the studio tonight,” he says, his voice apologetic as he presses a kiss under your ear. “I’m almost done with the track, just need a few more hours.”

You pout again as you look into his dark, doe eyes. “You've been pulling so many overnights lately. I’m starting to think your real relationship is with your audio software.”

Han chuckles, his hand rubbing at the round of your ass. “I promise, it’s just a fling. You’re the one I’m making all this extra time for. More finished tracks now, more time with you later.”

You know he’s right, but you still pout and scrunch your nose at him. “Still unfair.”

“So punish me,” he says with a playful smirk.

You grin, catching both his hands and guiding them above his head, pinning them to the back of the sofa. “Okay. Punishment starts now.”

Han gasps, mock offended. “Oh, no. Punishment.”

“I'm going to make you suffer,” You lean in, just brushing your lips against his, tempting him to kiss you and when he tries to capture your lips, you immediately pull your head back.

He’s already craning his neck, desperate for more. “Oh, I’m so scared.”

You laugh as you kiss him like you're about to swallow his small mouth whole, slow and indulgent, like you’re trying to make up for the hours you’ll miss tonight.

His hands eventually break free and finding their way back to your waist. Your world narrows to the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the knowledge that you’ll still be here when he comes home.

-

When you walk through the door after a long day at work, you immediately catch the comforting aroma of something warm and savory. You kick off your shoes, set your bag down, and round the corner to find Han standing in the kitchen, wearing one of your aprons—badly tied—and grinning like a mischievous schoolboy.

"Welcome home, babe," he says, arms stretched wide as if he really did just prepare a Michelin-star meal. The dining table is set: candles lit, plates ready, and takeout containers expertly hidden behind the serving dishes.

You smile wide but with an eyebrow raised at him. “You made dinner?”

He nods like he deserves a trophy. “As a good boyfriend, I sure did.”

You walk straight to him, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him into a long, slow kiss. Your fingers slide through his hair, and his hands settle naturally on your waist as he kisses you back like he’s missed you all day.

When you finally break away just enough to speak, you whisper against his lips, “Thank you.”

“Full disclosure… I didn’t exactly cook it. I may have… ordered takeout,” he admits between kisses, “plated it really nicely… lit a few candles… made it look like I cooked.”

You laugh softly and nuzzle his nose. “I knew it. You can’t cook without triggering the smoke detector.”

He pulls back with a mock-offended gasp. “You know me too well.”

You kiss him again, and it deepens fast—too fast—because the next thing you know, you’re backed up against the counter, his hands warm against your sides, lips unrelenting. Teeth and tongue clashing in your mouth. It’s only when your stomach lets out a very loud, very real growl that you pull away with a sheepish grin.

“I’d love to keep doing this,” you murmur, breathless, “but I’m really hungry right now.”

Han chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Dinner first, make-out session after?”

“Deal,” you say, stealing one more quick kiss before heading toward the table.

And just like that, another ordinary night with Han feels like something out of a rom-com.

-

Later that night, you're propped up against the headboard, legs stretched beneath the comforter, a book resting open in your hands. The soft glow from the bedside lamp casts a cozy light over the room, and you're already halfway through a chapter when Han climbs onto the bed with a quiet, dramatic sigh. He crawls over to you like a lazy cat, warm and sleepy, and settles his head right on your chest, his arms loosely wrapping around your waist.

"I thought we're going to make out," he mumbles, burying his nose in the crook of your neck.

Without looking away, you turn a page and say, "But I'm just getting to the juicy part."

"Read it to me then," he mumbles again and this time, he's nuzzling into your shirt. "I wanna hear your juicy voice."

You smile and shift slightly to accommodate him, brushing your fingers gently through his hair. "You sure? You always fall asleep halfway through."

"Then you better make it good," he teases, voice muffled against you.

So you start reading, voice low and soothing, the pages turning slowly as your fingers play through his soft strands. He listens, surprisingly still, until a few lines in, you feel the brush of his lips against your collarbone. You keep reading, even as he kisses higher—your neck, your jaw—and you falter just slightly when his lips find yours.

You chuckle between sentences, breath catching. “Are you even listening?”

“Mhm,” he hums against your mouth, kissing you again. “Every word.”

The kisses deepen, slow and warm, his hand sliding up your side as the book tilts to the mattress, forgotten. He shifts so he’s hovering over you, his smile lazy, eyes half-lidded with affection. “I knew this was better than reading,” he whispers.

Before you can reply, his mouth finds yours again, and the words on the page dissolve into soft sighs and tangled sheets. His hand reaches for yours, taking your book and you feel his smirk against your lips when he tosses the book away.

"Hey, I was reading that," you grumble against his kiss.

He playfully tugs your lower lip between his teeth and then lets it go. "Admit it, this is way more fun," he murmurs followed by a haste kiss on your lips.

The room soon filled with the smooching sounds and the sighs that slipped out of your mouth in between as Han kisses you again and again. His hands are roaming around your body, touching, worshiping, he's slipping them under your night dress to feel the softness. His body is pressing on you until his body heat seeps into you and your bodies mold into one.

No matter how much you enjoyed it though, your body can't fight the fatigue anymore. You slowly pull away from his kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “It’s been such a long day… I can barely keep my eyes open.”

Han gives you a soft smile, the kind that makes your chest ache in the best way. He nods, understanding without a hint of complaint, and places a tender peck on your lips. “To be continued?”

You smile and nod. "To be continued."

"Now, come here," he whispers, lifting his arm and offering it to you.

You immediately nestle into his side, your head resting against his chest, arms wrapping around his torso like a blanket of your own. He shifts just enough to pull the comforter over both of you, his body warm and solid beside yours.

“Goodnight,” you mumble into his shirt, your voice already thick with sleep.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmurs back, and then you feel the gentle flutter of his lips across your face—your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.

His hand strokes slowly up and down your back, a quiet, calming rhythm that lulls you further. With his kisses still tingling on your skin and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, sleep takes you easily.

However, you stir in the middle of the night, disoriented by the emptiness beside you. Your hand reaches out instinctively, brushing over cool sheets where Han should be. The absence tugs gently at your sleep-heavy mind, and just as you're about to drift off again, you catch the faint sound of water running in the bathroom. You figure he’s probably just using the bathroom. Nothing unusual.

But then, layered beneath the soft rush of water, you hear the muffled sound of his voice. It’s faint—just the low, indistinct hum of someone speaking quietly on the phone. You strain to make out what he’s saying, but the faucet masks everything, leaving you with only your curiosity.

A minute later, the water stops, and the door clicks open. Han steps back into the darkened room, lit only by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtain. He’s shirtless, his hair a little tousled, and he climbs back into bed as if nothing happened.

You blink up at him sleepily. “Hey... Who were you talking to?”

He settles in beside you, pulling the blanket back over both of you. “Just a guy from the studio. He needed something about the track we’re finishing. Did wake you, baby? I'm sorry.”

You hum in response, not pressing further. It sounds believable and it’s late, too late to overthink. So you curl into him, letting his arms wrap around you. His warmth is comforting, familiar. His hand finds its way to your back again, rubbing in slow circles the same way he did earlier until you're asleep again, nestled in the space you know best—his arms.

-

You stir to the feeling of gentle kisses being pressed to your bare shoulder—slow, warm, and lingering. One lands on your neck, then your cheek, then your forehead, until your entire face is dotted with affection. You groan softly and turn over, squinting your eyes open to find Han lying next to you, propped up on one elbow with his messy hair and that irresistible lopsided grin.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet.

“Mm,” you hum sleepily, offering your lips, which he kisses with a soft, closed-mouth kiss that melts into a smile. His hand gently rubs up and down your arm, slow and reassuring.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, still dotting little kisses along your temple.

You peek one eye open and stretch, a lazy grin on your face. “Like a baby. Probably because I wasn’t sleeping with my boyfriend who hogs the blanket like it’s a survival tool.”

Han gasps, dramatically clutching at his chest. “How dare you slander me first thing in the morning.”

You laugh against his shoulder. “Just stating facts.”

“Well,” he says, brightening again, “at least your boyfriend doesn’t hog your breakfast.”

He reaches over the side of the bed and lifts a brown paper bag triumphantly. The smell of fresh croissants and cinnamon rolls instantly fills the room, and your stomach lets out the most telling growl.

Han grins like he’s won the lottery. “I come bearing peace offerings.”

“And caffeine?” you ask hopefully.

He holds up two to-go coffee cups like it’s a trophy. “Double-shot latte for you. Because I like living.”

The two of you sit up in bed, pillows behind your backs, breakfast between you. You each pick at the warm pastries, sipping coffee in between bites. It's one of those rare slow mornings where everything feels just right.

Between mouthfuls, Han nods toward you. “By the way, the studio’s throwing a party tonight. Just a small thing. The team and a few other musicians.”

You raise your brows and tear a piece of croissant with your teeth. “You want me to come?”

Han looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Of course. I want to show you off. Also… moral support, because I might have to socialize with people I’ve only ever emailed.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you playfully coo before letting out a chuckle.

He nudges you playfully with his knee. “You’ll come though, right?”

You grin over the rim of your coffee cup. “If you promise not to make bad jokes around me.”

Han smirks before pulling you for a sweet kiss and he pulls away just to mutter against your lips, “No promises.”

-

It’s chaotic in the best way—hairbrushes and makeup scattered across the vanity, clothes strewn over the bed, the laundry basket half-dumped as you scramble to find the perfect outfit for the party. Your hair is half-done, one eye fully made up while the other still waits for mascara. You’re digging through the laundry basket, looking for that dark top you swore you washed,when you accidentally lift Han’s jeans and something falls out of the back pocket. You pull them out—and with them, two ticket stubs. You glance at the date. Two days ago.

Your brows furrow as you read them again. Movie tickets. You carry them with you to the bedroom where Han is lying on his back, one hand under his head and the other holding his phone, lazily scrolling. You hold the stubs up and show them to him. “Babe?”

He looks up, raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You tilt your head, keeping your voice casual. “These were in your jeans. You saw a movie?”

Han pushes his phone aside and sits up slightly. “Oh, yeah. I got comp tickets from the studio. Luca and I went after work.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, still holding the stubs. “I thought we were going to see this one together.”

He grimaces apologetically and rests a hand on your thigh. “I know. But it wasn’t even that good, honestly. You didn’t miss much.”

Before you can respond, his eyes trail down to your outfit—or what exists of it right now. You’re in a black miniskirt and just your bra, still trying to decide on a top.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wait. Is this what you’re wearing to the party?”

You roll your eyes but the smile curling your lips betrayed you. “I haven’t even finished getting dressed yet.”

Han leans back on his elbows, grinning lazily. “God. Do you want me to cream my pants before we even leave the house?”

You feel your cheeks heat at the way he’s looking at you. A little flustered, a little smug, you climb onto the bed, straddling him with a smirk. “Maybe,” you seductively whisper, leaning in.

Your lips meet in a kiss that deepens quickly, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer. You try to pull back, breathless, but he won’t let you, chasing your mouth with another kiss.

“Han,” you murmur between kisses, “if we keep doing this, we’re going to be late.”

“I don’t care,” he breathes, before capturing your lips again.

In one smooth motion, he flips you onto your back, his body pressing down on yours, his mouth trailing slower, deeper kisses. You laugh against his lips, fingers weaving into his hair, momentarily surrendering to him—just a little longer before the party. Or maybe a little more as he roughly pulls your bra down until your breasts spilled out and he takes it into his mouth.

-

The studio party is already buzzing when you and Han arrive. Music pulses through the speakers, lights shifting from soft ambers to bold purples, casting shadows that dance across the walls. The room is filled with familiar faces from Han’s world—producers, engineers, interns, and artists, all with drinks in hand and stories spilling from their mouths.

Han thrives in it. He walks the room like it belongs to him, charming every person he speaks to, his laughter easy and infectious. With one hand comfortably resting at the small of your back, he introduces you proudly. “This is my girl,” he says more than once, eyes lighting up each time.

You smile, laugh along, answer polite questions. It’s warm, fun, easy. For a moment, everything feels perfect. Then you excuse yourself to get a drink, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before disappearing into the pantry-turned-bar.

You’re mixing a splash of something fizzy into your cup when a familiar voice speaks behind you. “Need a real bartender?”

You turn and find Luca—Han’s co-worker and longtime friend—grinning as he pours himself something from a bottle.

“Hey,” you say, friendly. “Yeah, I actually looking for the good stuff.”

“Don’t worry. I got you,” Luca smiles as he grabs a bottle of liquor from the bottom cabinet and pours it generously into your cup.

“Thank,” you say, slightly raising your cup his way. “Han told me you two saw a movie together a couple nights ago. Was it really as bad as he said?”

Luca’s expression shifts almost instantly. Confused. Cautious. “What movie?”

Your smile falters almost immediately. “The one you watched two days ago.”

Luca’s brow furrows and then he shrugs. “I haven’t seen a movie with Han in… weeks, I think? Maybe months.”

You blink, trying to keep your expression neutral, even though your stomach sinks a little. “Oh,” you manage. “I must’ve misunderstood.”

Luca offers a half-smile, oblivious to the storm forming behind your eyes. “He probably went with someone else from the studio.”

You nod slowly, staring down into your drink as the ice clinks against the glass. “Yeah. Probably.”

But that’s the moment the night shifts. Just slightly. Just enough to feel it.

-

The car ride home is thick with silence.

Han tries to reach for your hand, the way he always does when he senses you drifting. But you pull yours away without a word, placing it in your lap and staring out the window. The silence grows louder, pressing into your ears. He doesn’t say anything after that, but you can feel his eyes on you the whole way home.

When you step into the apartment, you don’t bother taking off your heels. You head straight to the bedroom, the weight of your earrings tugging at your lobes as you rip them off one by one. At the vanity, you grab a cotton pad and start scrubbing off your makeup—too harsh, too fast. The skin around your eyes burns, but you don’t stop.

Behind you, Han sits on the edge of the bed, watching you. “You okay?” he asks, careful, as if he’s walking on thin ice.

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, your jaw tight.

He tries again, adding a chuckle to lighten the mood. “Oh, no. Did I happen to make bad jokes around you?”

The sound of his laugh—so misplaced, so oblivious—makes your stomach twist. You whirl around. “Why did you lie?” you snap, eyes locked on his.

His smile falters as his eyes widen. “What are you talking about?”

You hold up the movie stubs. “You told me you went with Luca.”

He blinks. A beat too long. “I—I did, didn’t I—?”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice sharp. “I talked to him. He said he never went. So why lie?”

He exhales, like deflating, and stands. “Okay. Okay. I watched it… with someone else. My boss. He made me go with him. It was for work.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. You turn back to the mirror, your hand gripping the cotton pad again. “Do you even hear yourself?” you mutter. “You lied because what? You thought I wouldn’t understand?”

“I thought you’d get the wrong idea,” he says quickly, taking a step closer. “It was stupid. I know it was. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond. You don’t even flinch as he walks up behind you, wraps his arms slowly around your waist, rests his chin against your shoulder like everything is still okay.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again. His lips press to your bare shoulder, then to your neck. A trail of kisses, light and apologetic.

“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers, voice warm against your skin. “Let me get you on the bed and show you how sorry I am.”

That’s when you freeze and when you still don’t move, he feels it. You gently shrug his hands off you and step away. “Don’t,” you say quietly. “Don’t touch me right now.”

He looks stunned. “Babe—”

You turn to him, your voice tight. “You lied to me. Not once. You kept lying until you got caught. Do you even know why I’m angry?”

He’s quiet and you take a breath to calm yourself down but it doesn’t help. “It’s not just the lie. It’s that you hid something so small like this—so what else are you hiding?”

Han reaches for you again, desperation in his voice. “It didn’t mean anything. I swear. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“You did,” you snap. “You made it worse.”

With that, you storm into the bathroom and slam the door behind you, locking it with a click that echoes in the silence he left behind.

-

The hot water cascades down your body, a comforting blanket against the heaviness weighing on your chest. You close your eyes, lean your forehead against the tiled wall, and try to breathe it all out—the frustration, the anger, the ache of being disappointed by someone you love.

You hear the bathroom door creak open. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

“Please, leave me alone,” you murmur, a quiet warning laced with exhaustion.

However, Han is already stepping in, already moving behind you like he belongs there—and he does, doesn’t he? That’s the hardest part. You feel his presence before you feel his touch, a warmth radiating just behind you, his chest nearly brushing your back.

When you try to move away, to escape the softness he always uses to reel you back in, his arms slide around your waist and hold you firm. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere against the rush of the water.

You don’t answer. You don’t look at him. You can’t. You’ve seen those eyes before—those shimmering, sorry eyes that he knows how to use like weapons. So you stare straight ahead, hoping the steam in the room can hide the way your resolve is already unraveling.

“I know I messed up,” he continues, voice breaking just slightly. “I panicked. I didn’t want to screw this up, didn’t want to give you a reason to walk away.”

His arms tighten around you and presses his mouth the crook of your neck. “Don’t do this to me. Please.”

It’s unfair, the way his touch feels so familiar. So safe. So warm. The way his skin melts into yours like you were carved to fit him and when he presses a kiss to your wet shoulder—just a soft, lingering kiss—you finally turn to face him. He looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted to keep, making your heart thuds.

When he kisses you, it’s slow at first. Sweet. Apologetic. But it deepens quickly, his desperation seeping into every brush of his lips against yours. His hands slide along your back, down your sides, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you, just heat and skin and the soft sound of breath catching between kisses. His mouth leaves yours only to find your jaw, your neck, his lips mapping the path of forgiveness across your skin. You feel yourself sigh into him, your fingers threading through his wet hair without even realizing it, and then he lowers himself.

You open your eyes to find him kneeling in front of you, the water cascading over both of you like a curtain. His hands rest on your hips, his eyes lifted to meet yours with a look that steals the air right out of your lungs.

Han leans in, presses a kiss just below your navel, his breath warm against your skin. Another kiss follows, then another—fluttering and soft as he trails his mouth down the inside of your thigh. Eventually, he buries his mouth in your delicate flesh, tongue teasing between the folds.

Without detaching his mouth, his hand glides down your leg and swiftly, he lifts it and puts it over his shoulder, allowing him access to bury his mouth deeper in your wetness. He presses his tongue on your clit, flicking his tongue over it repeatedly before sucking on it, hard.

Your head falls back against the wall, your hand finding his shoulder as he pulls you even closer, his mouth devout in its worship, burying himself deeper in your sweet, wet cunt.

You know what he’s doing and you let him, because with Han, resistance is temporary. But surrender is always inevitable.

So instead of resisting it, you give in. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging at it as a way to guide him to where you need him most. You tilt his head with a gentle tug, and he groans into your skin in response, eager and relentless in the way he works you over, like he’s trying to apologize with every motion, every kiss, every flick of his tongue on your clit

If this is his way of apologizing, then you have to make sure that he does it right. So you move your hips begin, following the instinct of your body and chasing the rising heat that coils tighter with each second. Han doesn’t stop—he never does. He holds you firmly in place, completely attuned to the way your body pulses under his mouth. The next thing you know, you’re riding his mouth and he's letting you take what you need from him without hesitation.

When you finally shatter, your legs are trembling and your breath is ragged, he doesn't let go right away. He places soft, featherlight kisses on your inner thighs, on your hipbone, on the curve of your stomach—like he’s trying to soothe every frayed nerve and worship every inch of you.

Still on his knees, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his cheek against your belly, holding you close. Then he looks up at you, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, eyes wide and honest.

“I love you,” he says.

It’s quiet, but it knocks the air right out of you. You stare at him, heart stuttering, lips parted—but no words come. Just a soft, overwhelmed sound as you drop to your knees, right there with him, letting him catch you in his arms. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, your body still humming with the aftershocks of everything—what he did, what he said, what you feel.

And even though your mind is still a storm, your heart has already chosen. You're his. Just like this.

-

The first thing you register is the smell—something warm and sweet and just slightly burnt. Then comes the sound of shuffling feet and a soft clang of dishes, followed by the familiar weight dipping the mattress beside you.

“Rise and shine, my sleepy baby,” Han says in a singsong voice.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Too early. Try again in an hour.”

Han laughs and slides a hand gently over your back, rubbing slow, lazy circles. “It’s not that early. And I come bearing food. And flowers. And celebration. And possibly an overcooked pancake or two.”

You peek one eye open, and there he is—messy-haired, bare-faced, grinning like he just won a prize. He’s holding a breakfast tray that’s definitely too full for its size: a tower of lopsided heart-shaped pancakes, a bowl of strawberries, a mug of your favorite coffee, and a handful of slightly wilted sunflowers sticking out of a mason jar.

You sit up with a sleepy smile. “You raided the entire kitchen for this?”

“Only the parts I didn’t set on fire,” he says proudly, handing over the tray. “Go on. Try it. I didn’t even Google anything this time.”

You cut into one of the pancakes and take a bite—and it’s honestly not bad. “Okay,” you say, impressed, “this is dangerously close to being edible.”

Han gasps. “Dangerously close? I slaved over a hot stove for this!”

“You used the pancake mix that only needs water.”

“Exactly! And I stirred it myself.”

You giggle as he crawls onto the bed beside you, settling under the covers and wrapping an arm around your waist. He rests his head against your shoulder, watching you eat with far too much fascination.

After a few moments, he looks up at you and murmurs, “You know, dating you has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You glance down at him, amused. “Because I let you sleep in my bed and steal my shampoo?”

“Well, yes,” he nods with mock seriousness. “But also… because you make even the boring days feel good. Because you’re kind, and smart, and weird in the exact same way I’m weird. And you always call me out when I’m being stupid, but somehow still manage to make me feel loved.”

Your chewing slows, and your chest fills with warmth as you meet his eyes. He continues, more softly now, “I used to wonder how long it would take for someone to get tired of me. But with you? I just keep thinking how lucky I am that you’re still here.”

You blink away the prickle behind your eyes and try to lighten the mood. “Well, I was going to break up with you after six months, but you made pretty decent pancakes today, so I guess you get to stay.”

Han gasps again, feigning betrayal. “I knew it. I knew I was on probation this whole time.”

You giggle, but he leans in and kisses you before you can say anything else—a long, slow, kiss that melts every joke off your lips. His hand curls against your side, grounding you there with him. When he pulls away, he whispers, “One year, baby. We made it.”

You sit there for a moment, holding your coffee, the pancakes cooling on your lap, his warmth soaking into your side. Your gaze trails toward the window, soft light pooling into the room, and you think about everything the two of you have been through—every messy fight, every soft reconciliation, every stolen kiss in quiet places, every night you fell asleep tangled in each other, and every morning you woke up just like this.

Despite everything, you're still here. Together. One whole year and there'll only be more of this. More love. More "us". Just as it should be.

-

It's a slow afternoon in the shop and you’re folding a stack of graphic tees near the counter, a subtle smile playing on your lips as you hum under your breath—completely unable to hide your good mood.

Morgan glances up from organizing a rack of skirts. “Okay, you’ve been smiling like a love-struck idiot all day. Spill.”

You grin, hugging a folded shirt to your chest. “Han’s taking me out tonight. It’s our one-year anniversary.”

Morgan lifts an eyebrow, hand pausing mid-hanger. “One year? Damn. Color me shocked.”

You laugh, used to her sarcasm by now. “Thanks for the confidence, my dear friend.”

“No, seriously,” she says, walking over and leaning against the counter. “I didn’t think you guys would crash and burn or anything, but Han Jisung has serious ‘heartbreaker’ energy. I'm impressed you’ve tamed the beast.”

“Tamed?” You snort. “I’d say I’m just as wild. We work because we both know how to keep up.”

Morgan smirks. “Yeah, okay, that’s cute. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” You tilt your head. “Now help me pick a dress.”

“Ooh—here we go. Closet raid time?”

You nod enthusiastically and follow her toward the back racks, where the newest arrivals are still tagged and barely touched. Morgan rifles through the options like a woman on a mission.

“Okay, what’s the vibe?” she asks. “Sweet and romantic? Sexy and mysterious? Or full femme fatale with a side of heartbreak?”

You pretend to think. “Somewhere between ‘look how lucky my boyfriend is’ and ‘he better treat me right or I’ll break his heart in heels.’”

Morgan cackles. “Say no more.”

She starts pulling dresses off the rack—a silky red slip, a flirty off-shoulder white mini, and a classic little black dress with a daring back cut-out.

You hold them up one by one in front of the mirror, Morgan circling around you with a critical eye. “Try the red one first.”

You grin as you head to the fitting room, heart already fluttering at the thought of Han seeing you tonight. This evening is going to be perfect—you can feel it.

-

The midday rush is thinning out as you and Morgan step out of the shop, the spring sun warming your shoulders as the two of you stroll down the block. Your steps light despite the fatigue in your feet from working around the shop for hours. You glance at Morgan beside you, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, phone in one hand.

“I was honestly skeptical at first, you know,” you say, tugging your jacket closed. “About me and Han. I didn’t think it’d last.”

Morgan lets out a dry laugh. “Gee, I wonder why. Maybe because you forgive him every time he screws up?”

You shoot her a look and pout. “That’s not—okay, maybe once. But he’s been different these past few months. He’s been... good. Like, really good. He shows up. He listens. He makes time even when he’s buried in the studio. He tells me he loves me, Morgan.”

She doesn’t reply right away. Just lets out a long, quiet sigh that seems to stretch across the sidewalk.

You frown because you know it's not nothing. “What?”

Morgan shakes her head, changing the subject. “What do you want for lunch?”

You glance around. “I want that bagel from the coffee shop at the end of the block. The one with the poppy seeds.”

Morgan’s brows knitted in confusion. “Didn’t you already have that this morning with Han?”

Your steps falter. “Huh? What?”

Morgan stops too, confused. “The bagel. You and Han were there this morning, right? I saw you through the window.”

“No,” you say slowly as your smile falters. “Han brought me breakfast in bed. I never left the house.”

Morgan blinks. “Huh? Are you sure?”

You turn to her fully now, something cold crawling up your spine. “What exactly did you see?”

She’s quiet for a second, eyes darting over your face before she says, more carefully now, “I saw Han. At the window. Sitting across from someone. A girl. I only caught a glance. I just... assumed it was you.”

It’s like something inside you cracks in half and collapses. The hope, the trust, the naïve belief that he had changed—it all falls apart in an instant. You turn away from her, one hand rising to your mouth as the tears start to come, hot and fast.

Morgan steps forward without hesitation, wrapping you in a hug, holding you tight against her chest. “Oh, no. He did it again,” she sighs, already knowing the answer without having to ask for a confirmation.

Morgan’s arms stay around you while the world tilts under your feet, and all you can think is how stupid you were for believing he wouldn’t. For believing that this time, it would be different.

-

You’re curled up on the bed, hugging your knees to your chest, the soft fabric of the blanket clutched tightly in your fists. The room is dim, the sun casting a warm orange glow through the curtains, but all you can focus on is the tight ache in your chest. You don’t even look up when the front door clicks open.

Han’s footsteps are light at first, then grow quicker as he walks in. “Babe?” he calls gently. “Aren’t you getting ready for dinner?”

You say nothing. Your back stays turned toward him.

A beat of silence. Then, “Are you feeling okay?”

Getting no response, you hear him sigh, then the bed dips beside you. He slides in close behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist, his front flush to your back. He doesn’t say anything right away—just holds you, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“Talk to me,” he whispers finally. “What’s going on?”

You sniffle, your voice barely there. “Morgan saw you this morning.”

Han frowns in confusion. “Saw me?”

“At the coffee shop. With some girl.”

He exhales slowly. Not annoyed. Not defensive. Just tired. “I bumped into an old friend from college. We talked for a bit. It was nothing.”

You go quiet, the guilt hitting you like a wave. Your fingers curl into the sheets.

Han doesn’t press. Instead, he leans in and places a soft kiss against the curve of your neck. Then another, lingering a little longer this time.

“Morgan probably only saw like what... five minutes of me talking to a girl and that makes you thought I was with someone else?” he asks quietly.

You don’t answer, but it gets you thinking.

He doesn’t scold, doesn’t tease. He just presses his lips to your temple and murmurs, “There’s no one else. There’s only you. Always you.”

His hand cups your chin, tilting your face toward him, and his lips meet yours in a long, slow kiss—steady and unshakable. A kiss that tells you everything he hasn’t said yet. You melt into it, the tension seeping out of your muscles, the pain in your chest softening until it vanishes altogether.

When he pulls back, he smiles at the look in your eyes. “I was gonna give you this later,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, “but now feels like the right time.”

He pulls out a small velvet box and flips it open to reveal a delicate bracelet, thin gold with a tiny charm in the shape of a sunflower and your lips part slightly in surprise.

“Want me to put it on?” he asks.

You nod silently, still stunned.

He takes the bracelet from the box and gently clasps it around your wrist, then finishes with a soft kiss to the inside of it. “Do you like it?”

You nod again.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, teasing now, the warmth returning to his voice.

“I like it,” you whisper hoarsely.

That makes him smile wide and he pulls you into another kiss, gentle yet deeper, his hand sliding along your jaw, and you let yourself fall right into him—into his warmth, into the love that, despite everything, still wraps around you like a shield.

Han pulls away from the kiss, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still warm on your lips. “So…” he whispers, brushing your hair gently out of your face, “do you still wanna go out for dinner?”

You sniffle, your voice quiet and slightly hoarse. “I don’t wanna go out looking like this… my eyes are all swollen.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, brushing the pad of his thumb under your eye. “You still look cute with swollen eyes,” he teases, his tone warm and full of affection. “Like a little chipmunk who’s been crying.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Shut up.”

“I mean it. Cutest emotional chipmunk I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh under your breath, then settle your head on his chest. “Can we just… have dinner at home instead?”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, already reaching for his phone. “Anything for my emotionally unstable chipmunk.”

You elbow him lightly and he laughs again.

“What do you feel like eating?” he asks, scrolling through the apps with his arm still around you. “Korean? Italian? Ooh, sushi?”

The two of you go back and forth for a while, debating between comfort food and something fancier, never quite landing on a decision but laughing and arguing playfully like you always do. Eventually, Han puts the phone down for a second and wraps both arms around you, pulling you in even tighter.

“Dinner or no dinner,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “this right here’s already my favorite part of the night.”

-

The food arrives just as the sun dips low, casting golden light through the windows of the apartment. You both get up from the bed, reluctantly separating from the cocoon of warmth, and agree — if you’re going to celebrate your first anniversary at home, you’re still going to do it right. You head to the bathroom, freshen up, and slip into the dress you spent your entire morning picking out with Morgan — the one you couldn’t stop holding against your body in the mirror, imagining tonight.

When you walk out, Han’s still pulling a button-down shirt over his head, barefoot and messy-haired, the exact kind of handsome that makes your stomach flutter. But the moment his eyes land on you, he freezes.

“Whoa,” he breathes, eyes roaming from your shoulders down to the hem of your dress. He takes a step back as if he needs distance to take it all in. “You… seriously wore that just for me?”

You shrug, acting casual. “Told you I had a plan for tonight.”

He walks over slowly, dramatically, hands in his pockets. “I think I need to sit down,” he says, overly serious.

You laugh, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

He grins, grabbing your hand to pull you into a quick, sweet kiss. “You’re stunning. Like, dangerously stunning. Like, if we weren’t eating soon I’d be tempted to ruin your makeup again.”

“Down, boy,” you tease, and he barks a fake warning growl that makes you burst out laughing.

You both take your dinner and set up a little space on the carpeted floor in the living room, with throw pillows, a blanket, and the ambient glow from a nearby lamp. It’s simple, cozy, romantic in a way that fits the two of you perfectly.

You eat slowly, feet tangled together under the blanket, pausing between bites to talk about everything from his favorite songs to what your childhood dream jobs were. You talk about your families, your fears, your worst dates, and your favorite memories together.

Between stories, Han keeps leaning over for kisses — quick ones, lingering ones, ones that barely brush but feel like whispers across your lips. His hand rests on your knee or your thigh, his thumb tracing small circles, absent-minded and tender.

“Can I tell you something kinda dumb?” he says after a while, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Aren’t you always telling me something dumb?” You tease.

He pinches your waist before continue talking. “I used to think one year didn’t really mean that much. Like, it was just… the first checkpoint, you know? But with you, it feels huge. Like, we made it. We went through shit, and we’re here. Still choosing each other.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “That’s not dumb.”

He smiles, then cups your cheek. “I’m really glad you didn’t give up on me.”

Your heart tightens a little — not painfully, but in that overwhelming, too-full kind of way. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m glad you gave me reasons to stay.”

The silence between you is full, warm, and deep. He kisses you again — longer this time, slow and full of everything he can’t say out loud — and you think, as his fingers slide up to tuck your hair behind your ear, that this is a moment you’ll carry forever.

-

The plates are pushed aside now, the empty boxes stacked in the corner of the room. The lights are low, and soft music hums through the speakers — something slow, something gentle. Han offers you his hand with a crooked smile and a playful bow.

“May I have this dance?” he says, his voice low, teasing.

You roll your eyes, but your heart flutters as you slip your fingers into his. “Only if you promise not to step on my feet.”

“No promises,” he grins, pulling you close.

Your bodies sway to the rhythm, the kind of dance that doesn’t need choreography — just the soft shuffle of bare feet on carpet, your hands looped behind his neck, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. The song fades into the background as the warmth of him fills your senses — the smell of his cologne, the brush of his breath near your ear, the slow thud of his heart against your chest.

When you look up, Han’s already gazing at you — his eyes soft, adoring, a little playful, a little undone.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “I love you.”

His smile shifts — gentler now, touched by something deeper.

“I love you,” you repeat, because the words are thick on your tongue, desperate to be said. “More than I thought I could. And I need you to know… I’m scared. Of how much this means to me. Of what it would do to me if you ever broke my heart.”

His expression falters — just a little — and then he leans in, his forehead touching yours. “I won’t,” he whispers. “I swear. I won’t break your heart.”

You feel the sincerity in his voice like a current running through you, and when he kisses you — a soft, chaste kiss that lingers, steady and true — it’s not flashy or heated. It’s a promise. A vow sealed between two people still learning, still growing, but trying, again and again, to meet each other in the middle.

The music continues, but you no longer notice it. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in a slow dance under the quiet lights — holding on, hearts full, hoping love is enough.

-

The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the low thrum of music still playing in the background. Han sits back against the headboard, shirt slightly rumpled, lips pink and parted as he watches you crawl over to him, eyes darkening with anticipation.

“You look so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes locked on you. “So hot. You’re driving me insane.”

With the way he looks at you, you don't feel the slightest bit of shy being naked in front of him. If anything, you feel admired and loved. You slowly settle onto his lap, straddling him, your wetness meets his hot, pulsating member. You settle his length between your cleft and begin gliding it between your folds.

“You’re ruining me already, baby,” he sighs as he looks down, watching his cock is getting slick with your arousal.

When you deem both of you are wet enough for each other, you lift your hips just slightly, you wrap your hand around his cock and align it to your entrance. Slowly and deliberately, you ease yourself down on him.

“Fuck, baby,” his hands find your hips instantly, gripping them as he lets out a groan.

You seductively mewl as you take him, you stop for a second to adjust yourself to him before taking him more and more until he's fully disappeared inside you.

Han lets out a sigh of pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment and they find you in the next second, staring at your face. His hands reaching for you, framing your face, pushing the strands of hair away. “How are you always taking me, mmh?”

You let out a low giggle. Your hands catch his and bringing them lower, making him cupping your breasts because you love how they fit in his hands like they were made just for them.

Han is more than eager to do it for you, palming them, rolling the nipples between his fingers and pinches on it just to earn a whine out of you. You lean in, brushing your lips against his just to tease, and he catches you right away — one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other slipping up your back as he kisses you deep, urgent, like he can’t get close enough.

His hips begin to move under you, answering every motion of yours with increasing intensity, and you gasp into his mouth. The way he moves, the way he holds you — it's overwhelming. You’re already dizzy from the way he makes you feel, but yet he doesn't slow down.

You bite onto his lower lip and grumble against his lips. “Not yet, baby.”

He smirks like he knows he's the one having control so you grab his chin, using your index and middle fingers, you pry open his mouth and shove them into it. His lips wrapped around them almost immediately, you can feel his slick, hot tongue swirling around in his mouth.

“Keep it open,” you order as you pull your fingers out.

He obeys, keeping his mouth open with his tongue slightly sticking out. You prop one hand against the mattress and the other hand guiding your breast into his mouth. Again, he's more than eager to take it in his mouth, his tongue circling the areola before finally sucking at it. Hard. Mercilessly.

As if that isn't enough, he continues bucking his hips from under you. One arm snaking around your back and the other around your neck, keeping you close as he pushes his cock deeper and deeper into you.

The second you feel like you're getting too close to the edge, you pull back and straddling him again. You give yourself a moment to draw yourself back a little but Han is the ever relentless, he continues bucking his hips against you.

Your hands fly to his, uselessly trying to stop him but his grip on your hips is way too strong. His hips moving, sending you bouncing on his cock without you're intending to, tethering you to the edge.

When you finally tip over, you hastily claw at his chest and let out a brief, high-pitched scream with eyes screwed shut. All the while, Han lets out a soft laugh, enjoying the way the pleasure washes over you.

You open your eyes and see a crooked grin painted his face. “You’re enjoying this,” you whine as you put all of your hair away from your face.

An easy smile stays on his lips as he lays his hand flat on your sternum and glides it down to your abdomen. “Can’t help it, baby. You're so cute when you come around me like that.”

Hearing that shouldn't make you flustered but you do, you feel shy in a way because he sees every little thing about you. You lean down, propping your hands against the mattress to hover above him.

However, this position only allows him to easily take your breasts in his mouth. His hands taking handful of your soft flesh, fondling on them and pushes them to the middle so he can take them at once.

“Mmh, yeah, you're definitely enjoying this,” you murmur with eyes closed.

He hums with his mouth full of you and the vibration only adds to the pleasure. Then his arm glides down your spine and rests it on the arch of your back, holding you down as he begins thrusting into your from under.

You catch on his intention right away. “No, baby. No, I'm just coming,” you whine while struggling to handle how hard his mouth latches onto your breast and his cock drilling into you.

“What should I do?” You breathlessly murmurs with eyes shut. “I'm about to come again.”

With hus mouth full of you, he can't answer but he does it with actions as he sucks on your nipple harder and thrusts into you faster. The combination of stimulations get you to your high almost instantly and this time is more intense than the previous. You don’t even stop yourself from collapsing on top of him.

Han lets out another soft laugh, being the one having fun on making you come twice already and can't help himself but putting on a cocky grin. He kisses the valley of your breasts and continues the trail of kisses to your shoulder, then down the length of your arm. When his mouth reaches your hand, he takes it and kisses every single finger like he means it.

“How are you so cute when you come around me like that, mmh?” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to the inside of your hand.

You don't— you can't answer when your whole body is still floating in cloud nine and still needing time to come down. So he holds you close, putting his arms around you and kisses every inch of skin that is within the reach of his small, greedy mouth.

After a moment, he presses his mouth close to your ear and whispers, “Want to switch?”

Still unable to compute words, you nod and without further questions, he swiftly turns you over, lying you gently on the bed as he hovers above you now. He props an elbow next to your head, getting a good look at your face with a hand gently brushing your hair to the side.

“Tell me how did I get so lucky, mmh?” He asks, brushing his nose against yours. “How did I get so lucky to have you as my girlfriend?”

You smile under his gaze and he immediately catches that smile with a kiss. When he begins moving, you wrap your legs around his small waist, pulling him close until your breasts squashed between the chests.

“Are you going to come for me now?” You murmur, brushing his hair away from his forehead and then kiss it.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he kisses you and quickens the pace. He chases his high with fierce determination, mouth hot against your skin, your name falling from his lips in between breathless moans and praises.

You glide your hands down his back, nails scraping the skin as you grip his waist and push, asking for more of him, more of that intense, deep thrusts. You can tell from the way his cock keeps engorging inside you, he's close.

“Come for me, baby,” you murmur into his ear with a hot, heavy kiss to his neck.

Two, three thrusts later, he finally lets go, he pulls you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he scatters soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, murmuring your name like a prayer. Then he lifts his head, gently cradling your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing along your cheeks as he holds your gaze.

“I love you,” he whispers, eyes searching yours and when he kisses you again, it’s deep, tender, meaningful. The kind of kiss that lingers long after it ends.

You stay like that, wrapped up in each other, your heart still racing, your skin still warm from the touch of him. As you lay your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, something swells in your chest — something soft and quiet and full of hope. You don’t say it out loud, but the thought is there, clear and certain: This feels like forever.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it might actually be true.

-

In the middle of the night, you wake with a start, disoriented for a second before realizing Han’s side of the bed is empty again. The sheets are still warm, but he’s not there.

You sit up slightly, your eyes adjusting to the dark, then you hear the faint hiss of running water coming from the bathroom. You know the sound too well now. The faucet, turned on not because he’s brushing his teeth or washing his hands, but because he’s hiding something.

Quietly, you slip out of bed and pad toward the bathroom. The door is shut, locked. Another habit. You pause in front of it, barely breathing, and lean your head close. Through the rush of water, you hear his voice. Soft, smooth, laced with laughter. The same tone he uses with you when he’s being sweet, when he’s trying to make you feel special.

It’s too familiar. Too intimate. You don’t wait to hear more. You back away, return to bed with your pulse pounding in your ears. You lie down and face the wall, your back to the bathroom, and you stare at nothing.

This isn’t the first time.

It hits you like a tidal wave, how many times you’ve caught glimpses of this. The movie tickets. The odd excuses. The calls with the faucet on. The locked doors. The silent phone when you tried to reach him. You let each of them go. Rationalized them. Told yourself he would never do that. Because he’s good to you. He makes you breakfast in bed. He kisses you like he means it. He tells you he loves you, again and again.

And yet, the weight of it crashes down on you all at once — not just the betrayal, but the dawning truth that you let yourself believe in the illusion. That you wanted it so badly, you ignored all the signs.

You barely move when the bathroom door clicks open. You hear his steps as he walks back in, the soft rustle of blankets as he slides into bed. He doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close against him, spooning you like he always does. His body fits perfectly against yours, warm and familiar. And that’s what hurts the most, because even now, even after everything, he still feels like home.

-

Morning light spills through the curtains when you wake. Well, you haven't been sleeping ever since you caught him in the bathroom but Han is still asleep beside you, his features soft and unbothered, like he’s living a dream instead of lying next to the person he’s been betraying.

You move quietly, slipping out from under the covers without stirring him. His phone rests on the nightstand. You hesitate—just for a second—but your fingers wrap around it with practiced steadiness.

You take it with you to the kitchen. Your hands move fast as you unlock it and check his call history. There it is—last night, just past midnight. A number labeled with a generic male name. Smart. Too smart.

You press call to make sure and it rings once. Twice. Then, “It’s only seven, Han. Did you miss me already or—”

You hang up immediately as you have enough to identify the voice. Sweet. Light. Too familiar. Too comfortable. And obviously belongs to a girl.

The coffee machine gurgles behind you as the first drops begin to pour. You stare at it blankly, phone clutched in your hand like it might shatter.

“I have to leave him,” you whisper to yourself.

It sounds easy when you say it. Obvious. Clean. Like a final punctuation to a sentence already long overdue, but something clings. The memories, his laughter, the way he comfort you and makes you feel safe, the whispered I love yous—

The bedroom door opens behind you and your hear his footsteps coming toward you. You don’t— you can't look at him even as you feel the warmth of his arms sliding around your waist from behind.

He groans, his voice rough with sleep. “You didn’t wake me up...”

You don’t answer and he doesn’t notice because he thinks he hides it well.

“Morning, baby,” he murmurs with a soft kiss on the top of your head and he stays like that, holding you like you're the only one he does it to.

The truth sits heavy in your chest—he couldn’t have loved you better. Not on the surface. He did everything right. Sweet kisses, warm hands, soft apologies. He made love feel like a safe place, until you realized he kept the doors open behind your back. Now you’re left staring at the wreckage of something beautiful.

Maybe if he treated you worse, it would be easier to walk away. Maybe if he yelled, if he hit, if he broke things—then you’d know how to hate him. But instead, he kissed you like a promise and lied with the same mouth.

You still don’t know how this ends—whether you’ll walk away or let him wrap you in another apology, another kiss, another lie. For now, you just sit in the quiet, nursing the ache in your chest, caught between the love that was and the truth you can’t unsee. You press your fingertips to your temple, whispering the thought that has wrapped itself around your ribs: I wish you would have been treated me bad.

-

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[izzih22]

Could u write something about azzi trying to do homework and Paige keeps bothering her so she kicks her out of the room but Paige gets upset and once azzi finishes she has to get Paige to not be mad at her anymore

Just Five More Minutes

Note: It’s A long one😱

Azzi was locked in.

Glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, textbook open beside her and a half-empty mug of coffee at arm’s reach. Her laptop sat in front of her, cursor blinking on a half-finished paragraph, and her brain was chewing through the last pieces of a paper that had already eaten her alive all week.

She didn’t even notice the door crack open.

“Azzi…” came a singsong voice. Soft, dramatic, already full of trouble.

Azzi exhaled without turning. “Hi, babe.”

“Whatcha doing?” Paige asked, even though it was obvious. She padded into the room in thick socks and a sleep shirt that hung halfway down her thighs. Her hair was pulled up messily, like she hadn’t even tried to tame it after their night practice.

“Working,” Azzi said simply, eyes still on her screen.

Paige leaned on the desk, draping herself over the edge like she might melt into it. “Still? I feel like you’ve been doing that for years.”

Azzi finally glanced up. “It’s been forty-five minutes.”

“That’s basically a decade.”

Azzi’s lips twitched. “Baby, I really need to finish this.”

“I need to cuddle,” Paige replied immediately, placing a hand over her chest like she was genuinely heartbroken. “I’m touch-starved. I’m wasting away.”

“You literally laid on top of me for like an hour earlier.”

“That was hours ago,” Paige said. “You’re being cold now. I’m feeling rejected. Abandoned. Betrayed.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying not to smile. Paige was pouting, full-blown bottom lip out, eyes big and wounded, like a puppy that had been kicked out in the rain. It was almost unfair how cute she could be when she wanted something.

“Five more minutes,” Azzi said gently. “Seriously, I’m almost done. Let me just finish this paragraph, then I’m all yours.”

“Five minutes?” Paige echoed, horrified. “You’re telling me I have to go back to that cold, empty bed alone?”

Azzi’s fingers kept typing. “Yes.”

“Oh my god. You’re heartless.”

Azzi smiled to herself and shook her head, trying to focus, trying to ignore the way Paige was now walking behind her chair, lightly dragging her fingers across Azzi’s shoulders. A warm shiver shot down her spine.

“Don’t,” Azzi warned softly.

“I didn’t do anything,” Paige said, all innocence. “I’m just appreciating my girl. You’re so smart. So focused. So sexy when you’re grinding like this.”

Azzi let out a breath through her nose. Paige leaned down, arms sliding around her from behind, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Come to bed, pretty girl.”

“Paige, seriously—I’m almost done.”

“Mmm.” Paige kissed her neck, then her shoulder. “You smell good.”

“Paige.”

“I’ll be so good. I’ll hold you real close and not even try anything—unless you want me to.”

Azzi groaned and turned her face away from the kisses. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me,” Paige mumbled into her hoodie.

“I do,” Azzi admitted with a smile. “But right now, I need you to leave so I can finish.”

That made Paige pull back a little. “…Like, leave the room?”

Azzi turned in her chair, finally facing her. “Yes.”

Paige gasped like she’d been shot. “You’re kicking me out?!”

“You’re distracting me! I’ve re-read the same sentence six times!”

Paige clutched her chest. “I’m literally just standing here loving you. Is that a crime?”

Azzi gave her a look. “Out.”

“But what if I wither away out there?”

“You’ll survive.”

“I won’t.”

Azzi was already nudging her toward the door. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Only because I love you so much and you’re denying me physical affection,” Paige said as she was gently shoved out of the room. “This is abuse.”

“Five minutes!” Azzi said, pointing at her watch. “Then I’m all yours.”

The door shut.

And silence fell.

Azzi sighed and sat back down, smiling to herself. Paige was ridiculous. Loving, annoying, beautiful, ridiculous. Azzi loved every second of it, even when she was trying to be serious. Especially then.

She finished her paper ten minutes later.

When she opened the bedroom door and peeked out, the apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the TV in the living room. Paige was curled up on the couch under a fuzzy blanket, arms crossed, pointedly not looking toward the hallway.

Azzi padded over in her socks and leaned on the edge of the couch.

“Hey.”

Paige didn’t move.

“Paige.”

No response.

Azzi leaned in closer, poking her. “Seriously?”

“I’m grieving,” Paige muttered. “My girlfriend told me to get out and left me to die alone in a cold hallway.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, fighting back a laugh. “You were on the couch. With snacks.”

“Emotional snacks.”

Azzi climbed onto the couch and crawled straight into Paige’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck and burying her face into the crook of her shoulder.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Paige tried to hold onto the drama, but the second Azzi cuddled into her, it crumbled. “You smell like lavender and printer ink.”

“You smell like popcorn and jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m wounded. Deeply.”

Azzi kissed her jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love.”

Azzi pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, her expression softening. “I mean it. I’m sorry I kicked you out. I was trying to focus. But now I just want you.”

Paige tilted her chin up, smirking. “Oh, now you want me.”

“Always want you,” Azzi whispered, pressing their foreheads together.

Paige leaned in, brushing her nose against Azzi’s. “Then come prove it.”

Azzi grinned, then kissed her. Soft. Long. Full of apology and affection and comfort.

And when she pulled back, Paige tugged her even closer and whispered, “I forgive you. But you have to stay here now. Like, permanently. No more work. You’re banned.”

Azzi laughed, nestling herself deeper into Paige’s lap. “Deal. Just hold me.”

“Already on it.”

They sat there for a while in quiet contentment, Azzi tracing lazy circles on Paige’s arm, Paige humming under her breath. It was warm, and perfect, and deeply them.

And when Azzi tilted her head back just slightly and whispered, “You’re still annoying,” Paige kissed her collarbone and smiled.

“Yeah. But you love it.”

Azzi nodded, eyes closing.

“I do.”

⸻

By the time Paige stood up from the couch — Azzi still wrapped around her like a sleepy koala — she’d already made up her mind.

“No more homework. No more abandonment. You’re mine now,” she announced, carrying Azzi bridal-style toward their bedroom.

Azzi, half-asleep already, blinked up at her. “I was in your lap for twenty minutes.”

“And it’s still not enough,” Paige replied solemnly. “My love language is you being clingy and only paying attention to me forever.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You chose me.”

Azzi smiled as her cheek pressed to Paige’s shoulder. “Yeah. I did.”

The second they got to the bed, Paige dropped them both into it dramatically, bouncing once on the mattress and pulling Azzi down with her in one tangle of limbs and laughter.

Azzi tried to roll away to fix the covers, but Paige wrapped around her again like an octopus. Arms around her waist, one leg hooked over both of Azzi’s, face tucked into her neck.

“Trapped,” Azzi whispered, even as she melted.

“Safe,” Paige corrected, her voice low and teasing.

Azzi tried to reach for the light, but Paige just mumbled, “Leave it. I like seeing your face.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Even when I’m this tired and my hair’s a mess?”

“You’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” Paige said, without hesitation, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “You know I’ve been in love with you since you had fake glasses and didn’t know how to use dry shampoo.”

Azzi giggled into Paige’s neck. “That’s a terrifying era to reference.”

“You were still hot.”

“I had FAKE glasses.”

“I have no shame.”

Azzi turned slowly in Paige’s arms until they were face to face, inches apart, their legs tangled under the blanket.

“Do you really get that upset when I ask for space?” she asked softly, one brow lifted.

Paige smiled sheepishly. “Not really. I just like it when you make it up to me after.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

“Oh don’t look at me like that. You know I’m dramatic.”

Azzi laughed. “And clingy.”

“Mmhm. And hopeless.”

Azzi leaned in and kissed her slowly, their foreheads pressed together, the kiss turning lazy and familiar and warm.

They stayed like that for a while — kissing, whispering, laughing into each other’s skin.

Paige’s hands wandered, but not with urgency. Just with affection — a thumb running up Azzi’s spine, a palm on her waist, her lips dragging softly across her collarbone, her voice low and teasing: “Can’t believe you kicked me out like that.”

Azzi, blushing now, mumbled, “Paige.”

“I could’ve perished.”

“You had popcorn and a heated blanket.”

“It was emotional popcorn. You wounded me.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and then rolled herself right into Paige’s lap, straddling her hips as Paige blinked up with open admiration and a little surprise.

“Am I forgiven yet?” Azzi asked sweetly.

Paige whistled. “Damn. You might be.”

Azzi leaned in, forehead resting on Paige’s again. “You’re so dramatic. You know I don’t like being away from you either.”

“Then stop working so hard.”

“Then stop distracting me when I am.”

“Impossible.”

Azzi kissed her again, this one deeper, and Paige’s hands found their place on Azzi’s hips, anchoring her like she always did. Like Azzi belonged there.

She did.

“You’re my favorite distraction anyway,” Azzi whispered against her lips.

Paige grinned, pulling her down so they were chest to chest.

“Good,” she whispered back. “Because I plan on annoying you forever.”

Azzi smiled, nuzzling into her neck, and whispered back, “I know.”

⸻

Morning came slow.

Golden light leaked through the blinds, cutting gentle lines across the sheets and the curve of Azzi’s bare shoulder. Paige was still, not because she was asleep, but because Azzi was wrapped around her like she always was in the early hours — one arm tossed across Paige’s stomach, her face buried in the crook of Paige’s neck, lips slightly parted as she breathed slow and steady.

Paige didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

This was her favorite part of the day. When Azzi was warm and soft and still dreaming, trusting her body against Paige’s like it belonged there. Which it did. Always.

Azzi stirred slightly, breath tickling Paige’s collarbone, and Paige smiled.

“Still asleep?” she whispered.

A groggy hum answered her, followed by a small, muffled, “What time is it?”

Paige twisted just enough to glance at the clock without moving Azzi. “Too early.”

“Practice?”

“Not for two hours.”

Azzi made a noise that sounded like a mix between relief and protest, then nuzzled closer, if that was even possible. Her leg slid between Paige’s, her hand curled gently in the fabric of Paige’s shirt, and she let out a sleepy sigh.

“You’re clingy in the mornings,” Paige murmured, grinning.

“You love it,” Azzi said without opening her eyes.

“I do.”

They were quiet again for a while, the kind of silence that only exists between people who know everything about each other. Paige’s fingers lazily traced patterns on Azzi’s back, slow and aimless, and Azzi hummed again.

“You finished your paper, right?” Paige asked.

“Mmhmm.”

“So I get you all day?”

“Until bio readings.”

Paige groaned. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Azzi cracked one eye open, then blinked sleepily up at her. “You’re dramatic.”

“You kicked me out of the room last night. I’m allowed.”

“I sat in your lap for like an hour after.”

“And I still didn’t recover.”

Azzi snorted softly, lips brushing Paige’s skin. “You poor thing.”

“I’m delicate.”

“You’re six feet tall and built.”

“Emotionally delicate.”

Azzi pushed up slightly, resting her chin on Paige’s chest, still half-asleep but amused now. Her curls were a mess, one side flattened from sleeping so close, but Paige just tucked a stray piece behind her ear.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, completely serious now.

Azzi blinked slowly. “You’re only saying that because I didn’t make you sleep on the couch.”

“No,” Paige said, brushing her knuckle down Azzi’s cheek. “I’m saying that because it’s true. And because I love you. Even when you banish me.”

Azzi smiled, slow and sleepy. “I love you too. Even when you won’t let me finish a sentence.”

“Fair.”

They stayed in that silence again — the quiet before the world starts moving too fast. Azzi lay fully on top of Paige now, their legs tangled, Paige’s arms wrapped securely around her waist. There was no rush.

“I have a plan,” Paige said suddenly.

Azzi groaned. “No plans. Sleep.”

“Hear me out.”

Azzi sighed, eyes closed again. “Fine.”

“We skip class.”

Azzi didn’t react.

“We call in a fake emergency.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Dog allergy.”

“We don’t have a dog. At least not here.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Azzi cracked a grin but didn’t open her eyes. “What’s the real plan?”

“We stay in bed all day.”

“Mm.”

“Cuddle.”

“Mmhm.”

“Kiss.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Eventually get up for snacks.”

Azzi laughed quietly. “Now that sounds like a real plan.”

Paige smiled, tugging her even closer. “Perfect. Operation: Don’t Leave This Bed. Starting now.”

Azzi kissed the underside of her jaw, then settled back down with a little hum of agreement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And in love.”

Azzi yawned, soft and quiet. “You win.”

“I always do.”

Azzi was already drifting again, and Paige didn’t blame her. This bed, this morning, this moment — it was peace. It was theirs.

She kissed the top of Azzi’s head.

“Five more minutes,” she whispered.

Azzi, half-asleep, murmured, “Then snacks?”

“Then snacks.”

[sxytwker]

Something Different

Summary: You come home from a lecture and now you have a bratty attitude with Luigi. At first, he doesn’t care, but when you start to sass him around, he doesn’t let that slide. So, he obviously teaches you a lesson.

Smut • MDNI

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁ ⠂

The door slammed like it had something to prove.

Luigi Mangione didn’t flinch. He barely looked up from the laptop perched on his thick thighs, glasses slipping just a bit down his nose as he scrolled through lines of code. One push of his finger and the lenses nudged back into place. The cursor blinked.

So did he. Slowly. Calmly.

“Rough day?” he asked, voice low, stretched with boredom and maybe a little amusement. He knew that slam. That specific energy. She was in a mood.

He heard her kick off her shoes. The sigh came next — long, dramatic, and sharp enough to slice drywall.

“You don’t even wanna know,” she muttered, stomping past him in that way she did when she wanted attention without asking for it. Gold bangles clinked on her wrist as she tugged her hoodie off the back of a chair. Brown wavy hair half-fell from her clip.

He finally looked up.

“Tell me anyway,” Luigi said, cocking his head. A smirk pulled at his mouth — the one she hated. And loved. She always acted like she didn’t notice how good it looked on him.

She rolled her eyes. “Professor Menson is an actual parasite. And my lab partner—don’t get me started, Luigi, I swear—if she sighs at me one more time I will flip a fume hood onto her.”

“Mmhm,” he said, still not moving, still smug. “Sounds like you’ve had a long day being the smartest person in the room.”

She scoffed, already disappearing into the bedroom. “You say that like it’s fun.”

When she came back out, she’d changed.

Oversized hoodie. Hair down. Cotton panties — his favorites, he noticed instantly, though she pretended not to notice him noticing. She was scrolling her phone now, on the couch, legs folded under her like a bratty little queen, fake-distracted.

Luigi’s eyes flicked up again, slow and knowing.

“You done with the storm cloud act?” he asked.

She didn’t even look at him. “I’m not in the mood, Luigi.”

“You never are when you walk in the door,” he said, voice warm, smug, and just shy of cruel. He closed the laptop and set it aside. “But you forget, sweetheart—”

She finally looked up, caught in his gaze. His eyes were sharp, narrowed, cocky.

“I know how to fix that.”

She opened her mouth to sass him, but the words got stuck somewhere around the time he stood up and pulled off his hoodie in one motion — casual, confident. His white t-shirt stretched tight around biceps that practically dared her to look away. The ones she liked to pretend she didn’t fantasize about when he was typing one-handed and sipping espresso with the other.

She bit her lip. It was so fast she didn’t even notice it.

Luigi noticed. He always noticed.

“Ohhh,” he grinned, walking toward her, “now that’s the look I needed.”

She threw a pillow at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” he said, catching the pillow mid-air. “You do it for me.”

He was in front of her now, crowding her on the couch, one knee on the cushion beside her thigh, the other foot still on the floor. She looked up, and the way his glasses had slipped again made him look even more dangerous.

She tried to sass him again — tried. “You think you’re such—”

He cut her off by dragging his fingers under her chin and tilting her face up.

“No,” he murmured. “I know I am.”

There was a shift then — subtle but unmistakable. His hand moved to her waist, fingers sliding under the hem of her hoodie, dragging along bare skin that was suddenly, shamefully warm.

“You wanna keep rolling your eyes at me, sweetheart ?” he asked. “Be careful. Might have to remind you what happens when you forget who runs this house.”

“Oh my God,” she muttered, “you are—”

“What?” he said, cocking his head, voice low and silken. “Too cocky? Or too right?”

She hated how good he smelled. How strong his grip was. How right he was.

And then he kissed her — rough, like a promise. Like a man who knew what she needed before she could say it.

And she stopped thinking altogether.

Her breath caught when he kissed her, and for a second, the attitude melted. Just long enough for her to relax against his chest, let his hand on her hip take control. She leaned into it, let him steal the sass right out of her mouth. For a second, she was quiet. Soft. Sweet.

But then he pulled back with that grin — that damn grin — and something in her snapped right back into place.

“Oh, please,” she said, eyebrows raised as she wiped her lip with the back of her hand. “You think that’s gonna fix my mood?”

Luigi’s brow arched. “Didn’t hear you complaining two seconds ago.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it was practically a full-body movement. Then she stood up — that sharp little exit she always made when she wanted to remind him she ran things. Or at least pretended to.

“I’m getting a snack,” she said, brushing past him on the way to the kitchen. “Since clearly, you’re not feeding me.”

Luigi let his head fall back with a groan. Loud. Exaggerated. He dragged a hand through his curls, muttering something in Italian as he followed her with slow, heavy steps.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice rough now. Less playful.

She didn’t even look at him. Just opened the cabinet with a little shake of her hips, like she knew he was watching. She reached up, stretching — on purpose, obviously — until her hoodie lifted just enough to flash a peek of soft skin.

“God, you love pushing it, don’t you?” he said behind her.

She didn’t answer. Just kept reaching.

He was there in a second.

One hand slammed down on the counter beside her hip. The other followed, caging her in. Arms braced on either side of her. Solid. Unmovable. His chest brushed her back, and she froze for just half a second.

Then she exhaled. “What are you doing?”

“Dealing with a problem,” he said, voice low, eyes burning through the back of her neck. “The problem being your tone.”

She smirked. “You have a tone now.”

He tilted his head, jaw tight, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a snarl. “You don’t get to brat your way out of everything, you know.”

“I think I do,” she said, smile syrupy sweet. “It’s part of my charm.”

He leaned in until his nose brushed just under her ear.

“Your charm,” he said, “is getting on my nerves.”

She giggled. Actually giggled. Bold. Reckless.

Luigi exhaled like he was counting to ten. Then his hands moved — not rough, not yet, just enough to turn her by the waist so her back was against the counter now. So he could see that face. Those pretty glasses. That smug little expression she wore like armor.

And he looked down at her with that annoyed, hungry fire in his eyes.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he said, “and you’re gonna lose the ability to stand up for a while.”

Her smile faltered for half a second. But only half.

“Promises, promises,” she whispered.

Luigi’s jaw ticked.

The next move he made — that would wipe the smirk right off her face.

She stayed pinned between the counter and him, but her body language screamed defiance. Chin tilted. Arms crossed. Legs brushing his like it was an accident — it wasn’t.

Luigi’s arms were still caging her in, muscles flexed like he was holding himself back more than holding her in place. His eyes scanned her face, slow and sharp. He didn’t say anything right away — just looked.

That look.

Brows raised, tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or throw her over his shoulder. Probably both.

“You’re still doing this?” he asked, head tilting slightly like he was marveling at her.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Her eyes narrowed just enough. Lips twitching like she was holding back a smile. It was quiet, but the bratty attitude was all there — loud and smug in the way she held his stare without blinking.

Luigi huffed a laugh, low and frustrated, dragging a hand down his face.

“You just don’t learn, do you.”

She shrugged, biting her lip — innocent if you didn’t know better. “Maybe I like getting on your nerves.”

He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. Then he leaned in again, real close — forehead almost touching hers, breath warm, eyes locked on her like she was a dare he couldn’t wait to take.

“Oh, you love it,” he said, voice dropping dangerously low. “You live for this. Pissing me off just enough to see what I’ll do.”

She blinked, slow and smug, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Luigi’s brow shot up. Tongue in cheek again. His whole face shifted into that look — half exasperated, half impressed, completely done with her.

“You are so lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

Then, without warning, his hand dropped to her thigh, fingers gripping with purpose, pulling her closer until their hips met. Her breath hitched just barely — but he caught it. Of course he did.

“And you’re quiet now,” he said, cocking his head. “Finally.”

She stared up at him, lips parted slightly, still not speaking. But that look in her eyes — bold, bratty, unbothered — hadn’t gone anywhere.

She was challenging him.

Luigi smirked, completely fed up and completely into it. His other hand slid to the back of her neck, thumb stroking just beneath her jaw.

“I’m gonna wipe that little look off your face,” he said softly. “You know that, right?”

She still didn’t speak.

But the corner of her mouth curled up, just a little.

Like she wanted him to try.

Luigi’s hand stayed on her neck, thumb grazing under her jaw, grip just firm enough to remind her who was bigger, stronger, in charge — when he wanted to be.

She was still giving him that look.

That smug, bratty spark in her eyes like she was daring him to do something about it. Like she’d been waiting all day just to get under his skin. And now that she had, she was enjoying it a little too much.

Luigi rolled his eyes hard, jaw clenching as he shook his head, half-laughing in disbelief.

“You’re actually insane,” he muttered. “You start with me, get all mouthy, give me attitude — just so I’ll manhandle you like this.”

She blinked slowly, still quiet, still smug. But her eyes flicked down to his biceps — one of those little flickers she thought he wouldn’t catch.

He caught it.

“Oh, you’re sick,” he said, grinning now, voice heavier. “You’re obsessed.”

He flexed his arm just slightly, still bracing it next to her head, and watched her eyes immediately snap back up. Caught. Fully.

“Mmhmm,” he smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Her breath was getting a little uneven now. The sass was still in her face — but her body was starting to give her away. Her thighs shifted slightly. Her fingers twitched at her sides like she didn’t know where to put them. She stayed bratty, but barely.

“You really think you’re hot shit, huh?” she whispered, voice thin and shaky in a way she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. And he leaned in again, this time with his mouth right against her ear.

“I know I am,” he said. “And you act like you hate it. But here you are — backed up against a counter, breathing all heavy, wearing those little panties I like, giving me that face.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her again.

“Still giving me attitude,” he added, head tilted, “but your eyes are screaming please wreck me.”

That was the last straw for him.

One hand stayed on her neck. The other came down to grip the counter edge beside her hip as he moved in and kissed her — hard. Not soft, not sweet, just pent-up frustration and heat that had been building all evening. She gasped into it, fingers clenching into his shirt instantly, body arching forward like she’d finally snapped.

He lifted her — easily — and set her on the counter without breaking the kiss. Her legs wrapped around his waist like it was instinct.

Luigi pulled back only slightly, breathing heavy now, eyes dark and intense as he stared at her.

“Still bored?” he asked.

She couldn’t even answer.

Didn’t need to.

He smirked again, lips brushing hers.

“Didn’t think so.”

Her back hit the cabinets with a soft thud as he stepped between her thighs, the cool marble of the counter under her thighs making her gasp. But Luigi didn’t give her time to catch her breath. Not tonight.

“You’re so—fucking—annoying,” he growled, each word punctuated with a kiss that was more teeth than lips. “You push and push and push—”

Her fingers tangled in his curls, eyes wide and glassy now, lips parted like she wanted to say something snarky but couldn’t form the words.

He tilted his head, eyes wild, smirk twisted into something darker. “Nah. Don’t even start.”

His hand came up fast, fingers slipping between her lips before she had a chance to argue — two thick fingers filling her mouth, pressing her tongue down. Just like that.

She froze. Eyes wide. Then melted instantly.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, watching her lips close around them like she was made for this. “You like that?”

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, mouth full. She nodded — slow, deliberate, bratty even now, her tongue swirling around his fingers just to drive him crazy.

Luigi actually laughed. A low, stunned giggle, like he couldn’t believe how far gone she already was.

“That’s sick,” he whispered. “You’re disgusting.”

She moaned softly around his fingers in response, and he cursed under his breath, thrusting his hips against the counter, against her, like his body couldn’t help it.

“You get mouthy just so I’ll shut you up,” he said, eyes locked on hers, voice rough and fast now. “And you’re so good when I do. Look at you. Finally quiet.”

He pulled his fingers out of her mouth slowly, watching a thin strand of spit follow them, and wiped it off on the hem of her hoodie like he owned her.

“You’re mine when you’re like this,” he said, voice dropped down to a rasp, leaning in again, grabbing her jaw to keep her eyes on his. “No attitude. No fucking smart mouth. Just you — quiet and desperate.”

She whimpered, hips grinding against him now, completely undone, but that same spark was still in her eyes — bratty, but worshipful.

“Yeah,” Luigi muttered, grinning darkly, licking his lips. “That’s right. You love being handled.”

And he was just getting started.

Her head tipped back against the cabinets, lips swollen, breath hitching as he leaned in again — this time with both hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wider without asking, without hesitating.

Luigi was grinning now. That smug, feral kind of grin. Like he was both fed up and having the time of his life.

“You’ve been asking for this all fucking night,” he muttered, pushing her hoodie up around her waist like it was getting in the way — because it was. “And now you want to act all quiet and sweet?”

He laughed again. A sharp, low sound that vibrated right against her skin.

“Nope. Not happening.”

She tried to say something — maybe another tease, maybe just a breathy whimper — but his fingers were back in her mouth before she got the chance.

“Nah, baby. Shhh. You’ve said enough.”

She closed her lips around them like instinct, eyes fluttering, legs pulling him closer like she needed him in every possible way at once.

And Luigi was loving every second of it.

His free hand stayed on her waist, fingers digging in as he pulled her flush against his body — hips grinding, arms flexed, chest heaving. His glasses were fogging up from how close he was, but he didn’t care. Didn’t even blink.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, rutting against her like he couldn’t control it anymore. “So goddamn messy for me. All this mouth earlier, and now I’ve got you quiet with two fingers?”

He pulled them out again just enough to speak — her spit dripping down his knuckles, her lips chasing them like she wasn’t ready to let go.

“Say somethin’ now, sweetheart,” he whispered, breath hot against her cheek. “C’mon. Where’s that fucking attitude?”

She opened her mouth — maybe to say something bratty, maybe not — but he was already sliding them back in, slow and deep, pressing on her tongue like he was daring her to choke.

“Nope,” he said, smirking. “Too late.”

She moaned — muffled and desperate — and he felt her shudder against him.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His hips rolled again, and his eyes fluttered shut for a second, overwhelmed by how good she felt, how perfectly her body fit around his. But then he opened them — and they were wild. Dark. Hungry.

He looked down at her like she was a goddamn meal.

And he wasn’t even close to full.

“God, you’re gonna be sore tomorrow,” he whispered, voice low and reverent, but still cocky as hell. “And you’re not even gonna complain. ‘Cause you love when I lose it on you like this.”

She whimpered, nodding with his fingers still in her mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning wider. “You love being manhandled.”

He picked her up again — effortlessly — and turned, slamming her down on the kitchen table now, hair fanned out, gold jewelry glinting under the warm light.

And he stood over her, chest heaving, curls wild, that charming smile now dangerous, addictive, and fully unhinged.

“Hope you weren’t planning on walking straight tomorrow,” he said, slipping his shirt off in one motion. “Because I’m not done.”

The kitchen table creaked under her as Luigi stepped back just enough to strip, eyes locked on hers the whole time. He peeled off his shirt first — that solid chest and those arms she was embarrassingly obsessed with on full display — and then his boxers, dropping them to the floor like he was throwing down a challenge.

She lifted her head slightly, eyes widening as he came into full view. And then, even through the heavy breathing, the flushed cheeks, the sweat-slicked heat between them…

She grinned.

That same bratty smile, softer now, but still there.

“Mmm,” she hummed, lips twitching. “Mr. PhD.”

Luigi froze — then burst into a laugh, breathless and delighted, running a hand over his face.

“Oh my God,” he said, chuckling, head tilted back. “You’re insane.”

“Pretty Huge—”

“—Don’t finish it,” he warned, pointing at her as he grinned, stepping back in close.

She just smirked.

But the second he was between her thighs again, everything shifted. His hand grabbed her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip.

“You finally done being a brat, baby?” he asked, voice teasing, but lined with something a little more serious underneath.

She nodded slowly, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, lips still wet from his fingers.

“Good girl,” Luigi said, voice low and dangerous, and something in her snapped at those two words. Her thighs clenched instinctively around his hips.

“Oh, you like that,” he murmured, almost amused. “My good girl. Finally.”

He didn’t give her time to answer.

His hands gripped her thighs and yanked her to the edge of the table like she weighed nothing. Her gasp turned into a sharp moan as he lined himself up, leaned in, and pressed his forehead to hers, still grinning through his teeth.

“I’m still gonna be rough with you,” he whispered. “Because you earned it.”

And then he pushed in — slow but deep — and her mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes rolling back just a little.

Luigi groaned, head dropping to her shoulder.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he growled. “Every damn time.”

She tightened around him, hands clawing at his back, that bratty fire in her eyes now flickering with something else: surrender.

And he loved it. Ate it up.

His hands wrapped under her thighs, lifting her slightly off the table, holding her there while he started to move — hips snapping forward, rhythm building fast, rough, controlled but barely.

“Still got that smart mouth?” he panted, between thrusts. “Say something else, baby. Go ahead.”

But she couldn’t.

She was already half gone.

And Luigi?

Luigi was grinning, panting, sweat running down his chest, his curls stuck to his forehead, a giggle breaking through the ragged edges of his breath every time he saw her try and fail to come up with a comeback.

He was still annoyed. Still rough. Still giving her exactly what she needed.

And he was just getting started.

The table rocked under them with each deep thrust, wood creaking, her back arching as he drove into her like he had something to prove — and maybe he did.

Maybe this was about every eye roll. Every bratty little comment. Every strut into the apartment like she didn’t need him — just to make him prove that she did.

Luigi leaned in close, forehead brushing hers, breath hot and ragged, curls damp and sticking to his temples. He was watching her now, really watching her — how her mouth hung open, lips red and swollen, eyes fluttering but never leaving his arms, his chest, the way his biceps bulged every time he adjusted his grip on her thighs.

“Now you’re lookin’ at me right,” he rasped, still grinning like the devil. “You gonna talk, baby? Or still too busy drooling?”

She whimpered, hands moving up to his shoulders, then into his hair — those curls she always claimed to hate because they made him even cockier, now tangled in her fingers like a lifeline.

“I—Lu,” she breathed, voice high and thin, breaking on the syllable. “Lu—oh my God.”

“Oh now it’s Lu?” he laughed, voice raw and breathless. “No more ‘shut up, Luigi’? No more stompin’ around like you run the place?”

She shook her head, pupils blown, lips trembling. Her fingers clutched at his hair tighter, dragging him closer like she needed him to stay in control, to keep going, to not stop.

“I’m—I’m being good,” she whined, voice soft and desperate. “I’m being good for you now.”

He groaned at that. Real and guttural.

“Oh fuck, baby. You are. Finally.”

He slammed into her harder, the sound echoing through the kitchen, and her gasp came out half a sob. Her legs shook, her back arched, but his arms held her up like it was nothing. Strong. Unshakable. Like he was built to wreck her and keep her standing all at once.

She watched them again — his arms. Those damn arms. How easily he handled her like she was made of air. How they flexed and rippled with every movement, veins popping, sweat dripping down the curve of his biceps like something carved out of marble.

She moaned, head falling back. “Luigi, your arms—”

He laughed again — sharp and cocky, dragging his teeth across her jaw.

“Yeah? You want me to flex for you while I’m ruining you?”

She nodded helplessly, lips parted, eyes glazed.

He adjusted his grip, curling his arms tighter under her thighs, bouncing her on the edge of the table with a force that made her breath catch.

“Hold on, baby,” he muttered, eyes dark and glowing now, teeth bared in a smile that was pure sin. “We’re not done. You think this is me going hard?”

She whimpered, nails scraping down his back.

“This is me warming up.”

Her body trembled under his grip, legs barely holding form as he kept her right at the edge — deep, rough thrusts rolling through her like aftershocks. Her hands clawed uselessly at his shoulders, his arms, like she didn’t know what to do with herself anymore.

Luigi was panting now, his curls sticking to his forehead, his mouth open, neck flushed, veins in his arms bulging as he held her up like it was nothing. Still cocky. Still wild-eyed. But tired now — in that satisfied way.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he breathed against her throat, voice wrecked but still smug. “You get like this every time I handle you.”

Her eyes rolled back. She wasn’t talking anymore — she couldn’t. She was too busy whimpering, panting, letting the high-pitched, breathless “Lu… Lu…” tumble out of her mouth like she didn’t even know she was saying it.

“Aw, baby,” he laughed, low and shaky. “You gone dumb for me?”

She nodded, slow and lazy, lips parted, voice barely there.

“Please… I’m—Luigi—please—”

He wrapped an arm tighter around her waist, pressed his forehead to hers.

“Almost there, baby,” he whispered, his voice all grit and heat. “Be good. Come with me. I got you.”

And then—

She broke. Legs shaking, body collapsing into his, whimpering into his mouth as her whole world short-circuited.

He followed a breath later, groaning into her shoulder, arms locking around her like a vise, hips stuttering, everything crashing down in one final wave. He held her like that, forehead on her chest, both of them gasping and shaking and so tangled together there was no space left between them.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then—

“I’m… I’m sorry, Lu,” she mumbled, barely audible.

Luigi froze.

Lifted his head.

Looked at her — really looked at her — flushed and wrecked and completely sincere, her fingers still tangled in his curls like she never wanted to let go.

And he melted.

The cocky grin faded. His eyes softened. His lips pressed into a smile that was all affection, no edge.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, brushing her hair off her sweaty forehead. “You’re okay. You’re so okay.”

He kissed her — slow this time. Sweet. A thank-you. A promise.

And then he scooped her up in his arms like she weighed nothing. She let out a soft sigh, nose tucked against his neck, her fingers still wrapped in the chain around his neck, gold catching the light as he carried her out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“To bed,” he murmured. “Then a bath. You earned it, sweetheart.”

She barely nodded.

Didn’t have to.

Luigi had her now. And she wasn’t going anywhere.

The sheets were cool against her skin, but her body still burned — from him, from how hard she’d gone, from how deeply he’d taken her apart. She was laid out across the bed, cheeks pink, chest still rising and falling with every breath. Her hoodie was half off, her legs stretched out, hair messy and perfect.

But her eyes — they were soft now. Vulnerable. No sass. No games.

Just her.

Luigi stood at the edge of the bed, watching her like she was the most breakable thing in the world. His chest still heaved, muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline, but his expression had gone full melt.

“Hi,” he said, voice hoarse but warm.

She blinked at him, slow. “Hi.”

“You alive?”

Barely, she mouthed.

He grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “You’ll survive. Just need a reset.”

And then he scooped her up again — bridal-style — even though she was a little limp and giggling quietly in his arms.

“Lu—”

“To the spa,” he cut in, mock-formal, walking toward the bathroom. “Only the finest for my sweet girl.”

She nuzzled into his chest, hands lazily dragging across the curve of his biceps, her thumb tracing the definition like she still couldn’t believe he was real.

“You’re just showing off now,” she mumbled.

He looked down at her, smirking. “I don’t need to show off. You hype me enough for both of us.”

Once inside, he set her gently on the counter, kissed her forehead again, and turned on the bath — hot water, a bit of oil he knew she liked (something sweet and warm, like her), watching the tub fill as steam curled around them.

When it was ready, he picked her up again — gently this time — and slowly eased her into the water. She let out the softest moan, eyes fluttering shut as her body slipped beneath the surface.

“You’re not real,” she murmured.

He chuckled. “I was just thinking that about you.”

And then he climbed in behind her, pulling her into his lap, arms wrapping around her waist under the water. She leaned into him instantly, head resting on his chest, her fingers floating up to touch his hand, his jaw, his shoulder — everything.

“You’re being so sweet,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Where’s the scary man from earlier?”

He smirked. “Buried somewhere under this bath bomb.”

She giggled — then reached up and cupped his cheek, thumbing the soft stubble there before kissing it.

“You were kinda mean,” she teased.

“You were worse,” he shot back, pulling her closer.

She kissed his shoulder next, then his bicep, then the back of his hand resting on her belly. Her lips lingered there like it was sacred.

“I like when you’re mean,” she said softly.

He let out a very pleased sound at that. “I know you do.”

She curled tighter into him, turning her face into his neck. “You gonna bring back ‘Mr. PhD’ now?”

He barked a laugh, head falling back.

“God,” he groaned. “I knew that was gonna stick.”

“You love it.”

He gave her a look — the kind of half-exhausted, half-in-love look that only shows up after you’ve completely broken someone down and put them back together again.

“Yeah,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I really do.”

The water had gone warm, her skin flushed and soft as she lay against his chest, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. But eventually, the bath started to cool, and she shivered just a little, goosebumps rising on her arms.

Luigi noticed immediately.

He reached for the towel he’d left warming on the radiator — because of course he had — and pulled the drain before carefully lifting her out of the tub like she’d break if he didn’t.

She squeaked at the sudden air. “Cold!”

“I know,” he said, laughing as he wrapped her up in the fluffy towel, rubbing her arms gently, dragging her in. “Come here, I got you.”

She buried her face into his chest, fingers gripping the towel closed while his bare skin radiated heat.

He kissed her temple first. Then her cheek. Then lower — jaw, neck, collarbone — slow and sweet, with little pauses between each.

“You’re all pink,” he whispered against her skin. “Like a baby peach.”

“Lu…” she giggled, squirming slightly under the attention, still cold but distracted by the way his voice went warm and low.

“And you smell too good,” he muttered, nose dragging along her neck, arms curling tighter around her waist. “Like warm vanilla, and sugar, and my favorite fuckin’ problem.”

She laughed, and he grinned, planting one more kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Still cold?” he asked, voice more gentle now.

She nodded.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice slipping into something darker as his hands slid down her towel-wrapped back, barely brushing her bare hips beneath. “I’ll warm you up. You just gotta let me be bad for a few more minutes.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, biting her lip. “You always say that.”

“And you always giggle when I whisper filthy shit in your ear, so we’re even.”

He leaned in and did exactly that — murmured something so dirty against her ear it made her knees wobble and her cheeks flare hot again, even under the towel.

She whined softly. “Luigiiiiii.”

“Just sayin’,” he said, smug and soft and completely pleased with himself. “You bring it out of me.”

When they made it back to the bedroom, she peeled off the towel and changed slowly — still flushed, still warm from his voice in her head. She stepped into a pair of soft cotton panties, the same kind he always loved, and then pulled on one of his hoodies — oversized, dark, and full of his scent.

She tugged the sleeves over her hands and climbed into bed.

Luigi stood by the dresser, watching her, arms crossed, head tilted.

“You look real cozy,” he said, voice low and fond.

“I am,” she said, sinking into the pillows, hair messy, gold jewelry still glinting against her skin.

“Can I join you?”

“You’re required to.”

He laughed softly, and climbed in next to her, pulling her close, arms wrapping tight around her waist again.

She kissed his jaw once. Twice. Then again, just below his ear.

“You’re so warm,” she whispered.

“And you’re so dangerous,” he said back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “In panties and my hoodie? That’s a threat.”

She giggled into his neck.

“You’re still gonna try to sleep after that?” he teased.

“Mmhm,” she said sweetly.

“Liar.”

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂ ⠂⠁ ⠂

I really rally hate this fic for some reason, but it’s fine. I have some other ideas for fics, but I’ve also had like an empty mind about ideas. So please please please flood my inbox with suggestions and ideas 💗

[pimpingthesqueak]

temptations, temptations….

lads!caleb x fem!reader SMUT (MDNI)

synopsis: you have a crush on the popular coworker, and after a late night at work, he makes it clear he feels the same.

warnings: office AU! reader is down bad, caleb is just as down bad but he hides it better (in the first half), alcohol consumption, flirting, teasing, semi-public sex, risky AF sex, caleb cums first one time, multiple orgasms and overstimulation (both f and m), dacryphilia and breeding kink if you squint, praise kink, caleb becomes a mess a few times.

hi! this is my first published fanfiction so i am so so so open to feedback and suggestions. let me know if you like it :3

—————

your crush on caleb was pretty well conceived, you’d like to think. at first, it was just lingering glances, smiles and harmless jokes. he was a charismatic guy; there was no way your concealed feelings stood out in the sea of shared coworkers. sure, you talked to him a little more than everyone else, but your projects frequently overlapped, and you found yourself going to him, asking questions you already knew the answer to.

but you had standards. morals. don’t fuck your coworkers. you’d learn the hard way not to mix business with pleasure. so you admired. from a distance.

until that night.

working on a project ran late, but caleb was there too, so being the only two left in the office, you traded work to help complete your tasks quickly. you surprised him with dinner halfway through, and soon the conversation strayed from work, and more onto personal things…

“how do you see with these things?” he holds up your glasses to the light and squints through them, ignoring your protests to give them back. your prescription wasn’t even that bad, at least in your right eye. your left eye was a different story.

“very well thank you!” you huff and snatch the glasses from his outstretched arms.

“seriously, the right one is okay but the left one gave me a headache.”

“i’m sorry, we all can’t be perfect like caleb.” you roll your eyes but toss the glasses on the table between you.

“i’ve seen you type without your glasses before. should i be worried?” he smirks at you, his purple eyes shining with mirth.

why was he so infuriating? and couldn’t you wipe that grin off your face??? “shut up. they’re not that bad. but i memorized the keys.”

he stops for a moment. “no way.”

“it’s not that hard. you never took keyboarding in grade school?”

“yeah but i have to stare at the keys sometimes.”

“did i find something i’m better at than the infamous caleb?”

“not until I see you in action, sweetheart. come on.”

and you found yourself typing at your computer, typing simultaneously with caleb’s words with your eyes covered by his hands. your brain operates on autopilot as you focus on the feeling of his hands over your eyes, the heat from your body radiating from yours…

“are you even listening to what i’m saying?” his question breaks you out of your thoughts and then he laughs. “you totally weren’t because you just typed my question.”

your cheeks heat up and you push his hands away before he can feel it. “did i pass your stupid test?” you cross your arms and read over the words you typed out. there was a bit of The Bee Movie script, a recipe for a 7 layer cake and the beginning of Never Gonna Give you Up. *what??*

“i don’t know, pipsqueak. there’s some spelling mistakes.” he says from behind you.

you scan the paper again and frown. “no there isn’t, what are you-“

your words cut off when he leans over you and points to the screen. “there.” you weren’t paying attention because he was so close, in your space and you could smell him and he smells clean, despite being here in this stuffy office for over 12 hours. his body was huge, nearly folding over as he leans, and if you closed your eyes you could imagine that body wrapped around you, cuddling you, holding you in place as he-

you clear your throat and put some distance between the two of you, rolling the chair in the opposite direction a few inches. you look at the mistake to distract yourself. “that’s not a typing mistake, that’s a grammar error.”

if caleb noticed your demeanour change, he didn’t say much about it. “errors are mistakes, pipsqueak.”

“i have a name.” your eyes narrow.

“i know, but i want to use something that is mine.” he smiles, but there’s something deeper in his eyes, something you choose to ignore.

there wasn’t more productiveness after that, so you retired first, and he insisted to stay and clean up, and when you offered to help, he refused. so you said your goodnights and ran as fast as you could to the elevator to gather your thoughts.

what was that?

—————

you told no one about this, because frankly, part of you didn’t remember much besides your racing heart during that night.

but one thing was made clear to you: this was more than an innocent little crush. you wanted to fuck caleb, morality be damned. and he was so unsuspecting that you felt dirty, then a little hot then even more shameful.

and it didn’t help that he was ever the attentive, caring coworker. bringing you your paperwork from the printer, grabbing you an extra coffee, and talking about your favourite show that he just happened to start getting into in his spare time. you were fucked. and every time you tried to distance yourself to draw the line in your head, caleb was there, making sure you forgot why you wanted one in the first place.

a random thursday, weeks after the night you shared in the office together, you were sitting at your desk eating your lunch. suddenly you hear a chair roll up beside you and look to your left to see caleb leaning on his palm, staring at you with his dreamy galaxy eyes. you could lose yourself in them but you snap yourself out of it. “are you here to make fun of my lunch?”

“no. unless it has cilantro in it.”

“it does not.” you go to take another bite.

“go out with me.”

your food drops out your hand, landing back in its container. you face him, looking as if you didn’t hear him right. “what?”

“i’m tired of this back and forth.” he sits up then leans in, and his eyebrows scrunch together in that way that could make you do anything for him. “i want you. and frankly, so does james from marketing, so im beating him to the punch.”

you blink. who the fuck was james?

“say yes.” his voice was soft, but had a slight firmness to it.

“yes.”

he brightens and kisses you on the cheek before rolling away. “tomorrow, 7:35 PM. i’ll pick you up!”

you stare dumbly at your lunch as you process this interaction.

no seriously, who the fuck was james?

——————

the following day, you finally cave and tell your best friend that you have a date and she immediately comes to the rescue when you admit you have nothing to wear.

she knocks on your door and 30 minutes later you’ve showered shaved and scrubbed down your body. you’ve tried on so many dresses that you want to scream when finally you agree on something.

“if you guys actually make it to wherever he’s taking you, he’s not the one because i’d fuck you right now,” your best friend squeals and at 7:35 on the dot, you hear a knock on your door.

he was in slacks and a dress shirt, holding flowers awkwardly at his side. he was staring down at his feet while he was waiting for you to answer, and when you did, his eyes widened as they raked over your body.

your red dress fit you snugly, with thin straps secured on your shoulders and the dress stopping just above your knee and your wore high heeled boots to give yourself some height. you smirk as his eyes turn into saucers and take the flowers. “thank you caleb.” you giggled and gave them to your friend. who he didn’t notice until now. he cleared his throat. “good evening.” he nods at her then looks back at you, a bit more composed. “should we go now?”

gone was the confident, charismatic coworker that you knew so well. this caleb was… well he looked like he wanted to fuck you. which is exactly what you were going for.

your friend hands you your bag as you leave and caleb opens the door for you to get in the car.

during the drive you tried to converse with him but his answered were short, curt and he was gripping the steering wheel like he wanted to rip it off.

shit. maybe this was too much? you knew it. but it was a cute dress.

he pulls up to a restaurant that you’ve seen online for its exclusivity, the waitlist three miles long. but he offers you his hand as you get out the car and his mood was much calmer outside. the valet parks the car as you two walk inside. the hostess escorts you to a secluded part of the restaurant, a booth with dim overhead chandelier.

“caleb, you didn’t have to do this. i would have been okay with a dive bar under a strip club.” you smile as he scoots in beside you.

“no way josé, i gotta impress my work wife.”

you roll your eyes. “i’m not your work wife.” the wine comes, and you need it, because he’s so close to you, his cologne is tickling your brain in ways that is making your breathing quicken. you’re gonna need all liquid courage available.

turns out you weren’t the only one. caleb was drinking with a purpose between the light conversation, and soon he was staring at you with flushed cheeks and you were drowning into those galaxy eyes.

he chuckles wryly as your glasses get topped off again. “i imagined this differently.” he sighs.

you hiccup in reply, making the both of you laugh quietly in the muted restaurant. “i think we’re doing pretty good so far.” you say in between gasps.

he shrugs and puts his arm behind you, and you warm up, not because of the alcohol. “i thought i’d be cooler about this. more… macho.”

you snort and take a sip. “are you saying you’re nervous?”

“yes, absolutely.” you two laugh again and you look up at him. “i had a game plan and you ruined it.” he playfully glares.

“what was the plan?”

“fancy restaurant, with wine and dishes i can’t fucking pronounce because they’re french and you’re french-“

“i know french.” you clarify, then frown. “how do you know that?”

he ignores your question, and continues. “but then you show up in that dress, and your heels and fuck, you smell so good…” he leans in to the crook of your neck and inhales deeply then groans in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together.

“caleb-“

he groans again and his head droops down onto his chest. “i had a plan. i really like you, and i wanted to treat you like a princess. but i cant think past your dress right now.”

your breath hitches at the confession, but he doesn’t care. in fact, he seems to be more interested at the way this dress shows off the swell of your nipples through the fabric. your head swims in pinot grigio and you let out a shaky breath. “I can back up, or give you space-“

“no.” his arm behind you wraps around your shoulders and pulls you into his space. and before both of you could think about it, his lips are on yours.

you hated any type of pda. but you couldn’t remember why as you deepened the kiss, a hand playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

he groaned your name and soon the kisses turned desperate, but tried to keep their slow rhythm.

he has to be the one to pull away, because you couldn’t remember where you were, nor did you care. you needed him. you lean back in for another kiss but he pulls back and lets out a strained chuckle.

“I can’t kiss you again.”

“why not?” you huff but your bratty attitude is less efficient with your panting.

“if i kiss you again, im going to fuck you. and you deserve better than my raging boner. you deserve hearts and flowers and chocolates….”

“those can wait, we can do it for our second date. you already got me flowers…” you lean in and he pulls away again, increasing your irritation. screw moral compasses!

he sighs your name and you shiver. “i just don’t want this to be a one time thing.” he says carefully and watches you, waiting for your reaction.

you liked caleb. probably more than you should. despite the growing heat between your thighs and your nipples begging for this mans attention and he wasn’t giving it to you, you liked spending time with him. it was easy to be open with him, and he genuinely seemed like he cared about what you said.

he wants to be a gentleman. which was cute but you didn’t want cute, you needed something darker. and he looked like he wanted to give it to you.

“what do you need from me? written consent that i’ll allow a second date?”

he chuckled and it it resonated through your body. “i guess,” he says then looks at you, his eyes searching yours. “just give me another chance to get this right.”

you two stare at each other for long moments, his pleading eyes unnerving you. it seemed like… to him this was more than casual dating, and that made your heart go into overdrive. you look past your lust and swallow.

“caleb… this was already perfect. but i’ll give you as many chances you want.” no way you were letting this man slip through your fingers.

his body sags in relief and his hold around your body tightens. “oh baby, i just need one.”

you raise your eyebrows. “overconfident, are we?”

“for good reasons.” he was done talking, so he silenced you with a kiss. and this kiss made your head spin. You clutch at his shirt as he presses into you, almost lowering your body under his. but you needed him closer, and you needed these clothes off.

————

you weren’t sure how you got into this position, but you couldn’t complain. and if you could, you wouldn’t.

your dress was bunched up at your waist, panties ripped off, the remains tucked in caleb’s pocket. your moans echoed through the empty stairway accompanied with his grunts. he was fucking you with a one track mind; though his goal was completed several moments ago.

your hands clenched the railing, and his were clutching the fat of your hips like a lifetime. he wanted to have you quickly in the backseat of his car, take an uber to his house, and bed you properly. tenderly, still trying to salvage the night.

his plans faltered when you stumbled down the stairs and he caught you before you fell. your ass made his raging boner snug, and the wine in your veins made you bold enough to wriggle back against him. he groaned, kissed you and soon he was pushing his fat cock into your heat, fucking you, chasing a quick release so he could get you home and treat you properly.

and then you came.

the sight was unravelled him to the bone, your parted lips letting out a silent cry, your eyes rolling back and the way your back arch into him… it was a sight. you were a sight. but how you felt-

your nails dug into his biceps, your legs tightened around him as you fell off your peak. but the way your walls clenched, pulling him in, making it impossible to pull out…

he came, hard. flooding your heat with white and he wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t, he couldn’t look away from you or your body, not even for a second.

you panted and smiled up at him as you came down from your high. but he glowered at you, and before you could ask what was wrong, he was taking you off his leaking cock and turning you around.

“hold onto this.” he ordered and placed your hands on the railing. that was the only warning you got.

he slammed back into you making the both of groan and he chased his high again, fucking you hard, and the new angle mixed with already being so sensitive had you seeing stars.

his balls abused your clit, and his mouth was all over your back. kissing your shoulder, licking your spine biting your neck, this man was in a frenzy. all while his long thick length bullied into that spongy part inside you.

he came first the second time, and came with a small whine that came from the back of his throat. “you’re unmanning me, beautiful.” he said shakily, and you whine in reply. it’s all too much, and his seed starts to flow out of you.

“oh no, we can’t have that…” caleb murmurs and he pulls out slowly, groaning at the sight of your walls clinging to his shaft. his fingers find your entrance and scoop up any cum that escaped before shoving it back in. then shoving his cock back into you in one go. you let out a broken moan as your knees buckle, but he holds you up with his hands on your hips and starts drilling into you again.

at this point you couldn’t be quiet, and your moans echoed throughout the staircase. your walls flutter, and you cum again, and your fluttering walls send him over the edge, deep groans coming from him.

you thought that it would be over, 3 times in minutes should have done it for him, but his thrusts turn erratic and broken versions of your name falls from his lips.

“I’m… so sorry.” he rasps, slamming into you like a man possessed. you barely understand him, your moans were cries of overstimulation, and he presses you into the wall. “y-you deserve better. so much better. it’s just, i’ve been waiting for so long… and I thought i could wait a little more but this dress…” he lands a particularly sharp thrust inside you, making your eyes roll back.

“i mean, could you blame me?” he pants and uses his body to push you snug against the wall. you couldn’t feel anything but him…. “you smell so good.” his nose runs along your neck band you shiver. “how am i supposed to think?”

“caleb…” you whine out. you were swimming in overwhelming pleasure, and caleb was drowning with you.

“fuck, sweetheart don’t say my name like that…” his thrusts were shallow, as if he couldn’t muster the courage to pull all the way out.

“i can’t…” you gasp as the coil in your stomach twists again. “caleb, i can’t!”

“i know… i know baby, i know…” he shushes you and kisses your neck sending chills down your back. He embraces you and you lean into him. for a moment, you caught your breath. his hands caress your skin and you sigh in contentment.

he peppers kisses along your neck and his hands travel lower. you though it was to fix your dress but his fingers find your clit, soaked with arousal, and tease the little nub. you gasp and you walls clamp down on his length.

“there she is…” caleb groans and starts to thrust again. they were slow, but deep, forcing cries from your lips.

“i promise, im gonna take you home and treat you like a real lady but i need you to cum for me one last time. can you do that baby? please?” his words were soft in your ear, a contrast to the brutal thrusts he was giving you.

you sniff and you don’t even realize you were crying. neither did he, because he looks down and wipes your tears. “you’re so beautiful…” he murmurs and he fucks you faster. the obscene sounds from between you two rand in your ears, but you were two fucked out to feel shame.

the coil tightens and your legs stiffen, clear indicator that your orgasm was close. he chuckles and his thumb traces your lips. “i knew you had it in you.”

suddenly the echo of a door opening falls on both of your ears and the both of you still. caleb hand covers your mouth and your eyes open in alarm.

you hear a male voice from several stories up, coming down the stairs. “yeah apparently someone heard screaming, but there’s nothing here.” he comes down another flight. caleb chuckles in your ear and you shiver. your heart races as the steps get closer. you tap his arm and his grip tightens. “quiet.” he says in a low voice and gives an experimental thrust. your moan is muted by his hand over your mouth but he groans softly then start to fuck you again, quietly.

you clamp down on his cock and his breathing hitches. the voice and footsteps come closer.

“i’m not going all the way down there.” the voice mutters then a door opens then closes and you two were alone again.

caleb’s pace gets devilish and the rapid approach of your orgasm makes it hard to keep your eyes open. your walls flutter sinfully around him. “i’ll … have to teach you… how to be quiet, sweetheart.”

you moan in reply and clench again.

“cum on me, baby. want you to soak me.”

you obey immediately, cumming on his cock, biting on his hand to hold back your cries. he curses, the pain shooting to his cock and he cums right after you, grunting your name as he paints your walls white.

his head rests on on your shoulder as he catches his breath, and when you go to rest your forehead on the wall, you head hits his hand instead.

a chuckle goes through the both of you and he straightens before pulling out. you wince at the loss and he forces himself to ignore that.

instead, he fixes your dress back into place and he turns you around. he looks sheepish, almost shy. “i promise i can treat you better than that.” he scratches the back of his neck.

better than multiple orgasms by his huge dick? “no complaints here.”

he chuckles and zips his pants back up. “let’s get you home.”

“your home?” you ask hopefully and he laughs.

“you thought I was done with you?”

————

like and repost, but please don’t steal

[lazysoulwriter]

behave. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: public teasing, dirty texting, flustered!pedro, tension-building, established relationship, soft chaos, implied smut at the end

---

the group’s out for drinks — you, pedro, a few friends, someone’s birthday — but you’ve been stuck across the table from him all night.

he looks obscene.

the shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to show a glimpse of chest, and his sleeves are rolled up in that lazy, dangerous way that drives you insane. his fingers wrap around his glass like he’s doing it on purpose. and his voice — god, the voice — keeps dropping into that low, soft register when he laughs.

you can’t take it anymore.

so, like the menace you are, you pull your phone from your bag and send him a text under the table:

you’d let me sit on your face the second we get home, right? 🖤

across the table, pedro’s phone buzzes. he checks it casually… and freezes.

his jaw clenches. eyes flick down again. then up — straight at you.

you smile.

he looks away. tries to look away.

his ears turn red.

he types something back.

are you insane

you lean your chin in your hand, reply without blinking:

no, just really really needy. and you look so hot. this shirt should be illegal.

he exhales slowly. adjusts in his seat.

you send one more:

also. i’m not wearing anything under this dress. :)

he chokes.

literally chokes on his drink. coughs. waves off concern with a shaky, “i’m fine. just… went down the wrong pipe.”

your friend next to him pats his back.

you sip your wine and wink.

-

he corners you the second you’re alone in the hallway near the restrooms.

his hand goes to your waist, jaw clenched, eyes dark.

“you’re evil,” he whispers.

you grin up at him. “didn’t tell a single lie, though.”

his fingers tighten. “you’re really not wearing anything under this dress?”

“wanna check?”

he groans. leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“when we get home,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked, “you’re not gonna get off my face for hours.”

“promise?”

he nods, breath hot against your mouth.

“but until then,” you whisper, “we behave.”

he closes his eyes like he’s in pain.

“you are killing me.”

you kiss his cheek. “that’s the idea.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[gentaro-kinniecom]

New Beginnings

Characters: Zayne/fem!reader

C/w: 1.4k! (Read at your own risk, meant for +18) mentions of breeding, married life, somewhat graphic descriptions of sex. Zayne wants to be a father although he doesn't admit it..he just wants to get you knocked up.

A/n: Finished writing this instead of my english essay because... There's also a Rafayel fanfic in the making so stay tuned for more <33

“Zayne? It’s 1am, you still haven’t come back to bed..” I said, leaning against the door frame as he sighed, typing away on his computer while passing a hand across his hair, trying to calm himself down. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I’ll be there”

“That’s what you said an hour ago..you’re tiring and exhausting yourself to the point of death at this point” Zayne sighed, closing his laptop and getting up from his desk chair, walking towards me with a soft grin trying to comfort me. 

“Are you satisfied now?” He asked, hugging my waist as we walked towards our shared bedroom. Ever since we got married, Zayne has gotten more work than usual piled up on his desk every time I go to visit him at work. It worries me that he’s overworking himself because of money, which hasn’t been an issue at all given he’s a doctor and works in a very respected hospital. But what other reason might it be? I laid in our shared bed, feeling myself drift away to sleep when suddenly, Zayne wrapped his arms around my waist. 

“Mhm, thank you” I replied, snuggling up to him while caressing his soft dark strands of hair that fell on his face, smiling. He muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite grasp as Zayne kissed me goodnight. I couldn’t help but stay awake for a few minutes, looking at the city lights by the window and back at Zayne’s sleeping form beside me.

Woken up by the sound of something crashing from the kitchen, I got out of bed with a small yawn, walking down the corridor of our lovely home to see Zayne had a mess of pancake batter all over his “kiss the cook” apron while sighing in annoyance before turning towards me.

“There’s shards of glass on the floor..please, be careful” I nod, grabbing a broom from the closet room and coming back to see Zayne was picking up the broken pieces from the floor. I suddenly stepped in one while trying to hand him the broom which made him look at me with worry, I try not to cry as he can clearly see the tears pricking my eyes.

“I’m fine I swear..” Without a second thought, he quickly lifted me onto the kitchen counter, carefully yet skillfully removing the glass from my foot as Zayne chuckled.

“Having you like this, reminds me of our honeymoon. Remember when-” I stopped Zayne by placing a hand over his mouth, trying to not remember that day where he fucked me into oblivion in our hotel’s kitchen island, right before breakfeast too.

“Why must you always make me remember? It’s like you’re hinting at wanting kitchen sex right now..” A chuckle left his lips as Zayne’s body inched closer, his hands grabbing my waist gently, kissing my neck while whispering sweet words that had me falling into his desire.

“Because, shouldn’t being a husband imply taking care of his wife’s desires as their own? Is it too bad that I want to be greedy with you for a few moments?”His hands began to trail under my nightgown and towards my chest as he began to rub my nipples, making me whine while kissing him.

“Alright, fine. Just seeing you in this apron alone made me feel things, did you do it on purpose?” I asked half jokingly as Zayne kissed my shoulder before taking off my nightgown, leaving me naked on the counter while grinning ear to ear.

“Perhaps, although now I see what you’ve been meaning to hide all this time; you’re trying to rile me up, and it’s working” He then kissed me, taking his sweet time to stroke my clit, agonizingly slow, teasing me as I whined into his mouth. Zayne didn’t take this lightly and spread my legs apart in a second. 

“And to think this wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t break the glass measuring vase today” I added, gazing over at Zayne who kneeled towards my pussy, blowing on it gently before sucking on it. I gasped as his tongue did wonders, had I really forgotten of that day, or was I too fucked out of my brains to remember? Possibly the latter. He suddenly grabbed my thighs, massaging them in a way that made my cunt drip with more arousal than before. Of course, I was impatient, so I grabbed Zayne’s hair, pulling him upwards as he got the message.

“Maybe it was fate or clumsiness on my behalf, at least we’re making something out of this.” He spoke, yet I was too focused on how quickly he was to take off his pants, making me wonder why the hell was he wearing work pants so early in the morning. Nonetheless, all my thoughts vanished out the window as soon as I saw his cock. It wasn’t less than average or more, slightly curved and girthy, the type that never wants to let go once he’s had a taste..that..is the man I married, and the man he will always be. The small but noticeable vein on the side made me drool as he stroked himself a few times before prodding at my entrance. 

“Please, don’t make me wait longer, my love” 

“I thought, you weren’t the type to beg for something, it seems there’s a first for everything after all” Pushing my hips to meet his cock, Zayne grabbed them harshly, not enough to leave a bruise but enough to put me in my place as he smiled. The moment he thrusted inside, I threw my head back at the overwhelming pleasure Zayne was giving me at the moment. My hand found Zayne’s shoulder as he continued to pound at my dripping pussy. He let out a sharp groan as he finally reached my g-spot, making me let out a breathy moan while speeding up.

“Is this what you- hah wanted all along? For me to breed you? Make you carry our child? Answer me.” Zayne’s voice dropped to that soft and warm yet firm tone I always loved. Without any doubt, I answered almost eagerly.

“Y-yes..! Oh fuck~!” I sobbed due to the stimulation he gave me, in a hazy rush, Zayne grabbed my thighs, thrusting sharply yet deeply, enough to make me crave more.

“You’d be such a good mom, look at you, all needy and willing for me. I can’t wait to expand our family with you” He said, panting afterwards as he unexpectedly came inside rather quickly than normal. Pulling his cock away from my puffy cunt almost regretting his decision not long before seeing his cum leak down with a faint smile on his face.

“Stay here, I’ll go grab a towel.'' I nod, smiling at his gentleness as he comes back to clean me up. Zayne’s lips met mine as a ‘thank you’ from my behalf for being so kind and sweet as always. We eventually got dressed once again as I looked at my husband through the mirror of our bedroom, walking downstairs as I stared at the kitchen momentarily.

“So..what are we going to do about breakfast?” I asked, causing him to laugh while he grabbed both the house and car keys as we exited the front door.

“I know of a brunch place that just opened up nearby, perhaps we could give it a try today”

Some weeks later, I started feeling sick and began vomiting sometimes during the morning. I had a feeling it was because I was pregnant, however, my husband wanted to run some tests for me in the clinic near the hospital he worked at, “just to be sure” his words not mine. At the end of the day, I returned home waiting for the results to come back as I heard the front door open. Zayne tried little to hide the smile on his face as he handed me the envelope from the clinic

“I don’t need to read the letter at this point with the way you’re smiling at me” I teased, opening it up to show that I was indeed 3 weeks pregnant with his child. Zayne hugged me briefly before kissing my lips ever so softly.

“I promise to be the best father for our child, thank you for allowing me to have the blessing to start a family the day we got married, I love you.” He spoke, tear-eyed as I hugged him back, crying happily onto his chest.

“I love you too..I’ll never regret marrying the man that treats me like a queen and makes sure I have everything I need.” 

[sakusaswifee]

“𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐘”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 COLLEGE + TS!TSUKISHIMA KEI

Warnings: enemies to lovers, academic rivals, hate sex vibes, rough tension, praise/degradation mix, glasses kink, Tsukishima’s filthy mouth, dom!Tsukki, overstimulation, edging, study session gone wrong (or right), cocky!Tsukishima, bratty!reader, power play, light bondage (wrist pinning), fingering, riding, edging, orgasm control, overstimulation, degradation mixed with praise, semi-public (dorm setting), dirty talk, intellectual tension, teasing, slow burn to full burn, mutual obsession, consensual power dynamics

No one correct my tags, I’m half asleep

MINORS DNI, all characters are 18+

@kitomon here’s what you requested of me

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

It started in freshman year.

First lecture. First row. First stupid comment he made under his breath that he thought you wouldn’t hear.

You were correcting the professor because they were wrong and Tsukishima Kei, with his unnecessary commentary, rolled up sleeves, and glasses halfway down his nose, muttered just loud enough, “Of course she would.”

You whipped your head toward him, already bristling, and locked eyes with that smug, golden gaze.

That was it. Ground zero. The start of your rivalry.

Every class, every semester, every group project since then turned into a petty, brainy war.

Snide remarks, raised eyebrows, stolen answers, smug smirks when one of you edged ahead. He’d pick apart your logic just for fun. You’d one-up him just to wipe the smirk off his face. Professors loved both of you. You hated that he was always in your space. You hated the way your heart fluttered when he leaned close and said something infuriating. And you especially hated the way he’d watch you when you spoke in class, eyes dragging down your body like he was mentally undressing you while everyone else was just focused on the lecture.

By senior year, the tension had festered.

And exploded.

It happened after a brutal group debate. You’d humiliated him, thrown facts like daggers, and walked out on a high. He followed you. Pinned you in the hallway. Gripped your jaw, lowered his head, and hissed, “You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?” And instead of answering, you kissed him. Hard. Sloppy. Angry.

The next ten minutes were a blur..his hand up your shirt, your back hitting the wall, the rough grind of his hips into yours, and the filthy groan he let out when he discovered you were already soaked through your panties.

Now? It’s a weekly thing.

Study sessions turn into you bent over his desk, moaning through bitten off insults.

He tests your limits just like he tests your logic. Always challenging you, always pushing.

“You can’t even take notes right now, can you?” he whispers against your ear while his fingers curl deep inside you.

“You’re so cocky when you’re not on your knees,” you growl back as you straddle him on the dorm couch.

And yet..you keep showing up.

Because no one fucks you like Tsukishima Kei does.

And he lives for the way you scream his name when you finally fall apart..outsmarted, undone, his.

𓆩༒︎𓆪

It’s late. His apartment is dim, the only light coming from his desk lamp and the soft glow of his laptop screen. You’re perched on his bed, cross-legged with textbooks around you, pretending to study—but your eyes keep drifting to him. His glasses are low on his nose, his hair a little messy, and that damn vein in his forearm flexes every time he types.

You mutter something about his thesis being derivative just to piss him off.

He doesn’t even look up. “You’re so fucking desperate for my attention,” he says coolly, voice low and lazy. “Why don’t you just admit it?”

You scoff, roll your eyes. “Please. You’re the one who couldn’t go a full day without picking a fight.”

He finally turns to look at you. Pushes his chair back, stands. Walks over slowly, like a predator. The second he reaches you, his hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your chin up.

“You gonna act like you didn’t wear that skirt on purpose?” he murmurs, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “Sitting there pretending to study while your thighs are spread wide like you’re begging for it?”

You hate how easily he reads you. Hate how fast your breath catches. But not as much as you love what he does next.

He kisses you hard, dragging you onto your back, pressing his body against yours. One hand pins your wrists above your head, the other hiking your skirt up. His voice is a growl against your mouth:

“I should make you read every fucking line of that textbook while I fuck you..see how smart you are when your brain’s melting.”

And he does.

He makes you recite your thesis points while his fingers are inside you—slow, curling, pushing you to the edge and yanking you back every time you mess up.

“Wrong. Start over.”

“Aw, poor baby. Losing focus already?”

“Use that mouth for something other than arguing.”

You’re shaking by the time he finally lets you come—loud, gasping, clenching around his fingers like you’ll die without him.

And when he finally slides into you, slow and deep, his forehead pressed to yours, he whispers:

“Let’s see if you can outsmart me with my cock buried this deep inside you.”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

[simplyholl]

A Night With The Winter Soldier

Summary: You’re sent to be Hydra’s test subject for a new serum.

Pairing: F. Reader x Winter Soldier Bucky

Warnings: Smut. 18+ Only. Minors DNI. Dark Bucky. Non con. Oral. Unprotected sex.

See My Masterlist Here

A/N: I know I don’t usually write for Bucky, but this idea has been stuck in my head for a long time. I’m just tagging my regular tag list, if you’re not into dark fics, please skip! ❤️

Fucked. That’s what you were or at least what you were going to be. You shake your head as you cover your skimpy lingerie with the matching robe your mother gave to you.

Your father is the head scientist for Hydra. He had been working on this experiment for years. He had created a serum that would cause Super Soldiers to want to reproduce. The end result would be a perfect Super Soldier baby. He finally perfected it. Who could be a better test subject than his daughter?

You begged him. You pleaded and cried. It was unfair to expect this of you. But he didn’t care how you felt. He said it was your duty to do as you were told. You didn’t want to make Hydra upset with your family, did you? You knew the horrors that awaited you if you refused. Your best friend, Lilly and her whole family disappeared three years ago when her father refused a command from Hydra. They were brutal and cruel. Sadly, you were used to it.

Hydra came first. Before yourself, before your family, your loyalty had to be unwavering. You knew it wasn’t really your father who had suggested it be you. Your mother told you it was one of the higher ups. He had seen you in your new sundress a few weeks ago and thought you would be perfect to carry the first Super Soldier baby.

It made you sick. How could they do this? You didn’t want to know what would happen if you refused. “At least, he is the strongest Super Soldier. This baby’s genes will be impeccable with the both of you for parents.” Your mother reassured you, as if it would help you feel better.

You weren’t naive. You and the baby would be monitored from the moment you got pregnant. As soon as you gave birth, the child would be ripped from your arms and watched closely. It wouldn’t really be yours.

You take the elevator to the thirteenth floor, heart racing wildly. You were scared. You had seen the Super Soldiers behind glass doors where you were protected from them. Now, you were being offered on a silver platter to the biggest baddest one, like a worm on a hook waiting for a fish to jump after them.

Two guards stand outside the door to the windowless room. Their eyes roam over your barely covered body. They smirk at you as they type in the code to let you in. “Good luck, princess. You’re going to need it.” They evilly laugh as the door opens. Slowly, you walk in, your breath catching in your throat as you hear the steel door bang tightly shut behind you.

The room is dimly lit. A leather chair in one corner, a bed pressed against the wall, there’s a table with a half worked puzzle on it. It was so dreary, your heart aches for the poor guy that called this room home. You walk over to the table, running your hand over the puzzle. That’s when you feel it. Even though you couldn’t see him, you’re not alone. He’s in here with you, hid in the dark corners somewhere. You turn around to find him staring at you.

The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, you had demanded to know his name before you did this. His dark hair hung in waves by his cheeks, his cold blue eyes focused on your body. He was beautiful. You weren’t used to seeing him without the black mask he usually wore. He was shirtless, his silver, metal arm catching your attention. You studied it. The way it looks like it was forcefully put on, the red star on his shoulder. He was always silent, brooding in the shadows. You had never been this close to him.

You reach for his face, wanting to feel him before all this started. His metal arm stops you, cold hand wrapping around your wrist. You squeak when he twists your arm behind your back, walking you toward the table.

He presses you against it, you feel his erection threatening to burst out of his black pants. One swipe of his free hand knocks the puzzle to the floor. Colorful pieces scatter all around you. He lifts you on top of the table, the cold surface making you gasp when your bare legs land on it.

Bucky holds you with his metal arm, the other one makes quick work of your flimsy robe. He grabs your breast through the thin fabric of your lingerie. You squirm under his touch as he pinches your nipple through the lace.

“You don’t know how bad I need this. Been a long time since I’ve had a pretty girl like you in my bed.” You’re shocked when he speaks to you. You had been warned that he wouldn’t talk to you at all. He takes a step back to look at you, zeroing in on your panties.

He pushes your back to the wall, commanding you to stay there. You obey, you didn’t want to upset him and make this worse for yourself. He holds your top in one hand, jerking the material. The sound of it’s ripping, startling you. He was crazy strong. The thought of being manhandled by him sounded better by the second.

Next was your panties, he stripped you of them quickly, pulling you by your legs to the edge of the table. He got on his knees before you, shoving his face to your core. He licks one fat stripe up your center, moaning as he tastes you. He swirls his tongue across your clit, you buck your hips up to get closer.

Bucky pushes you down with his metal arm, ensuring that you wouldn’t be able to move. You accept your fate, laying back as he laps at you. He fucks you with his tongue, his nose rubbing expertly against your sensitive nub. The band tightly wound in your stomach snaps as he drags his wicked tongue across your clit, sucking you between his lips. He doesn’t hold back his moans as your arousal floods his face.

When he emerges, his face is glistening because of you. He wipes it off with the back of his flesh hand. Bucky jerks you off the table, pointing to the cold, cement ground. “On your knees.” You sink down in front of him as he sheds his pants. You’re surprised he hadn’t already taken them off.

You shift on your knees, trying to get comfortable. He could at least offer you a pillow to kneel on or something. You look around, and spot the only one on his bed. You’re about to ask for it, when he pulls your hair roughly, jerking your head toward his throbbing cock. It was huge. The kind of big that would hurt. You open your mouth, trying to take all of him inside.

You choke and gag, spit dribbling down your chin onto your breasts as you struggle. He looks down at you, hand still tangled in your hair. Your jaw aches already and he’s just getting started. He thrusts his hips forward, pushing your head down simultaneously. Tears fill your eyes as he hits the back of your throat. You can’t help the sob that escapes you as he pulls out, only to forcefully push his way back in.

His thumbs follow the tears on your cheeks, your mascara pooling under your eyes making you look like a raccoon. “You look so pretty when you cry.” He coos, while looking at you adoringly. He thrusts three more times, your nails dig into his thighs, a silent plea to stop. He finally pulls out, collecting you from the floor and gently placing you on his bed.

He places one leg over his shoulder, lining himself up at your entrance. He pushes inside and it’s too much. “It’s- you’re too big.” You explain. Bucky moves your other leg, spreading you wider. “You’re gonna take all of it.” He grunts, wedging himself inside you, bottoming out with one thrust. He ignores your pained scream, leaning down to lick your fresh tears.

“So tight. So perfect. Just for me.” He praises in your ear. Finally, the pain subsides. Bucky feels incredible, his thick cock dragging against the spot that makes your head swim. A gush of arousal soaks him as he swirls his metal thumb in circles on your clit.

“Look at you, such a good girl, dripping all over my cock.” You moan, clenching around him, your long nails clawing his back, drawing blood as your second orgasm rips through you. His thrusts grow sloppy as you feel him go still inside you. His hot cum, drips down your legs as he withdraws himself from you.

Bucky swipes it with his index finger, rubbing it with his thumb. He brings it to your lips, you swirl your tongue around his long digit, loving the way he tastes. You’re caught off guard when his icy, metal hand collects as much cum as he can, stuffing it back inside you.

You twitch, trying to pull away from the cold hand on your heat. “Ah ah ah.” He scolds. He presses his cool thumb to your clit, toying with the oversensitive pearl. “You have to take every drop.” When he’s satisfied with his work, he makes you lay on your back so it doesn’t drip back out.

You close your eyes, the sweet promise of sleep taking over you. You are almost in dream land when you feel the familiar nudge of Bucky’s cock at your sore center. “What are you doing?” You ask, too tired to fight him. “I’m not finished with you yet, doll.” He smiles wickedly, snapping his hips to fill you again.

Tags

@lokisgoodgirl @fictive-sl0th @lokidbadguy @ozymdias @cindylynn @cakesandtom @eleniblue @marygoddessofmischief @mochie85 @goblingirlsarah @wheredafandomat @freegardenbanananeck @lokidokieokie @l0ki3000 @multifandom-worlds @alexakeyloveloki @ladymischief11 @kats72 @mischief2sarawr @lamentis-10 @loz-3 @litaloni @lulubelle814 @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @avengersfan25 @silver-tongue-taken-to-bed @mybugabomlb @bunny24sstuff @luthien-elvenia-asher @gruftiela @asgards-princess-of-mischief @weirdothatwritess

[w1w2]

Over the Handlebars

Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 6k

Synopsis: Y/N has always been the type to fall hard and fast, diving headfirst into love without hesitation. Jennie, on the other hand, is more guarded, careful, precise, the kind of person who weighs every decision.

JENNIE - Handlebars (Feat. DUA LIPA) "Why is it love is never kind to me? I heard that fools rush in and, yeah, that's me"

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The bass thrummed against Y/N’s skin, the kind of deep, pulsing rhythm that settled in her bones and made her feel weightless. The club was alive with energy, flashing neon lights casting streaks of pink and blue across the sea of moving bodies, the scent of liquor and expensive perfume mixing in the humid air. Laughter and conversations blended into a messy, intoxicating symphony, but none of it mattered.

She wasn’t drunk, not completely, but there was a pleasant buzz in her veins, turning everything sharper, more vivid. Every sound, every color.

And especially her.

Jennie Kim stood near the bar, effortlessly composed in a way that made her seem untouchable. While the rest of the world blurred and swayed under the weight of music and alcohol, Jennie remained still, a contrast so striking it made Y/N’s chest tighten. Dark, silky hair framed her face perfectly, her lips painted a deep shade of red that was almost too inviting. A half-empty glass of champagne dangled loosely between her fingers, the golden liquid catching the light as she lazily swirled it. She wasn’t trying to stand out, but somehow, in a room full of chaos, she was the only thing Y/N could focus on.

Their eyes met, and something flickered in Jennie’s gaze. Curiosity, amusement. An unspoken challenge.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She never did.

She weaved her way through the crowd, her heart thrumming in time with the bass, every step fueled by adrenaline and that reckless, insatiable pull toward the girl who looked like trouble wrapped in silk.

Jennie watched her approach, one perfectly shaped brow arching slightly, her expression unreadable yet completely consuming.

“Are you always this mysterious,” Y/N drawled as she reached Jennie’s side, her fingers grazing the edge of the bar. “Or is it just for show?”

Jennie’s lips quirked upward, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Up close, she smelled like vanilla and something expensive, something dangerously alluring. Y/N leaned in, her lips curling into a smirk. “Oh, I’m an open book, baby. You just have to turn the right page.”

Jennie hummed, lifting her glass to her lips. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her dark eyes never leaving Y/N’s. “And what page are we on now?”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to think. “Somewhere between curious glances and flirtatious banter.” She lowered her voice, just enough to make Jennie lean in slightly. “But I think we can skip ahead.”

The tension between them was electric, crackling like static in the air.

Jennie studied her, like she was weighing the consequences, like she was trying to decide if she should let herself fall.

Y/N didn’t wait for permission.

She moved forward, closing the space between them in one fluid motion, her lips capturing Jennie’s before she had time to think.

The kiss tasted like champagne and recklessness, like bad decisions and the kind of adrenaline Y/N never knew how to resist.

Jennie froze for a split second. Y/N felt it. The hesitation, the war happening behind those dark eyes. But then Jennie exhaled softly, and her lips parted just enough for Y/N to take it as an invitation.

Jennie kissed her back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was heat and tension and all the things left unsaid.

Jennie’s fingers brushed against Y/N’s wrist, featherlight, but the touch sent a sharp jolt through her body. She deepened the kiss, just for a moment, just enough to taste the way Y/N sighed into her mouth, before pulling away.

By the time they separated, Y/N’s heart was a riot in her chest. Jennie’s eyes were darker now, unreadable, her breath just a little unsteady.

“Impulsive,” Jennie murmured, her voice like velvet.

Y/N smirked, licking her lips. “You liked it.”

Jennie didn’t deny it. But she didn’t confirm it either. Instead, she took another sip of champagne, gaze never leaving Y/N’s.

For the first time that night, Jennie looked a little bit undone.

Y/N leaned in, close enough that their noses almost brushed. “Come dance with me.” It wasn’t a question.

Jennie hesitated for a fraction of a second. Y/N thought she might say no.

But then Jennie placed her glass down, and without another word, she reached for Y/N’s hand.

Her fingers were warm, steady. Dangerous.

Y/N felt it instantly, that rush, that unmistakable pull in her chest. It wasn’t just about the way Jennie’s hand fit into hers or the way the air around them seemed to hum with something electric. It was the way Jennie looked at her then, eyes dark and unreadable, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew exactly what Y/N was about to do.

And just like that, Y/N knew.

She was already falling.

Falling the way she always did, fast, without hesitation, without caution.

Because Y/N loved the feeling of free-falling.

The rush of it, the thrill, the way the world blurred around her when she let go and let gravity take control. It didn’t scare her, to lose herself in something reckless, something consuming. It made her feel alive.

She was the type to run headfirst into things, to dive in without checking how deep the water was. And Jennie? Jennie was like an ocean. Beautiful, vast, and completely unpredictable.

And Y/N had never been good at resisting the pull of the tide.

Their nights blurred into something hazy and golden, a collection of stolen kisses under city lights and whispered secrets between tangled sheets. It wasn’t just about the physical, the way Jennie’s lips felt against hers, the warmth of her hands on Y/N’s skin, it was everything in between. The way Jennie looked at her when she thought Y/N wasn’t watching, the way her laughter melted into the air when Y/N said something ridiculous, the way she always pulled Y/N closer when she thought she might slip away.

Like now.

They were driving with the windows down, the wind whipping through Y/N’s hair as the car sped down empty streets. The city stretched out around them, glowing in the soft haze of midnight neon. Streetlights flickered as they passed, casting moving shadows across Jennie’s face.

It had rained earlier, just enough to leave the scent of it lingering in the air, fresh and clean, mixing with the faint traces of Jennie’s vanilla perfume.

Y/N turned her head, taking Jennie in.

She wasn’t doing anything particularly remarkable, just driving, fingers wrapped loosely around the steering wheel, her other hand resting lazily on the gear shift. But there was something about her in this moment, the way the light caught in her dark eyes, the easy way she moved, the quiet focus she always had when she was lost in thought.

She was mesmerizing. And she didn’t even realize it.

"You look good like this," Y/N murmured, voice lazy from the warmth of the night and the way Jennie made everything feel infinite.

Jennie’s lips curled at the edges, a barely-there smile, but she kept her gaze on the road. "Like what?"

"Like you belong here," Y/N said, softer than she meant for it to be. "With me."

Jennie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she reached over, fingers ghosting over Y/N’s thigh before settling there, warm and grounding. The touch was light, barely there, but enough.

Y/N’s breath caught, just a little. She swore Jennie could feel it, could sense the way her heartbeat stumbled under her palm.

"Where are we going?" Y/N asked, her voice quieter now.

Jennie finally glanced at her, just for a moment. And in that moment, she looked almost reckless, like she was on the verge of throwing caution to the wind.

"I don’t know," Jennie admitted. "I just like driving with you."

Something about the way she said it made Y/N’s chest tighten.

There was a tenderness to it, a raw honesty that Jennie didn’t usually give away so easily. Y/N let the words settle between them, turning them over in her mind, wondering if Jennie even realized what they meant.

She smiled, tilting her head back against the seat, letting the cool night air kiss her face. "You make everything feel different," she said after a beat.

Jennie hummed, fingers tracing slow circles against Y/N’s skin. "Different how?"

"Like..." Y/N hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Real."

It was true. Everything about this, about Jennie, felt real in a way nothing else ever had. It was intoxicating. Terrifying.

Jennie didn’t respond, but Y/N felt the way her fingers twitched slightly against her thigh, the way her grip tightened just for a second before relaxing again.

And that was the thing about Jennie.

She was here, right now, driving through the city with Y/N at her side, touching her like she never wanted to let go.

But there was always something else, something lingering behind her eyes, something that made Y/N wonder if she was holding on just tight enough to keep Y/N close, but not tight enough to stay.

The thought should have scared Y/N.

But instead, she leaned into the feeling, let herself drown in the warmth of the moment, in the way Jennie’s thumb brushed against her skin absentmindedly.

Maybe she was falling too fast.

But for now, she didn’t care.

They spent nights like this, chasing time as if they could outrun reality.

There was something about being with Jennie that made everything feel like a dream, like the world outside of them didn’t exist. Maybe that’s why Y/N kept falling, faster and faster, clinging to every stolen second like it might slip through her fingers.

They danced in dimly lit rooms, music thrumming beneath their feet, bodies pressed together in ways that blurred the line between comfort and desire. Jennie’s laughter against Y/N’s ear was a melody all on its own, low and breathless, the kind that made Y/N’s stomach flip.

Some nights, they stayed out too late, drinking expensive wine that left them giddy and warm, fingers intertwined beneath tables in candle-lit corners. Other nights, they didn’t bother with the world at all, wrapped in sheets and whispered confessions, tangled limbs and soft sighs.

Jennie tasted like late-night wine and stolen moments, like something Y/N wanted to keep forever.

And for a while, Y/N let herself believe she could.

But there was always something, something just beneath the surface. A hesitation in the way Jennie kissed her sometimes, like she was holding back, like she was afraid to let herself want too much.

The first time Y/N noticed it, she brushed it off.

The way Jennie would pull away first, even when Y/N wanted more. The way her fingers would hover for a second too long before touching Y/N, like she was caught between staying and running.

It was small, barely noticeable.

But Y/N felt it.

And once she noticed it, she couldn’t stop noticing it.

Like the way Jennie went quiet whenever Y/N whispered, “I think about you all the time.” The way she would smile, but never say it back.

Or the way Jennie’s fingers would tighten in Y/N’s grip when they walked side by side, but she never held on too tightly, as if she needed to be able to let go.

Y/N ignored it. At first.

Because maybe, if she pretended not to see the cracks forming beneath the surface, they wouldn’t be real. Maybe, if she kissed Jennie hard enough, held her close enough, she could fix whatever was keeping Jennie from falling all the way.

Because love, for Y/N, had never been something she could do in half-measures.

And Jennie? Jennie had never been the kind of person to crash.

One night, they lay in bed, the city humming outside the window. The air was thick with the scent of rain and something unmistakably them, faint traces of perfume on Jennie’s skin, the lingering warmth of wine on Y/N’s breath, the shared heat between them beneath the sheets.

Jennie’s fingers traced lazy circles over Y/N’s hip, her touch featherlight, absentminded. It was the kind of touch that made Y/N feel cherished, but also the kind that made her wonder if Jennie was afraid of holding on too tight.

Y/N closed her eyes, pressing a soft kiss to Jennie’s collarbone, letting herself sink into the quiet of the moment. But there was something restless in her chest, a question she couldn’t quite shake.

"Tell me something real," Y/N murmured, her lips barely brushing against Jennie’s skin.

Jennie’s fingers paused.

The silence stretched between them, just long enough for Y/N to wonder if Jennie had heard her or if she was choosing not to answer.

Then, finally, a whisper.

"I hate goodbyes."

It was so quiet Y/N almost didn’t catch it, but when she did, something in her chest tightened.

She lifted her head, blinking sleepily. "What do you mean?"

Jennie didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned her gaze toward the ceiling, her dark eyes distant, unreadable.

Y/N watched the way Jennie’s chest rose and fell, slow, measured, as if she were weighing the words before she let them slip.

"I don’t like things that don’t last," Jennie said finally, her voice steady but soft. "That’s why I don’t…" She stopped abruptly, exhaling sharply, as if catching herself before saying too much. "Never mind."

Y/N frowned. Propping herself up on her elbow, she studied Jennie’s face, searching for something, anything, that might tell her what Jennie was too afraid to say.

"That’s why you don’t what?" she pressed gently.

Jennie sighed, shifting slightly beneath the sheets. Her fingers resumed their soft, absentminded tracing along Y/N’s arm, like she needed something to keep her grounded.

"That’s why I don’t let myself fall too easily."

The words were a whisper, but they struck something deep in Y/N’s chest.

Because she knew.

She knew Jennie felt something, something big, something dangerous. She knew it in the way Jennie looked at her when she thought Y/N wasn’t watching. In the way she lingered just a second longer after every kiss. In the way she reached for Y/N’s hand but never quite held it as tightly as Y/N wished she would.

It was there. Real.

But Jennie was still holding back.

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

"But you have fallen," she whispered, her fingers tracing over the delicate skin of Jennie’s wrist. "Haven’t you?"

Jennie’s breath hitched.

For a moment, just a moment, Y/N thought she might finally get the answer she was waiting for.

The one that would make everything feel safe. Certain.

But Jennie only closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the pillow.

"Go to sleep, Y/N," she murmured.

Y/N should have pushed. Should have made her say the words, should have asked why Jennie was so scared of something that already had them both in its grasp.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she curled closer, pressing her forehead against Jennie’s shoulder, trying to pretend that Jennie’s silence didn’t say everything she already knew.

That night, she dreamt of falling.

And when she woke up, she wasn’t sure Jennie would be there to catch her.

The beginning of the end wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t screaming or slamming doors. There were no shattered glasses, no accusations hurled like weapons.

It was quiet. Soft in a way that made it worse, like the slow unraveling of a thread, like an ember burning out in the palm of her hand.

Like drowning in an ocean so gently, she hadn’t realized she was sinking until it was too late.

And it started at a party.

A rooftop stretched high above the city, the air thick with summer heat and the faint scent of rain lingering from earlier in the evening. Golden fairy lights were strung overhead, flickering against the inky sky, casting warm halos against the glasses in people’s hands. Music hummed low beneath the chatter, background noise, almost distant, like a heartbeat fading away.

Y/N had been standing at the edge of the crowd, Jennie beside her, the two of them tucked away from the center of attention but never fully unnoticed.

Jennie looked stunning, in that effortless way she always did, dark hair cascading in soft waves, red lips curled in a knowing, unreadable smile. She wasn’t even trying, but Y/N couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop reaching for her.

Fingers brushing. A touch against the small of her back. Their laughter tangling in the thick air between them, warm and easy.

Y/N had felt light that night. Weightless in the way you feel when you know someone is yours.

She could still taste the remnants of wine on her tongue, could still feel the ghost of Jennie’s lips against her cheek from earlier, just a whisper of a kiss, fleeting but felt.

She had been happy.

And then it happened.

A casual conversation, the kind you don’t expect to change anything, the kind that should’ve been nothing more than passing words.

But sometimes, words were enough to ruin everything.

"So, are you two together?"

The question had been lighthearted, teasing. The kind of thing people asked when they already knew the answer.

Y/N had smiled without hesitation, already feeling the response settle into her bones, already hearing Jennie’s voice in her head, saying, Yeah, she’s mine. We’re together.

But Jennie hesitated.

It was barely a second. But Y/N felt it.

Like a shift in gravity, like the ground slipping out from under her feet.

Then, Jennie laughed, smooth, effortless, but the answer came too late.

"We’re just… having fun."

Just. Having. Fun.

The words lodged in Y/N’s chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving.

She didn’t know what hurt more, that Jennie had said it, or that she hadn’t even looked at Y/N when she did.

Her stomach twisted. She forced out a small laugh, nodding along, pretending like it didn’t feel like the floor had disappeared beneath her.

Jennie must have noticed something in the way Y/N tensed beside her, but she didn’t say anything. Just kept sipping her drink, like nothing had changed.

But for Y/N, everything had.

The rest of the night passed in a blur.

Laughter, conversation, the steady hum of music, none of it registered. The fairy lights were too bright, the room too loud, the air too thick, pressing against her chest.

Jennie stayed by her side, fingers grazing hers, lips brushing the shell of her ear when she whispered something Y/N didn’t quite catch. But it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered after those words.

"We’re just having fun."

The words replayed in her head, over and over, like a cruel joke.

Maybe she had been stupid, maybe she had assumed too much, maybe, somewhere deep down, she had known all along.

Because Jennie had never given her the words she wanted. Had never said them first. Had never held on as tightly as Y/N had.

She had felt it.

She had known.

And still, she had let herself fall.

Later, when the party had faded into nothing but a lingering scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes, when the city was quieter, emptier, Y/N sat on Jennie’s bed, watching the other girl move around the room.

Jennie was quiet, her back to Y/N as she undid the clasp of her necklace, letting it fall onto the nightstand with a faint clink.

The air between them felt fragile, like one wrong move would shatter it completely.

Jennie must have felt it too, because she turned, stepping closer, reaching for Y/N’s hand.

"Hey," Jennie murmured, voice softer now, thumb tracing circles against Y/N’s skin. "Are you okay?"

Y/N let out a small laugh, but it was hollow. Empty.

"Am I okay?"

Jennie frowned, brows knitting together in concern. "Y/N…"

"We’re just having fun."

The words came out quieter than Y/N expected, but they still carried weight. She lifted her gaze, searching Jennie’s face, trying to see something, anything, that would tell her that Jennie hadn’t meant it.

That maybe, just maybe, it had been a lie.

But Jennie’s face was unreadable, and that hurt the most.

"That’s what this is to you?" Y/N whispered.

Jennie exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "You’re twisting my words."

Y/N’s jaw clenched. "No, I’m hearing your words. For the first time, maybe."

Jennie’s gaze flickered away.

Y/N felt something sharp dig into her ribs. That same feeling, that same hesitation that had been there all along, lingering in Jennie’s kisses, in her touches, in the way she always almost held on.

She had ignored it before. Had convinced herself it wasn’t real.

But it was.

"Do you even love me?"

The question escaped before she could stop it.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jennie’s breath hitched.

And for a moment, just a moment, Y/N swore she saw it. The answer, trembling behind Jennie’s lips.

But Jennie didn’t say it. Didn’t move. Didn’t fight.

And suddenly, Y/N knew.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She shook her head, standing, grabbing her jacket.

"Wait,"

"No." Y/N turned, her voice breaking. "I can’t do this anymore."

Jennie’s brows furrowed, something desperate flickering in her gaze. "Y/N, please,"

"Please what?" Y/N’s voice cracked. "Please stay and pretend like this is enough for me? Like I can just be someone you kiss in the dark, someone you almost love?"

Jennie sucked in a breath, but she still didn’t say the words Y/N needed to hear.

And Y/N? She was so tired of waiting.

She stepped back, the distance between them stretching wider than the room itself.

"I’ve been falling for you since the moment I met you." Her voice was quieter now, exhausted. Defeated. "And you’ve been standing still."

Jennie flinched.

But she still didn’t move.

She didn’t reach for her, didn’t close the distance between them, didn’t even try to fix what was already unraveling between her fingers. She just stood there, silent and still, like a statue carved from hesitation and fear. And Y/N could feel her heart breaking in real time, cracking open under the weight of all the words Jennie refused to say.

She took a slow, shaky breath, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes, and turned toward the door. Her footsteps felt heavy, like her body was protesting, like some desperate part of her still wanted to stay, to wait just a little longer, to hope.

But hope had never been kind to fools like her.

Behind her, Jennie inhaled sharply, the kind of breath that sounded like the beginning of a confession or maybe a plea, but Y/N had learned better than to hold on to things that never came.

So she waited.

One last time.

She waited for Jennie to stop her, to reach for her, to fight for something, anything.

She wanted to hear her name spoken like it mattered. She wanted Jennie to say stay, to give her a reason not to walk away, to choose her in the way Y/N had always, always chosen Jennie.

But the silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until it became the only answer she would ever get.

Jennie hesitated.

And in that hesitation, Y/N slipped through her fingers, one step, then another, until the door clicked shut behind her.

She didn’t look back.

And Jennie let her go.

The first few days passed in a blur.

Y/N had always thought heartbreak would feel like something sharp, something immediate, like ripping off a bandage or stepping on shattered glass. But this… this was different.

It was slow, creeping, the kind of pain that settled into the spaces between her ribs and refused to leave.

She went through the motions of living, pretending she was fine, pretending she wasn’t waiting for something. A knock at the door, a name flashing across her screen, a reason to turn around and fix what had been broken between them.

But there was nothing.

Only silence.

The city hadn’t changed.

It still pulsed with life, still hummed with the same restless energy that had once made Y/N feel alive. The streets still buzzed with movement, neon lights flickering against the wet pavement, a kaleidoscope of colors stretching into the night. Taxis honked, music spilled from open windows, laughter drifted from bars where people gathered, unaware that the world, her world, felt unbearably still.

Everything looked the same.

But somehow, nothing felt the same.

Everywhere she turned, there was a ghost of something she wasn’t ready to face.

The small café on the corner, the one with the lopsided chairs and terrible coffee, she used to love it, used to claim it was so bad it was good. That was where Jennie had first reached across the table, absentmindedly tracing lazy patterns against Y/N’s wrist while talking about nothing and everything. She had done it so often that Y/N had started expecting it, had started needing it, the warmth of Jennie’s fingertips on her skin, the unspoken comfort of it.

Now, she couldn’t bring herself to go back.

Then there was the bookstore by the subway, the one that always smelled like old paper and fresh rain, where the aisles were too narrow and the owner always played soft jazz from an old record player. That was where Jennie had once pulled her between the shelves, away from prying eyes, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Y/N’s jaw before murmuring, “Shhh, we’re gonna get caught.” Y/N had laughed, breathless, pushing at Jennie’s shoulder even as she tilted her head to give her better access.

They never did get caught.

Now, Y/N couldn’t step onto that platform without hearing the echo of Jennie’s laughter, without feeling the ghost of her lips brushing against her skin.

Even her own apartment felt wrong.

The sheets had been washed, twice, maybe three times, but they still carried traces of Jennie’s perfume, that soft, expensive scent that clung to the air like a whisper. Her presence lingered in every room, in the half-empty bottle of wine on the counter from the last night Jennie had stayed over, in the sweatshirt she had borrowed and forgotten to take back.

Y/N had thought about throwing it away, about erasing every last remnant of her.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

And maybe that was the worst part, because the memories weren’t bad.

They weren’t sharp-edged or painful, weren’t laced with regret or anger. They were warm, golden, flashes of happiness that should have been comforting.

But instead, they felt like tiny betrayals.

How could something that had once felt so safe now feel so distant?

How could Jennie have loved her in every way except the one that mattered most?

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing her fingertips to her temple, willing the ache away.

She should stop thinking about her. She should let it go. She should move on.

But her heart was still somewhere else.

Still standing in that room, waiting for Jennie to say something. Still hoping.

And god, wasn’t that the cruelest part of it all?

Jennie hadn’t slept much. Not since that night.

Not since she had watched Y/N walk away without looking back, disappearing through the door like she had never been there at all.

The hours blurred together, long and sleepless, stretching endlessly between dusk and dawn. Night after night, Jennie lay awake, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible shapes against the sheets that still smelled like Y/N. It was a cruel trick of the senses, the way scent could linger long after someone was gone. No matter how many times she buried her face into her pillow, no matter how many times she told herself to forget, it was always there.

She told herself this was for the best. That it had always been inevitable. That Y/N was better off without someone who hesitated when it mattered most.

But the lie unraveled at the edges, thin and fragile, unable to hold under the weight of her thoughts.

Because Jennie couldn’t stop thinking.

Couldn’t stop replaying the moment Y/N had stood in front of her, eyes searching, heart wide open, waiting for Jennie to meet her halfway. Couldn’t stop hearing the way her voice had cracked, the way her breath had hitched just before she had stepped back, just before she had given up.

Please, just say something.

She had said nothing. She had let her go.

Jennie had never been good at falling.

Not the way Y/N was.

Y/N had always loved like it was second nature, like she didn’t know how to hold back. She threw herself into things completely, fearlessly, unafraid of the impact waiting at the bottom. Jennie had always admired that about her, had envied it, even.

But she couldn’t match it.

She had spent so much time guarding herself, convincing herself that love like that, love so reckless, so all-consuming, was dangerous. That it was safer to keep her distance, safer to stand on the edge rather than risk the fall.

But now? Now, she was paying the price for it.

The apartment was too quiet.

She still reached for Y/N in the middle of the night, only to be met with nothing but cold sheets. She still expected to hear her voice in the kitchen in the morning, still thought she’d turn a corner and find Y/N standing there, wrapped in one of Jennie’s hoodies, flashing her that easy, radiant smile.

But the space beside her remained empty. The apartment stayed silent. The walls no longer echoed with laughter, only the weight of everything Jennie hadn’t said.

And maybe Y/N was never coming back.

Jennie clenched her jaw, running a hand through her hair, frustration curling tight in her chest.

She had thought about calling. About texting. About something.

She had picked up her phone a hundred times, fingers hovering over the screen, trying to find the right words.

“I’m sorry.” “Come back.” “I should have said it when you needed me to.”

But none of it felt like enough.

Because what did apologies matter when they came too late?

So she did nothing, and the silence stretched, suffocating and endless.

Y/N sat by the window, knees pulled up to her chest, watching the city move without her.

Beyond the glass, the streets pulsed with life, headlights slicing through the darkness, neon signs flickering in a language she no longer felt fluent in. People wandered in and out of bars, laughter spilling into the night, taxi doors slamming shut, conversations buzzing through the air like static. The world was still spinning, untouched by the ache sitting heavy in her chest.

She should be fine by now.

She should be over it.

That’s what everyone kept telling her. That she would wake up one morning and the weight of Jennie would feel a little lighter, that her name wouldn’t taste quite so bitter, that the memories would start fading like ink washed away by time.

But heartbreak had its own timeline, its own cruel way of making you think you were okay, only to hit you like a wave when you least expected it.

And god, did it hit her now.

It crashed over her in the quiet moments, in the spaces Jennie used to fill. It settled into her bones, curled up inside her chest like something waiting to be felt, refusing to be ignored.

The worst part? She didn’t even want to let it go.

Her phone buzzed against the wooden table beside her.

She ignored it at first, assuming it was another well-meaning message from a friend checking in, asking if she wanted to talk about it, if she had been sleeping, eating, breathing properly.

Y/N didn’t have the heart to tell them that breathing wasn’t the problem. It was that every inhale still carried traces of Jennie, and every exhale felt like she was losing her all over again.

But then she felt a shift in the air, an instinct she couldn’t name.

She reached for her phone, fingers curling around it before flipping it over.

And suddenly, she couldn’t breathe at all.

Jennie [2:14 AM]: “Can we talk?”

Y/N’s heart stopped.

The city outside blurred at the edges, the neon lights smearing into streaks of color, the sounds fading into nothing but white noise. Everything else disappeared, because in this moment, it was just her and that message.

She stared at the screen, fingers trembling slightly, waiting, hoping, for more.

But nothing came.

No follow-up. No explanation.

Just those three words, sitting there like a half-finished sentence, like Jennie had almost said something before stopping herself.

And wasn’t that the story of them?

Jennie, almost loving her. Jennie, almost choosing her. Jennie, almost saying the words.

Her breath came in uneven pulls, her chest tight, her thumb hovering over the keyboard as a thousand thoughts collided all at once.

She could respond or she could ignore it. She could call Jennie right now, demand to know what she was trying to say, demand to know why it had taken this long for her to finally reach out.

Part of her wanted to. God, did she want to.

But another part, one that was still nursing the wounds Jennie had left behind, was afraid.

Because what if this was just another hesitation? What if Jennie had typed it out with every intention of fixing what had broken between them, only to realize, at the last second, that she still didn’t know how? What if this wasn’t hope at all? What if it was just another goodbye, disguised as something else?

Y/N swallowed hard, her grip tightening around the phone.

Her mind screamed at her to do something, to make a choice, to stop lingering in this purgatory of almosts.

And then another buzz came.

Jennie [2:26 AM]: “Please.”

Y/N inhaled sharply, the single word settling heavy in her chest.

Jennie had hesitated before.

But maybe this time, she wasn’t pulling away, and for the first time in weeks, Y/N truly didn’t know what to do.

[octaneink]

Cough I'm Sick

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will is sick. Or is he really? Warnings: None Notes: This is based on what was requested from this ask really hope I did it justice 🤞

The soft patter of rain against your window filled the quiet room, a steady rhythm that matched the lazy scrolling of your thumb across your phone screen. You were halfway through a video when a notification popped up, breaking the monotony.

It was from Will.

Will (10:43 AM): Hey… I think I’m sick.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, the words sinking in. Will wasn’t the type to complain. He was the kind of person who’d power through a migraine with a grin and a joke. For him to admit he wasn’t feeling well? That was unusual.

You quickly typed back.

You (10:43 AM): What’s wrong? Do you need anything?

The three dots appeared almost instantly, and you could almost picture him slumped on his couch, phone in hand, trying to muster the energy to type.

Will (10:44 AM): I don’t know… my throat hurts, and I feel kind of weak. Maybe it’s just a cold, but I feel awful.

Your chest tightened. Without thinking, you were on your feet, your phone tossed onto the bed as you grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. The keys jingled as you snatched them off the bedside table, and you were halfway to the door before you remembered to reply.

You (10:44 AM): I’m coming over. Don’t move.

You didn’t wait for a response. The rain outside was heavier now, the kind that soaked through your shoes if you weren’t careful, but you barely noticed. Your mind was already racing—what did he need? Soup? Medicine? A blanket? You mentally catalogued the contents of your pantry as you hurried to your car, the rain dripping from your hair.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Will set his phone down on the couch cushion beside him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The living room was dim, the grey light from the overcast sky filtering through the blinds. He’d set the stage perfectly—a blanket haphazardly draped over his legs, a box of tissues strategically placed on the coffee table, and a half-empty glass of water that he’d been sipping to make his throat sound scratchy.

He leaned back against the cushions, letting out a practiced cough for good measure. It wasn’t his finest performance—he’d definitely overdone it with the dramatic sigh earlier—but it was enough to get your attention. And that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

The guilt gnawed at him a little as he thought about how quickly you’d responded. You hadn’t even hesitated. But he pushed the feeling aside, focusing instead on the way your voice had softened over the phone last week when you’d talked about taking care of your best friend after she’d come down with the flu. You’d sounded so caring. And he’d been so busy lately, barely able to squeeze in a quick call between work and editing and everything else. He’d cancelled plans with you three times that month alone, each time promising, “Next week, I’ll make it up to you.” But next week never came, and the distance between you had started to feel like a chasm he didn’t know how to cross.

This was his chance to fix that.

He glanced at the clock, calculating how long it would take you to get here. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen if the rain slowed you down. He adjusted the blanket, mussed his hair a little more, and let out another cough—this one a little quieter, a little more convincing.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made his heart skip. He quickly schooled his expression into one of pitiful exhaustion, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes.

The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle by the time you reached Will’s flat, though your shoes were still damp from the earlier downpour. You fumbled with your keys for a moment before letting yourself in, the familiar creak of the door a comforting sound. The warmth of the flat wrapped around you like a hug, a stark contrast to the chilly air outside.

You toed off your shoes by the door, leaving them neatly on the mat, and hung your jacket on the hook beside his. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the comforting smell of fresh laundry.

“Will?” you called softly, your voice carrying down the hall.

There was no immediate response, just the faint sound of the TV murmuring in the background. You padded through the flat in your socks, the hardwood floor cool beneath your feet, until you reached the living room.

And there he was.

Will was sprawled across the sofa, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito that had seen better days. His hair was a tousled mess, sticking up in odd directions as though he’d been running his hands through it all morning. His face was pale, save for the faint pink flush on his cheeks, and his eyes were half-closed, as if even keeping them open was a struggle.

“Hey,” he croaked, his voice rough and scratchy. It sounded like he��d been gargling gravel, though you didn’t know he’d been practising that exact tone for the better part of an hour.

“Oh, Will,” you said, your voice softening as you hurried to his side. You knelt beside the sofa, reaching out to press the back of your hand to his forehead. His skin was cool, no sign of a fever, but the way he leaned into your touch made your chest tighten.

“You don’t feel warm,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Will let out a dramatic cough, the kind that sounded like it had been dredged up from the depths of his lungs. “I feel terrible,” he rasped, his voice cracking on the last word for added effect.

You frowned, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His hair was softer than you’d expected, and for a moment, you let your fingers linger, tracing the line of his brow. “Don’t worry,” you said gently. “I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”

Will’s breath hitched, just slightly, and he had to fight the urge to smile. He hadn’t expected you to be this sweet. The way you were looking at him—your brow furrowed in concern, your eyes soft and warm—made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his fake illness.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice quieter now, less performative. He shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was to sell the act or to hide the guilt creeping up on him.

You stayed there for a moment, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, before standing up. “Right,” you said, your tone shifting to something more practical. “Tea first, then we’ll see about getting some proper food into you.”

Will watched as you moved towards the kitchen, your socks barely making a sound on the floor. He sank back into the sofa, the guilt gnawing at him more insistently now. You were going to so much trouble for him, and here he was, lying through his teeth.

But then you glanced back at him from the kitchen doorway, a small smile playing on your lips. “Don’t fall asleep on me, yeah? I’m not carrying you to bed.”

Will chuckled, the sound turning into another cough halfway through. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though the way his eyes followed you as you disappeared into the kitchen suggested otherwise.

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity, with you slipping into full nurse mode. Will watched from his cocoon of blankets as you moved around his kitchen, the soft clink of utensils and the gentle hum of the kettle filling the room. The rain had picked up again outside, tapping against the windows in a steady rhythm, but inside, the flat felt warm and cosy—thanks in no small part to your efforts.

You started with tea, because of course you did. Will could hear the faint rustle of the teabag as you dunked it into the mug, the hot water turning a pale golden hue almost instantly. The sharp, citrussy tang of fresh lemon filled the air as you squeezed a wedge into the mug, the juice swirling into the steaming liquid. Next came the honey—a generous spoonful drizzled in, its golden richness catching the light as you stirred it slowly, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic.

“Here,” you said, setting the mug down on the coffee table in front of him. “Drink this. It’ll help your throat.”

Will reached for the mug, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. “Cheers,” he said, his voice still rough, though this time it wasn’t entirely for show. He took a careful sip, the warmth spreading through him immediately. The honey coated his throat, smooth and sweet, while the lemon added a refreshing sharpness that cut through the heaviness of his guilt.

You didn’t stop there. Next came the pillows. You fluffed them with a precision that bordered on comical, plumping them up before arranging them behind his back just so. Will couldn’t help but smile as you fussed over him, though he quickly masked it with a cough when you glanced his way.

“Comfortable?” you asked, stepping back to survey your handiwork.

“Very,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. “You’re a natural at this, you know.”

You shrugged, but there was a hint of pride in your smile as you turned back to the kitchen. “Just wait until you try the soup.”

Will’s stomach twisted at that. Soup? You were making soup from scratch? He hadn’t expected you to go this far. He watched as you pulled out a pot and began chopping vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board oddly calming. The guilt was starting to gnaw at him in earnest now.

By the time you handed him the bowl, the rich aroma of chicken and vegetables filling the air, Will felt like the worst person alive. The soup looked incredible—golden broth, tender chunks of chicken, and just the right amount of carrot and celery. You’d even added a sprinkle of parsley on top, because of course you had.

“Here,” you said, handing him the bowl and a spoon. “Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.”

Will took the bowl, his fingers brushing against yours again. The warmth of the ceramic seeped into his palms, but it felt heavy, like he was holding something he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Thanks… you’re amazing, you know that?”

You smiled, sitting down on the edge of the sofa beside him. “Of course I know that. Now eat up.”

He nodded, stirring the soup absently with the spoon. The first spoonful was warm and comforting, the kind of food that felt like a hug in a bowl. But the warmth turned bitter on his tongue, the savoury flavours clashing with the sour taste of his own dishonesty.

As he ate, you reached over and brushed a strand of hair from his face, your fingers lingering for just a moment. Will’s breath caught, his heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with his fake illness.

“You’re sweating,” you said, your brow furrowing. “Are you sure you’re not running a fever?”

Will shook his head quickly, though he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “No, no fever. Just… warm under all these blankets.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze so intense that he had to look away. “Alright,” you said finally, leaning back. “But if you start feeling worse, you’d better tell me.”

“I will,” he promised, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

You stayed there for a while, sitting beside him as he pretended to eat, your presence a quiet comfort. Will couldn’t decide if this was the best or worst plan he’d ever come up with. On one hand, he had your undivided attention, your gentle touches, and your soft smiles. On the other, the guilt was really starting to eat him alive.

When you finally stood up to take the empty bowl back to the kitchen, Will let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He sank back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

The TV flickered softly in the dimly lit room, casting a warm glow over the two of you. You’d put on one of Will’s favourite films—a comedy he’d quoted endlessly the first time you’d watched it together. He’d protested weakly when you suggested it, claiming he was “too poorly” to focus, but you’d insisted.

“It’ll take your mind off things,” you’d said, handing him the remote.

Now, halfway through the film, Will was perched on the edge of the sofa, his blanket slipping off one shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the screen, his earlier lethargy seemingly forgotten. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, noting the way his shoulders shook with silent laughter as the main character stumbled into yet another absurd situation.

It was the scene where the hapless hero accidentally set his trousers on fire while trying to impress a love interest. Will had always found it hysterical, and tonight was no exception. He let out a loud, unrestrained laugh, the sound filling the room before he caught himself and clamped a hand over his mouth.

You turned to him slowly, one eyebrow arched. “You seem… energetic for someone who’s supposed to be sick.”

Will froze, his laughter dying in his throat. For a split second, panic flashed across his face before he quickly broke into a coughing fit, doubling over for good measure. “Oh, no,” he rasped between coughs, his voice deliberately rough. “I’m definitely sick. Just… laughing through the pain, you know?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Will could feel the weight of your scrutiny, the way your eyes seemed to see right through him. He shifted uncomfortably under the blanket, suddenly very aware of how warm the room felt.

“Right,” you said finally, your tone neutral but laced with something he couldn’t quite place. “Laughing through the pain. Got it.”

You turned back to the TV, but Will noticed the way your lips twitched, as if you were fighting a smile. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a very, very bad one.

The film continued, but the mood had shifted. Will tried to keep up the act, letting out the occasional cough or sigh, but it felt forced now. He couldn’t shake the feeling that you were onto him. Every time he glanced your way, you seemed to be studying him, your expression unreadable.

At one point, you reached for the remote and paused the film, turning to him with a thoughtful look. “Do you need anything? More tea? Another blanket?”

Will shook his head quickly, perhaps too quickly. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

You nodded, but the way your eyes narrowed slightly told him you weren’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” you said, standing up. “I’m just going to grab a glass of water. Don’t move.”

As soon as you were out of the room, Will let out a long, shaky breath. He slumped back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair.

This was really hard.

When you returned, glass in hand, you paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. Will was staring at the paused screen, his brow furrowed as if deep in thought. You couldn’t help but notice the way his cheeks flushed when he realised you were there.

“Everything okay?” you asked, your voice soft but probing.

Will nodded, forcing a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

You hummed in response, setting the glass down on the coffee table. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.”

Will nodded again, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were seeing right through him. As you settled back onto the sofa, he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

The evening light had faded to a soft, golden glow, casting long shadows across the living room. Will sat on the sofa, the blanket still draped over his legs, though it felt heavier now—not from warmth, but from the weight of his guilt. You were in the kitchen, humming softly as you prepared yet another cup of tea for him. The sound of the kettle whistling and the clink of the spoon against the mug were familiar and comforting, but they only made the knot in his stomach tighten.

When you returned, tea in hand, you settled beside him on the sofa, your knee brushing against his. “Here,” you said, passing him the mug. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Will took it, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the warm ceramic. He stared into the steaming liquid, the faint scent of chamomile and honey filling his nose. His throat felt dry, but not from the fake illness he’d been pretending to have all day.

“Will?” you said, your voice soft but laced with concern. “You’ve gone quiet. Are you feeling worse?”

He shook his head quickly, his grip tightening on the mug. “No, I’m… I’m not sick.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, his voice barely above a whisper. You blinked, setting your own mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

Will sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was messier than usual, sticking up in odd directions from all the times he’d nervously tugged at it throughout the day. “I faked it,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m not sick. I just… I wanted to spend time with you. I’ve been so busy lately, and I missed you. And when I saw how you took care of your friend last week, I thought… maybe if I was sick, you’d do the same for me.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your expression unreadable. Will’s heart pounded in his chest, the silence stretching between you like a taut wire. Then, to his utter surprise, you started laughing.

It wasn’t a polite chuckle or a stifled giggle—it was a full, unrestrained laugh that made your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle at the corners. Will stared at you, his cheeks flushing red as he tried to process what was happening.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head. “You really thought faking sick was the best way to get my attention?”

Will opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “In my defence, it worked.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your lips softened the gesture. “You’re lucky I love you, you big dork.”

Will’s chest swelled with relief, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time all day. “So… you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. But the way your lips twitched, fighting back a smile, betrayed your words. “But I’m also impressed. That was a pretty elaborate scheme.”

Will reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice earnest. “I just… I really missed you.”

Your expression softened, the playful sternness melting away. “I missed you too,” you admitted, squeezing his hand. “But next time, just tell me, okay? You don’t have to fake being sick to get cuddles.”

Will laughed, the sound warm and genuine as he pulled you closer. “Noted. But just so you know, I’m totally using this as an excuse to get more of your soup.”

You playfully shoved him, though there was no real force behind it. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love me,” he said, grinning as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple.

“Yeah,” you admitted, leaning into his side with a contented sigh. “I do.”

The two of you sat there for a moment, the silence comfortable now, the tension from his confession completely dissolved. Will’s thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, his earlier guilt replaced by a quiet contentment. You tilted your head, studying him with a soft smile.

“Come on, then,” you said, your voice gentle as you shifted on the sofa.

Will raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Come on, what?”

You rolled your eyes, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Don’t play dumb. You went through all this trouble for cuddles, didn’t you? So come here.”

Will didn’t need to be told twice. He set his mug of tea on the coffee table and moved closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were savouring the moment. You leaned back against the arm of the sofa, opening your arms to him. Will settled between your legs, his head resting on your chest, his arms wrapping around your waist.

The warmth of his body against yours was instantly comforting, and you couldn’t help but smile as you felt him relax into you. His breath was steady, his heartbeat a soft rhythm against your side. You reached up, your fingers gently carding through his hair, the strands soft and slightly messy from the day.

Will let out a contented sigh, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “This is nice,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your shirt. “And… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied. I just didn’t know how else to tell you I missed you.”

Your fingers stilled in his hair for a moment, then resumed their gentle rhythm. “I missed you too,” you said softly. “But next time, just say it, okay? No more fake coughs or dramatic sighs.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against you. “No promises. But I’ll try.”

You shook your head, though you were smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love me,” he said, tilting his head just enough to look up at you, his grin cheeky.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice soft. You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, lingering for a moment. “I really do.”

You reached for the remote, unpausing the movie. The familiar soundtrack filled the room, but neither of you was really paying attention. Will’s arms tightened around your waist, his head nestling more firmly against your chest. Your hand continued its gentle rhythm through his hair, occasionally drifting down to trace the line of his jaw or the curve of his shoulder.

Will let out another sigh, this one deeper, more relaxed. “You’re really good at this,” he said, his voice drowsy.

“At what?” you asked, your fingers stilling for a moment.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the two of you. “Taking care of me. Making me feel… I don’t know. Safe.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You don’t have to fake being sick for that, either,” you said softly. “I’ll always take care of you.”

Will didn’t respond, but the way he squeezed you a little tighter told you he’d heard. The movie played on in the background, the dialogue and music blending into a soothing hum. Will’s breathing grew slower, more even, and you realised he was drifting off.

You smiled to yourself, your hand still moving gently through his hair. Maybe his plan had been ridiculous, but as you sat there, wrapped up in each other, you couldn’t bring yourself to mind.

Hehehe 😁 What do people think? I hope no one minds the back and forth of the perspectives/didn't find it too confusing.

[meazalykov]

remote control

sydney lohmann x f!reader

you and your bestfriend thought that this was supposed to be a night for binge-watching.

warnings: spicy, no smut though. bestfriends to lovers.

a glow on your tv flickers across the darkened living room, casting soft shadows over the walls, and over your dark wooden coffee table cluttered with takeout containers and half-full glasses of water.

the newest season of the show you and sydney had been waiting for finally dropped, and there was no way you were missing out on watching it together since the both of you had no training or games tomorrow.

so here you both were, curled up on your fluffy ivory colored couch, a comfortable silence filling the air between the two of you in your fluorescent light room, the only sound being the dialogue and occasional soundtrack from the show.

except, something felt different tonight.

it's different, not in a bad way. you could feel something lingering, hovering over you like a phantom touch, something invisible yet entirely tangible.

maybe it was the way sydney had made herself comfortable, her legs casually thrown over your lap like it was second nature. maybe it was the way her arm pressed against yours, the warmth of her body radiating through the fabric of soft blue shirt, seeping into your skin or maybe it was just the weight of your own thoughts, your own desires, years of unspoken truth sitting heavy in your chest like stones in water.

it had taken so much out of you to try and distance yourself from her. the late nights spent overthinking, the ignored texts that burned in your inbox, the way you forced yourself to act like everything was fine when in reality, it was terrible.

you had convinced yourself that putting space between your bestfriend and yourself would be the only way to cope with this overwhelming feeling inside of you.

the way your heart clenched when syd smiled at you during training, the way her laugh made your stomach flip, the way you wanted so badly to be more than just her best friend.

it was unbearable for a while.

actually, to tell you the truth, it was worse than unbearable. you hated yourself for it. you hated the way it felt wrong to push her away, like tearing apart something that was never meant to be broken.

so instead, you settled. you kept her close, cherished her presence, convinced yourself that having her platonically was better than losing her altogether.

if this was the only way you could have her, you would take it, even if it left you aching at night.

right now sydney shifts slightly, adjusting herself, and you glance at her briefly before returning your attention to the screen.

suddenly, you feel it.

her eyes.

staring.

your heat crawls up your neck, the hairs on your arms standing on edge as you turn your head towards her, caught off guard by the intensity of her gaze.

she doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she had been watching you. there’s no shame in her expression, no embarrassment since it is just something unreadable that sends a shiver down your spine.

“what?” you ask, a nervous chuckle escaping your lips, trying to play it off as lighthearted.

“something on my face?”

she doesn’t blink. doesn’t waver. doesn’t hesitate.

“no,” she says, her voice softer than usual, lower.

“you just look so pretty.”

something tightens in your chest. your breath catches in your throat, and you swallow thickly, your fingers curling against your thigh.

you laugh again, but it’s weak, unconvincing, “you’re just saying that.”

“i’m not,” she murmurs, and the way she says it...so honest, so certain... it makes your stomach flip.

it’s nothing, you tell yourself. she’s just being friendly. she’s always been affectionate, always been the type to throw out compliments without a second thought. however, something about this moment feels different like she’s waiting for something.

it escalates when she touches you.

it’s subtle at first. syd's fingertips grazing your knee, barely there, featherlight. your breath is caught in your throat when you feel her palm sliding up your thigh, settling just above your inner thigh, holding it firmly.

your entire body tenses, your breath faltering, your pulse hammering against your ribcage.

you should pull away. you should say something.

you don’t. you can’t. instead, you lean in, your body instinctively drawn to hers, as if you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life.

you don’t even realize how close you are until her scent invades your senses...warm, vanilla, intoxicating.

your eyes meet and syd's pupils are blown, her lips parted slightly, her breath uneven.

almost in sync, both of your gazes flicker downward...to each other’s lips.

something snaps.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s her. maybe it’s you. suddenly, her lips are on yours, and you’re kissing her like you’ve been starved for this moment, like every second you spent denying yourself of her only made this more intense.

it’s not slow. it’s not hesitant. it’s desperate, filled with years of tension, years of wanting, years and many seasons of trying to convince yourself that this would never happen.

syd's hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you let out a soft whimper against her mouth, your fingers gripping onto her hoodie like you’re afraid she might disappear.

she takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, her tongue slipping past your lips, claiming, exploring, tasting. it’s overwhelming, the way she consumes you, the way she makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

you don’t even care that you need air. you don’t care that your lungs are burning, that your head is spinning.

all you want is more. more of her. more of this. more of everything you’ve ever been too afraid to admit.

she pulls back slightly, panting, her forehead resting against yours, but you don’t let her go.

your lips chase hers, needy, desperate, swallowing her breath like you can’t stand to be apart from her for even a second. she laughs against your mouth, a breathless, husky sound that makes you shiver, and then she’s kissing you again, just as eager, just as feverish.

the world around you ceases to exist. that show, whatever it was, continues playing in the background, forgotten. the room is dimly lit, but all you can see is her and all you can feel is her. the warmth of her hands on your body, the way she holds you like she’s afraid to let go.

this lasts for minutes. maybe ten. maybe forever. you don’t know. all you know is that when you finally break apart, gasping for air, your lips are swollen, your heart is racing, and sydney is looking at you like she’s just found the one thing she’s been searching for her entire life.

masterlist

authors note: I've been on a sydney kick lately

[luveline]

hi jade! may I request about spidergirl and miguel? I missed them so much. maybe that she never experience valentine's? and she didn't expect miguel to do anything since he doesnt seems like the type of romantic guy. BUTTT i dunno I just missed them dearly :(((

ty for requesting !! —miguel surprises his forgetful spidergirl!reader with a small gesture of his affection on Valentine’s Day.

“Like, purpose,” you say, running your fingers over the plush carpeting beneath you. “You have a divine purpose, and I’m your girlfriend.”

“I can’t hear you.” 

You raise your face. You can’t see Miguel, his body blocked by the white of the bed sheets in the way. “I’m just whining.” 

“Come and whine over here, where I can hear you.” 

You like his voice, so you listen. Not because he’s said it very kindly; he’s too bossy. You also like bossy, but that’s not the point. He shouldn’t always get what he wants.

“Do you not like being my girlfriend?” he asks conversationally, his broad back to you as he shakes the frying pan. He’s frying onion and potato for a tortilla española, a thick Spanish omelette made with ample oil. It’s your favourite of his many dishes, your mouth watering as you stand there. 

“It’s fine.” 

He reaches back for you and grabs at you blindly, though having a spider sense means he’s coordinated regardless. You slide under his arm, can’t believe you’re there —a few months ago he’d glare at you whenever you smiled at him, and now he’s holding you, pressing a slight of a kiss to your temple without a second thought. Though you’re sure now he’d been glaring because he was agitated to have a crush on, back then you’d thought he didn’t like you, which wasn’t half as fun. 

Still, you clocked on eventually. People who don’t like someone don’t usually spend so long looking at said someone’s lips. 

“Fine isn’t ideal.”

“You’re too clingy,” you say as you curl your arms around him. 

“I know,” he murmurs into your skin. “What do you want to drink this morning, mi hermosa?”

You can’t decide. Miguel makes you a tall glass of water, a similar orange juice, and a frankly audacious cup of hot chocolate. It’s thick enough to cling to your spoon as you stir it. 

“Alright,” you say as he puts your breakfast plate in front of you, “what did you do? You haven’t been this nice to me in ages.”

“Is that true?” he asks. 

He was sort of nice yesterday when he fixed your phone (though you're suspicious he’d only fixed it so you wouldn’t ask one of your Peters), and the night before he’d been angelic, but that was mutually beneficial. You still as he wraps his arms around you from behind, his face pressed to the side of yours, his lips a kind line. You close your eyes and lean back.

A softness touches your other cheek. You peek at it through a squint, tentative, less so when you realise the softness is the petal of a red rose, and the rose belongs to a beautiful bouquet. You breathe out a gasp of awe. The flowers are a stunning dark red and wrapped in glitzy holographic cellophane. You’ve never seen flowers that looked so pretty, petal edges thick and stems a fresh green. 

“For you,” he says. 

“For me?”

“Mm-hm.” He eases the bouquet into one of your hands. “Happy Valentine’s.” 

“Is that today?” 

“Yeah, that’s today.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. 

You fluster as he stands tall and moves away. Bouquet hugged to your chest, you turn your head to watch his movements carefully. “Miguel, I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not, carino.” 

He pushes the sleeves of his shirt up and grabs the two bowls left behind on the counter. You can smell the refreshing spice of the peppery gazpacho and the lemon of the salad as he lays it out in front of you. Your stomach growls, but there are more important things to address. 

“I had no idea–”

“I hardly expect you to know what hour of the day it is, I wasn’t expecting anything.” He sits down in the chair beside yours at the table. 

“So it’s February… interesting.” 

Miguel actually laughs as you shove the flowers down and throw yourself at him. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he scolds. 

“I love your laugh,” you say, clinging to him for dear life. “I love you, I love your face, I can’t believe you got me flowers, Miguel. Miguel–” 

“Don’t act like I never get you anything.” 

I just didn’t think you’d do something this romantic, you think. It’s not fair to him. You still have the pencil sharpener he made for you when you’d haunt the workshop unbidden to him. What had he said? Something like Bring it to me when it needs charging. Well, you never remember, and yet it’s never dead. He’s that sort of romantic. “Thank you,” you say. 

“Were you still of the idea that I don’t like you very much?” he asks, pulling you into his lap with an unblinking strength. His thighs are solid underneath you. 

“Oh, no, O’Hara, you like me too much.” 

“Really?” He laughs. 

“Really. N’ I like you ten times that much, and,” —he kisses your neck— “that’s why we’re in love.” 

He scoffs at your teasing tone, breath tickling the side of your neck. “The longer you sit here trying to apologise the cooler your cocoa gets. Don’t be sorry, yeah? I know you didn’t know.” 

“I’m not trying to apologise. I’m mad. You could’ve told me it was Valentine’s coming up but you didn’t. You wanted to make me look bad.” 

He hugs you close, arm held firm to the curve of your back. “That’s exactly what I was trying to do. You caught me.” 

You lean back. He holds you tight to stop you from falling as you wrestle with the bouquet, pulling one especially lovely rose from the bunch. “Happy Valentine’s, mi vida.”

“That’s cheating, and not even half the effort I put in.” 

You press it to his chest and look up at him with every ounce of affection you have for him: it winds him. He covers your hand on his chest, pulling it over his heart. 

“Forgive me?” you ask. 

He rubs your knuckles. “There’s nothing to forgive.”