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dazzlingjaeyun · 2 days ago

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ʙʀᴜɪꜱᴇꜱ – ꜱɪᴍ ᴊᴀᴇʏᴜɴ

engineering major!jake x nursing student fem!reader

୨୧ genre: strangers to implied lovers, mostly angst & smut, MDNI | words: 17.3k | cw: jake is very in love but also lowkey emotionally unavailable, mentions of blood and injuries, self-indulgent shade on iced americano, HANDS (also self-indulgent), jake has one wet dream, munch jake, fingering – also semi-public (in his car), mentions of orgasm denial, marking and biting, dry humping, nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, aftercare!! ୨୧

read this as a standalone or as a prologue to bandaids! if you've already read bandaids, you can still read this one after. it'll make sense both ways ><

hanna says: huge thank you to @brklynbabyjay and @jayparked for brainstorming a lot with me & helping me with the plot. thank you su for betaing me for this monstrosity and thank you snail for giving me the idea for the title. i appreciate you so so much. also congrats to @tmrwsuns for not losing your mind (and ears) when i yapped about this too much. thank you for hyping me up instead! ily all and this wouldn't have been possible without you <3

mature content under cut, minors do not interact!

“J-Jake,” you mumble out, your fingers tightening the grip on his hair, pulling a little harder – just enough to create the perfect sense of pain. Jake opens his eyes and looks up to you, the sight alone enough to make him bring a finger up to your leaking hole while his tongue keeps focusing on your clit. Your eyes are shut almost a little too tightly, eyebrows firmly drawn together, and bottom lip pulled between your teeth, although that’s barely enough to muffle the pretty moans and whimpers that Jake so badly needs to hear.

It’s almost pathetic how his heart skips a beat at just how easily his finger slides in, how with each pump of it, he can practically see the air getting knocked out of your lungs. When he closes his lips around your clit to gently suck it between his teeth and your head falls back, perfectly displaying the dark red spots he left there so carelessly just minutes ago, he can’t help but let his free hand slip under the soft fabric of his sweatpants, palming his pulsating length through his boxers.

A low groan escapes his lips, sending a wave of vibration through your core that has you bucking up your hips. The movement forces Jake’s eyes shut, his hand almost instinctively leaving his own body and instead reaching for your hip to pull you even closer to his face.

The second he opens his eyes, the bright rays of sunlight that peak through his curtains force him to squeeze them shut again – only to be met with the same image: you squirming underneath him, legs shaking around his head that you desperately try to pull closer.

Suddenly, his usually loose shirt feels too tight, his light blanket too heavy, and he’s hyper aware of the way his dark bangs stick uncomfortably to his sweaty forehead. He forces his tired lids to lift again and slowly sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of his bed and running his hand through his hair first and then over his face.

With a sigh, Jake tugs at his shirt, loosening it from his body in an attempt to cool down. His eyes scan the room – books carelessly scattered across his desk, clothes piling up on the chair and the gym bag with his favorite pair of boxing gloves dangling from it – searching for something, anything, that could distract him from his painfully throbbing hard-on.

Yet, as if he isn’t trying so hard to think of anything other than you, his gaze lands on a few loose papers piling up on the edge of his desk: The notes he took during last week’s statistics class, looming over him like a cruel reminder of the deal that got him into this very situation in the first place.

Back then, when you mutually agreed to help each other, when he promised to send you his notes in return for you taking care of his bruises whenever practice got too rough. The image of your big, innocent eyes as you inspected his bleeding knuckles and the little gash right under his eye only twists the knife of guilt further in his chest.

Jake’s mind flashes back to that one statistics lecture – the only one he was late to. How every seat in the back was taken and he had to awkwardly walk down the stairs to the very front of the lecture hall, feeling all eyes on him as if he walked the walk of shame. How he sat next to you, simply because it was the very first seat he could spot, and he accepted anything to spare him further embarrassment or a comment from the lecturer who had already been eyeing him with raised eyebrows and ‘annoyed’ written all over his face.

He only exchanged a quick, rather forced, smile with you, before rummaging around his backpack until he found a few loose papers and a single pen. Back then, he wasn’t sure if you tried to be subtle as you glanced at his desk from the corner of your eye, observing his rather poor set up, but he noticed nonetheless. Glancing back, he saw you equipped with various pens and highlighters in different colors, yet the notepad in front of you was empty save for the date you’d neatly noted down in the right corner.

You quickly averted your gaze again, glancing back and forth between your empty paper and the lecturer. The crease between your eyebrows got deeper with each phrase he uttered, and your hand stayed rooted in place. Knowing you were supposed to take notes, that there was no way to pass that class otherwise, the professor’s words began to blur together until they were nothing but a fog that clouded your understanding until all hope of making sense of the content disappeared.

Jake on the other hand quickly scribbled down words and formulas, his pen moving over the paper with ease while his focus remained almost entirely on the lecturer and the slides that he projected onto the wall. You eyed his paper again, trying to somehow make sense of the words and numbers, trying to find something you could copy by any chance – just so you wouldn’t leave the lecture hall with an empty notepad again like you’d done the previous two weeks.

But when you tried to catch another glimpse of his notes, his hand quickly rushed over the page while noting down another apparently important point the professor had just made – and your eyes landed on his knuckles.

“They’re not supposed to be that red,” you blurted out your first thought before you could stop yourself. It took Jake a few seconds to fully register your words, but his hand slowly came to a halt as he turned his head your way. He furrowed his brows in a mixture of surprise and confusion, but you barely noticed, your gaze now focused on the gash under his eye. “Neither this,” you added, a little quieter this time.

He didn’t reply, just looked at you with a blank, unreadable expression that forced you to swallow so heavily you were sure it would have been audible hadn’t it been for the lecturer’s endless ramble. You could feel your shoulders tensing as seconds went by without any response from him, and although you pressed your lips together slightly, the silence felt so oddly oppressing that you couldn’t hold back from breaking it again.

“Looks a little puffy too,” you scanned his face for any reaction before averting your eyes as if that could stop him from keeping his on you.

“It’s a bit swollen,” he replied after a while, causing your head to snap back to him, eyes slightly widening in surprise. The boy offered the hint of a smile that was gone so quickly that you barely had enough time to register, let alone reciprocate it.

“Do they hurt?” you asked, letting your eyes wander from the bruise under his eye back to his knuckles, “or feel warm?”

He curled his fingers, clenching his hand into a weak fist before replying with a short nod that you saw from the corners of your eyes, “a little bit of both.”

You hummed. “Might be getting infected.”

When he just wordlessly blinked at you again, you added, “I have some stuff if you wanna clean them up after the lecture.” This time, his reaction was almost immediate, although wordless yet again. He creased his brows another time, scanning your face up and down as if he wasn’t quite sure if he should be confused or suspicious.

“I’m in nursing school,” you clarified. “So yeah, I carry like a mini first-aid kit with me pretty much all the time.”

Jake’s lips formed a silent ‘oh’ as he nodded understandingly, fingers hovering over his notes almost absentmindedly while he seemed to consider your offer. “I mean,” he began, eyes flashing to the rows behind from where he’d registered a quick ‘sh’, and nodded again. “Alright,” he whispered before offering another quick smile that felt a bit more honest and a lot less awkward than before, and focusing on the lecture again.

As soon as the professor dismissed the class, you closed your still empty notepad and collected your unused pens before neatly packing them into your bag and instead pulling out a small pouch, while Jake just carelessly shoved his papers into his own backpack, leaving them half crumpled. When you turned to face him, you found his eyes on you already, his expression a mix of uncertainty and expectation.

You wordlessly pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of the pouch and rubbed some of the liquid into your hands. Then, you took out a few antiseptic wipes, carefully tore open the packaging, and extended your arm to signal him to give you his hand.

His skin felt warm against yours, softer than you expected, as his long, slender fingers curled around yours to keep his hand in place, while you gently wiped off the remnants of his wound with your other hand. You watched intently as his veins became a little more present each time the sting of the antiseptic made him tighten his grip around your fingers. Then, you added a little bit of ointment, wrapped a bandage around the wound, and repeated the routine with his other hand.

As you leaned closer to examine the gash on his face and the faintest hint of your perfume tickled Jake’s nose, his breath flattened subconsciously. His eyes landed on your face, now close enough for him to notice the various shades of color in your eyes and the way your lashes curled up perfectly. Jake pulled his lower lip in between his teeth and gently bit down to stop his lips from curving into a smile at your focused expression and your slightly parted lips. Only when you gently tapped over the wound itself did he instinctively pull back just slightly, scrunching his nose in discomfort.

“Sorry.” You pressed your lips together in a tight, apologetic smile that Jake just dismissed with a smile of his own.

“That looks bad,” you mumbled as you carefully applied a thin layer of ointment.

“The other guy looks worse,” Jake stated with a mixture of triumph and amusement, earning himself a look from you that clearly showed you were trying not to snort. “I bet.”

Once you added a small band-aid, although Jake refused at first, you leaned back in your seat to examine his face and hands from a bigger distance. “Much better,” you said with a faint smile. “If they don’t heal, you should get proper medical help though.”

Jake bit back a smile and opted for a nod instead. “Thank you, I owe you.” This time, it was you dismissing his words with a shake of your head and a simple, “you’re good.”

He looked at you for a moment, as if waiting for you to row back on it. But when you didn’t, he slowly stood up from his seat. You mimicked the movement, slung your bag over your shoulder and wordlessly followed him to finally exit the lecture hall.

“Actually,” you said just before he reached the door. He turned back around, his eyebrows slightly raised to show he was listening. “Would you mind sharing your notes with me? I… have nothing,” you asked, avoiding his eyes out of sheer embarrassment.

“Oh, sure, I got you,” he replied so casually you almost felt stupid for hesitating before. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to you, “Just save your number, I’ll send them to you later.” Nodding, you took the phone from his hand, making sure your fingers didn’t brush against his hurt ones in the process, and quickly typed in your number.

Jake quickly glanced at his phone once you gave it back, just long enough to catch your contact name, before he shoved it back into his pocket. “See you around, Y/N,” he said with a soft smile. And with that, he walked out the door.

That’s how you and Jake, who had first introduced himself as Jaeyun when he’d sent you the notes later that night, found yourselves in some sort of agreement: Every time you helped him patch up his bruises, he sent you his lecture notes.

And yes, after some time, Jake started sharing his notes without asking for anything in return, as did you whenever he needed your help outside of your statistics schedule. But none of your interactions ever went in a way that would allow his mind to go down the alley of imagining you in any form of sexual context.

The loud ring of his alarm pierces through the silence, startling him and pulling him back to the moment – back to his bedroom that still holds way too little oxygen. Shifting uncomfortably, he reaches for his phone to turn off his alarm, only to be directly met with your name on his lockscreen. The short “thank you! :)” you sent about an hour ago, probably when you saw the lecture notes he’d sent you the evening before. Probably while he was still asleep, dreaming about nothing other than having his face buried deep between your thighs.

With a groan, Jake tosses his phone to the side, lets his head hit the headboard again, and brings his hands up to his shoulders in an attempt to knead away the tension in his muscles. Yet, no matter how hard he tries to refuse, the image of you seems to flood his mind all over again each time he does so much as blink – and even the smallest movements of his hips force him to swallow down a whimper from how sensitive his cock feels against the restraints of his boxers.

Sighing, Jake slumps further against the headboard, spreads his legs just a little to sit more comfortably and takes a deep breath before consciously closing his eyes and really allowing himself to let his mind drift back to you one last time. How he grips your hips to pull you so close to his face that your taste and scent completely take over his senses. How your moans come dulled from how hardly you’re pressing your thighs around his head. How you’re shaking underneath him, clenching so deliciously around his tongue every time he lets it sink in between your folds.

His hand itches to reach for his cock, but he presses his fingers into the mattress instead, fisting the sheets to physically hold himself back from doing so. Then, just as his mind replays your image – of how you look under him, hair sweatily sticking to your pretty face and neck covered in purple love bites – he forces his eyes open again. Clenching his teeth, he sits up straight and lets his face fall into his hands.

“Fuck this,” he murmurs to himself, before he swings his legs off the bed and gets up. He pulls his shirt over his head as he walks to the bathroom, dropping it on the floor along with the rest of his sleeping attire and stepping under the shower where he lets cold water run over his body until it washed away every last thought of you.

Once Jake arrives at the gym, determined to ditch classes in order to keep his mind off of you, he immediately starts his usual warm-up routine, but neither running nor stretching nor the music blasting through his headphones is enough to really achieve that. A tap on his shoulder interrupts his wandering thoughts mid-stretch. When he turns around, he’s met with his friend Sunghoon’s face.

“No classes today?” the younger one asks, to which Jake just shrugs. “If you will.”

Sunghoon looks him up and down for a moment, not missing the hint of distress on his face, but he decides to not ask any questions. Instead, he tilts his head towards the ring in the middle of the room. “Wanna go a few rounds then?” Jake responds with a nod, mimicking his friend as he wraps his hands, straps on his gloves and pops in his mouthguard.

Muscle memory helps him to dodge the first few blows and even land a hit or two. But then, avoiding another dangerously close punch, he makes the mistake of shutting his eyes just for a split second mid-flinch. Yet, it’s enough for a flash of you to run through his mind; a tiny fragment of his dream replaying until a jolt of pain rushes through his head and pushes the image away with force.

Sunghoon’s eyes widen as he steps back, clearly surprised that he, in fact, landed the punch he aimed right at Jake’s jaw so obviously. “What the fuck?”

Jake just quickly shakes his head, blinking the stars away. “Again,” he orders, repositioning himself before continuing. But just when he thinks his focus is at its peak again, his mind cruelly shifts back to how easily your arousal coated his lips and chin. And then, another punch right to his ribs makes him lurch forward, the air getting knocked out of his lungs in a choked grunt.

“Focus, Jake,” Sunghoon says, voice laced with a mixture of confusion and warning. “How did you not see that one coming?” He aims another punch that Jake avoids with a step just at the last moment. “You’re slow as hell today, what’s up with you?”

Jake straightens his back and tilts his head to both sides to quickly stretch the tense muscles in his neck. “Nothin’,” he mumbles back, taking a short, yet deep breath in before aiming a hit Sunghoon easily, almost lazily, avoids. The latter raises an eyebrow, waits for just a second and then counters. Jake dodges the first punch, but the second hits him right on the opposite side of his jaw, quickly followed by a third against his ribs.

Scoffing, Sunghoon drops his arms and takes a step back. “Nope,” he says after a while of watching Jake recover from the pain. “We’re not doing this when you don’t even try.”

Before Jake can object, Sunghoon takes off his gloves, slipping through the ropes and out of the ring. Jake wipes his jaw with his forearm, hissing at the stinging pain as his sweaty skin meets the open wound. He bites down on the glove, using his teeth to abruptly pull at the strings before sliding it off his hand and doing the same on the other side. Then, he shoves them into his bag, jaw clenched so tightly in frustration it almost aches. Because even now, all that’s on his mind is you.

Just an hour later, Jake finds himself in front of your door. After taking a deep breath, he slowly rings your bell, the rush of his own blood in his ears muffling the sound that echoes through the door. Admittedly, he hesitated for a good thirty minutes before even contacting you, typing in his message and deleting it again. But despite really wanting to see anyone but you right now, he could already imagine your scolding voice if he didn’t show up. Something about how you’d told him time and again that he should come to you whenever he needed his bruises patched up and blah blah.

“Oh God,” your quiet gasp snaps him back to reality. Only now does he realize you already opened the door and, judging from your reaction, took in the image of his battered face. Before he can react, you reach for his arm, pull him inside and close the door behind him. You wordlessly guide him to the bathroom where you motion him to sit down on the edge of the bathtub before you grab a small emergency kit from the drawer under the sink.

Jake watches you as you move – quickly but precisely, washing your hands and separating cotton pads to soak them up with an antiseptic whose scent stings almost uncomfortably in his nose. When you turn back around, he quickly looks down. Only when you place your index finger under his chin to carefully lift his head does his eyes meet yours again – and he feels his jaw tensing just by the way you scan his face with that familiar, worried expression of yours. Because once it makes his chest feel tight with endearment, it’s quickly replaced by a wave of guilt. Your simple, innocent touch is enough to make him shiver, his mind immediately racing with a million way too inappropriate thoughts and the desperate attempt to push them all away.

Angling his face to the side, you carefully tap the cotton pad over the wound on his jaw first. “Relax,” you murmur so quietly it might as well have been a whisper when you feel him clenching his teeth even harder. You flicker your eyes up to his briefly only to find them squeezed shut – something he’s never done before. The sight makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thought of him actually being in pain tugging at your heart just a little.

Turning his face to the other side, you take a new wipe to clean up the slightly smaller bruise there. Once you’re done, you apply a thin layer of ointment to both before letting go of his chin. Just as you want to take a step back, he opens his eyes – and although they seem to hold a vulnerability you’ve never seen before, they soften a little at the sight of yours.

“Thank you,” he mumbles after a while, eyes not leaving yours this time. He’s found himself in that position several times before; sitting on the edge of your bathtub with you standing in between his legs. Yet for the first time, his hands itch to reach out to you.

“Does the other guy look worse again?” you try to joke, but the hint of worry in your voice betrays you. Jake’s lips still twitch up into a soft smile as he shakes his head.

You slowly take a step back to create a bigger distance between you and lean against the sink. And although Jake should feel relieved by the newfound space that makes breathing a little easier again, a tiny part of him wants to pull you back right where you stood two seconds ago.

“So, are you finally gonna tell me how you end up like this every other day? Cause if not, I might start thinking you’re doing some kind of shady stuff.” You cross your arms in front of your chest.

Jake chuckles softly. “I actually do it for fun,” he begins, “and for career reasons, I guess. I’ve been boxing ever since I was a teenager and I wanna go pro.” He studies your face for a second before he continues. “That’s why I don’t put too much effort in my engineering degree, you know. I’m just… kinda doing it ‘cause my parents don’t approve of the whole boxing thing. But that’s always been my first choice.”

There’s something about the hint of pride in his voice that warms your heart, despite the worry that also settles somewhere there. “So, you’re getting beat up for your dreams?” you ask, drawing a quiet laugh from Jake.

“Hey, I beat up people too,” he defends.

“Yeah. And I don’t know if I think that’s a solid career plan.”

Jake halts for a moment and searches your eyes again, expecting that disapproving look he usually got when he shared his plans with anyone. But he only finds a hint of worry instead – and he quickly tries to dismiss the way his heart squeezes ever so slightly. “Now you sound like my parents, too.”

“Well, thanks to them, you go to college and I won’t fail statistics,” you say with a chuckle.

Jake just responds with a soft smile that’s somehow still enough to spread a warm, cozy feeling all across your chest.

“Good, because medicine can’t afford to lose its best future nurse.”

“Break time,” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence so firmly that you flinch, pen gliding over your notes and crossing some of the words out. You look around the library to find around a dozen other students glaring in your direction, and quickly offer them an apologetic smile before your eyes dart back to Jake.

“I’m not done yet,” you reply, forcing your focus back on the textbook in front of you – until Jake takes the pen from your hand, places it between the open pages and closes the book. “But you’ve been studying non-stop for almost three and a half hours now. I can see your brain fuming,” he sighs. Just as you open your mouth to oppose, he shakes his head and gently presses his index finger against your lips.

“You know that suggesting a break when you’ve been the one to doomscroll this whole time is crazy, right?” you mumble against the digit. He lets it rest on your lips for another second, and you swear you can see his gaze dropping – but before you can think about it, he looks up again.

“Coffee,” he suggests, although it sounds more like an order. Biting your lip, you debate whether to agree or to bury your head in your books again.

“Coffee it is,” you finally say with a sigh before collecting your stuff and shoving them back into your bag.

The walk to the small campus café is silent, but while it feels like a much needed break for you, it just seems to give Jake’s mind time and space to wander. Every time your shoulders bump against his or his fingers brush yours while walking, even if just for a fragment of a second, his skin starts buzzing.

By the time you reach the counter, his throat feels so tight that simply asking for your order takes all the effort he can muster. For a second, you eye him with furrowed brows, not quite sure if his jaw is really as tight as it looks or if it’s just the different light inside the store that casts a weird shadow there.

“I’ll go with a caramel macchiato.”

“Suits you,” Jake responds without thinking, only realizing what he said when your brows draw together again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates for a moment. Then, he takes a deep breath that he masks with a shrug. “You’re also sweet.”

You look at him in disbelief, and he almost rows back on his words, until you let out a quiet chuckle. “If that’s you trying to make me pay for your coffee, it’s not working. And by the way, americano is ass. Literally doesn’t even taste like coffee, it’s just colored water and–”

But Jake doesn’t even listen anymore, busy struggling to ignore the pang in his chest just because you remember his usual order. He bites back his comment about how ‘coffee isn’t coffee either if it contains more syrup than anything else’, instead placing the order and paying before you even get the chance to take out your wallet.

Once you settle on a small table, the silence between you feels relieving – as if your brain finally got the chance to shut off after hours of trying to fit half a semester of pharmacology into your head. Jake, on the other hand, doesn’t feel half as relaxed, seemingly not able to peel his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries.

You look around the café for a while, watching people come in and leave, until your eyes settle on Jake again. His gaze is intense, filled with something you can’t really read, but it sure is enough to make your heart skip a beat. Enough to suddenly make you feel smaller, tension creeping into your body again.

“What?” you ask so quietly you’re not sure if he even hears over the background noise of the store. Jake only shakes his head in response and drops his gaze to his hands. Your eyes follow his and you allow yourself to watch him play with his rings for a while – turning them, sliding them off and back onto his fingers, knuckles slightly red and veins oh so prominent. Your mind wanders, replaying fragments of every time you cleaned the blood or dirt off his knuckles, or how you taped band-aids around his fingers. Of how his hands felt in yours, fragile but somewhat good, somewhat safe.

“You’ve got something on your mouth,” Jake’s voice makes your head snap back up. As you try to wrap your head around how long you’ve been zoned-out, Jake reaches forward, wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth and holds it in front of your lips. You part them just enough to close them around the tip of his finger and lick off the whipped cream, cheeks heating up so quickly you’re sure it’s evident. But Jake doesn’t notice, and if he does, he doesn’t point it out.

Instead, he leans back casually and grabs his drink again. “Do you wanna go back to the library?”

To his surprise, you shake your head. “My brain’s mushy, I feel like I won’t even remember what I studied today.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re always stressing too much. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Once you sit down in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, you immediately slump against the leather, lean your head against the window and let the glass cool down your pounding temple. Jake gets in the driver's seat, but instead of starting the engine, he looks at you with his head tilted to the side. “Tired? Or frustrated?”

With a sigh, you lift your head and turn around to face him. “I usually feel better after a break, but now I really don’t.”

“Maybe you need a… different kind of break,” he hesitates, eyes dropping to your lips for the blink of an eye, so short you barely register it. “Release some stress, you know.”

“Oh, are you volunteering?” You laugh, but Jake doesn’t reply, doesn’t laugh – doesn’t even tear his eyes away from yours. He just shrugs.

In no time, your smile fades, your eyes widen and your breath gets caught in your throat so quickly that it’s hard to speak. “I–... I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not,” he says, face as calm as ever, when in reality his heart seems to be racing a marathon and his palms begin to feel sweaty.

“Did you get hit in the head last practice?” You try to joke, but the small tremble in your voice betrays you.

He absentmindedly pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth as his eyes drop from your eyes to your lips and back up again, holding your gaze as though he could see right through the chaos that is your thoughts. Feeling your heartbeat picking up and your breath coming shorter, you try to swallow down the lump that begins to form in your throat. Jake seems to lean just a hint closer, wetting his lips with his tongue – but just as you want to lean forward too, he suddenly pulls away and sits back in his seat, head falling against the headrest with a sigh. He resists the urge of running his hand through his hair in frustration, before turning his head to the side to look at you again.

“Sorry. I probably did get hit in the head,” he mumbles.

You look at him for a moment, trying to gather your courage to say something, but the words don’t come until he reaches for the key to start the car.

“That’s so unfortunate,” you say, making him stop, “I liked the idea.”

The words make Jake’s eyes dart back to you, and for a while, he just looks at you with an unreadable expression, scanning your face as if trying to find out whether you’re joking. But your gaze is steady and your lips don’t twitch in an attempt to bite back a smile or a laugh. You just lean in a little, then stop to give him time to react. Jake’s eyes never leave yours as he mirrors the gesture.

He leans closer until you can feel the ghost of his breath fanning over your skin, letting goosebumps erupt from just that – and then, as if you’re pulled towards each other by force, you close the distance until his lips are on yours.

He kisses you softly at first, hesitantly, as though he’s trying to savor how soft your lips feel or how effortlessly they move in sync with his. Heart beating so fast you can feel it in your throat, you reach out to get ahold of his collar and pull him closer. You feel his hands cupping your cheeks, fingertips pressing against your skin like you’d slip away otherwise. But instead, you curl your fingers around the fabric harder and tug on it with just enough force for your teeth to clash.

“Come here,” Jake murmurs against your lips, dropping his hands to your hips and carefully pulling you over the middle console and onto his lap. He kisses you again, this time with more urgency. Your hands find their way around his neck, fingers weaving through his hair and tugging on the ends when he gently bites your lip.

The space between you feels too small and not big enough at the same time, and you’re not sure whether you want to pull away or scoot closer. But before you can make up your mind, Jake tightens his grip on your hips and pulls you in until your torsos touch and you can feel his chest rising and falling against yours as he gently pulls away from the kiss.

“Feel better already?” He asks, voice slightly hoarse and lips softly brushing yours. Jake squeezes your hips as your hands slide from the back of his head down to his shoulders, solely to hold himself back from shuddering at the simple touch.

“Don’t know,” you reply, smiling against his lips. “Might need a little more to convince me.”

You feel him reciprocating your smile before he kisses you another time. His hands tentatively slide under the hem of your shirt and to your lower back, just resting on your skin, while yours brush over his collarbones and to his chest, where you feel his heartbeat quickening under your fingertips.

Jake tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss, and almost immediately, your hands rush up to his neck again, tugging on his hair just enough to draw a low groan from him. His hands move up and down your waist as though he’s trying to memorize every inch of your body. You slowly pull back, just enough to whisper his name against his lips like it’s the only thing you know how to say. His fingers dig into your skin ever so gently as he leans down to leave soft kisses against your jaw, making your breath stutter and your lips part.

His touch feels somewhat urgent, yet not rushed – and though your heart aches at how gently he takes his time, how he pulls away barely enough to look at you just to make sure you’re okay, you can’t help the heat that spreads up your spine and down to your core. “Jake,” you whisper again, shuddering as he hums against your neck before he pulls back and scans your face for any signs of discomfort. “Want me to stop?”

The way you shake your head almost frantically draws a chuckle from Jake. Leaning forward again, he continues to kiss your neck down to your collarbones, one hand still pressing into the flesh of your hips while the other begins to fidget with the waistband of your pants.

Your breath hitches as he slowly slides his hand past it, thumb carefully grazing over your clothed clit. “Let me take care of you,” Jake says so quietly it almost comes out as a whisper. He pulls his hand away, waiting for your response while slowly but steadily sliding the rings off his fingers.

Nodding slowly, you take a deep breath as he pulls your underwear to the side and slides a finger through your folds, collecting your slick and tracing it up to your clit again. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting the scent of his cologne tickle your nose as your breath gets shakier each second his finger carefully rubs over your sensitive bud.

You want to tell him you want more, but not trusting your voice you just buck your hips forward slightly. Jake, who understands wordlessly, bites back a smile as you can’t seem to help the quiet whimper at the feeling of his digit prodding at your entrance. “That what you want?” He asks, voice so confident it only intensifies the feeling of being completely put into his hands. You just manage a quiet hum that gets stuck in your throat as he slowly pushes the finger in, immediately curling it so perfectly that you could almost forget it’s the first time he’s ever touched you like that.

Continuing his antics, he carefully adds a second finger, angling them just right to hit the sweet spot that draws a quiet moan from you. The sound is enough to cause a shiver to run down Jake’s spine – and suddenly, all he wants is to hear it again.

He gently presses his thumb against your clit, not able to hold back the quiet groan as he feels you clenching around his fingers. As your grip on his shoulders tightens and your breath comes even more ragged, he places a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. “Everything still okay?”

The softness in his voice makes your heart flutter a little as you try your best to stay composed enough to nod. “Just… please don’t stop,” you murmur, voice almost breaking at the end. Your breath feels hot against Jake’s neck, yet it makes him shiver. Every curve of his fingers seemingly guided solely by your sounds and the way you arch into him, Jake closes his eyes to focus only on the way your breath grows heavier as each stroke brings you closer to release.

“Let go for me, hm?” Jake asks so gently it fully contrasts the pace of his fingers, making your heart squeeze just as your orgasm hits you with a force that has you digging your fingers into his shoulders. Jake continues, helping you ride out your high, until pleasure gives way to pain and you manage a choked out ‘too much’. He pulls away quickly but carefully, slightly shaking his shoulder to get you to lift your head.

“Hey,” his eyes search yours as he gently rubs your back underneath your shirt, “you alright?” Taking a deep, shaky breath, you nod and back it up with a soft smile. Jake’s eyes drop to your lips once more, but he doesn’t lean in. Instead, he pulls your head to his shoulder again and just holds you there until your breath evens out.

When you open your eyes again and your gaze falls directly onto his strained pants, you slowly trace one hand from his shoulder down his torso. Jake’s eyes flutter shut as his cock twitches in anticipation – but just as your fingers ghost over his clothed length, he grabs your wrist to stop you. When you lift your head and give him a questioning look, he just offers a smile in return, lifts your hand to his lips, and places a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. I just wanted you to feel good.” You open your mouth, but he shakes his head, reassuring, “I’m okay, really. Let’s take you home, yeah?”

Even days later, you don’t talk about what happened, or how steadily he held your hand when he insisted on walking you up to your apartment. Neither about how he randomly starts coming over just to bring you snacks from the convenience store close to his gym whenever he heads home from practice. Not even after you notice that whatever he brings is always something you mentioned craving just a little while ago.

And technically, things stay the same, except that they don’t, really. Jake still sits next to you in statistics lectures. He still takes the notes while you’re trying to figure out what’s going on, still sends them to you unasked. But now, he doesn’t pull away when his knee brushes yours under the table, and you swear he softly bumps his hand against yours on purpose while writing.

You still take care of his wounds after practice. It’s just that now, you text him every night to make sure he really is okay – even if he leaves your place just an hour earlier. And on some days, he doesn’t go home at all. You start keeping his favorite cereal in your kitchen cupboard, and suddenly, the mug he uses for his morning coffee becomes only his, and you stop using it.

He still looks after you, paying attention to your study habits and making sure you’re taking breaks. But now, taking breaks means having his head buried between your thighs. And now, revising means trying to remember what you studied just an hour ago while his fingers work you closer and closer to release, only granting it when you get the answers right.

“Metoprolol,” he reads what feels like the twentieth flashcard, thumb drawing soft circles over your clit. You sigh, closing your eyes and focusing on the feeling, until it suddenly stops. When you open your eyes, you find Jake already looking at you, waving the flashcard like a reminder. “Metoprolol,” he repeats.

“That’s a beta-blocker,” you grumble, wiggling your hips to get Jake to continue, but he just drops the flashcard to your mattress and grips your hips firmly enough to stop you.

“And what’s a beta-blocker?” He asks, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his grin as you roll your eyes.

“You know what a fuckass beta-blocker is, Jake.”

He raises an eyebrow, slowly pulling his hand away from your core. “Come again?”

For a while, you just look at him, jaw clenched and hoping he’ll eventually give up on your pharmacology revision. But he just looks at you with an almost bored expression, not making any attempt to continue.

“They lower heart rate and blood pressure,” you sigh, now giving him an almost pleading look. He hums, letting his thumb ghost over your skin without really touching you. “They’re usually used for hypertension or after heart attacks to–” you cut off with as he finally slips a finger into your aching hole.

The first ring of your doorbell barely catches your attention, muffled like a quiet disturbance somewhere further away. But when it rings again and a third time only shortly after, you push your chair back with a sigh and stand up. Your knees almost buckle and your spine cracks uncomfortably, shoulders hurting as you roll them back in an attempt to release the tension that’s been building up from sitting for countless hours.

The fourth ‘ding’ has you rolling your eyes annoyedly. A shiver runs over your scalp and down your spine as you release your hair from the tight bun you kept them in, only now realizing that the hairstyle probably contributed greatly to the pounding in your head. You ruffle them a bit, trying to adjust them so they fall into your face to cover as much of your reddened, puffy cheeks as possible, while you drag yourself to the door and open it without a glance through the small peephole.

The air from outside immediately hits you, clinging to your bare legs uncomfortably. It takes just a look at Jake’s gym bag to recognize him, but your eyes still slowly wander up his torso and to his face.

“Are you hurt?” you try to ask, but the words only come out half. You clear your throat and ask again, scanning his face for any visible bruises, but finding nothing but a hint of concern etched onto his features.

“No,” he replies, studying your face the same way you do with his and pulling his brows together a little tighter at the sight of your glassy eyes and the circles forming underneath them. “You didn’t reply to my messages all day and that’s… kinda unlike you. So I wanted to check in on you.”

“I was studying,” you mumble.

Jake sighs almost inaudibly, just loud enough for you to register the faint sound of it. “I can see that. You look like hell.”

You meet his gaze for a second before you avert your eyes. “Thanks, Jake. Flattering.”

He ignores your remark, still scanning your face. “Were you crying?” he asks, but you don‘t reply.

Without another word or an invitation, Jake takes a step towards you, closing the door behind him with a soft click and dropping his bag to the floor. “Come on, you should really take a break,” he says softly, and although the familiar hint of concern in his voice usually causes a gentle warmth to spread across your chest, this time it feels close to infuriating. You can feel how your shoulders tense again at his suggestion and you immediately shake your head in response.

“You’ve probably been sitting at your desk for hours. It‘s okay to slow down a bit,” Jake says so soothingly it nearly comes off as belittling. He keeps searching your face for any type of reaction, his gaze suddenly so heavy on you that you almost begin to feel small. “You‘re not going to get anything done if you‘re this exhausted,” he tries again.

“I don‘t have time for a break. Not everyone can afford to fall behind and fail their classes, Jake!” You snap, the words spilling out in a tone much harsher than intended and before your brain even finishes your thoughts. It takes only a flicker of your eyes up to his face to see his reaction – his jaw tightening slightly and a small wrinkle forming on his forehead, not from concern this time, but from irritation.

He stays silent for a moment. “That wasn‘t necessary,” he finally mumbles, the earlier softness in his voice now replaced by something firmer. You open your mouth to apologize, but your throat tightens, closes up, makes it hard to speak or even swallow down your apology.

But just seconds later, Jake lets his shoulders fall with a soft sigh, the tension on his face slowly dissolving. He takes another slow step forward and reaches out to gently place his cold hands on your heated cheeks, cupping your face with a grip ever so lightly, as though he‘s giving you every chance to pull away and step back. “It‘s okay,” he reassures quietly. “I shouldn‘t have pressured you.”

Your throat tightens even more as you look up at him the second before tears begin to blur your vision – and just when you want to turn your head away, Jake tightens his grip. Closing your eyes instead, you grit your teeth as hard as you can when one tear rolls down your cheek and you feel Jake’s thumb gently wiping it away.

When you open your eyes only to find his eyes filled with more warmth and softness than ever before, you sniff once, mumble a low, “I’m sorry,” and pull back with a little more strength.

“Wanna rant about how annoying classes are?” he asks softly, tilting his head to the side, but you slowly shake your head. “Do you want me to leave?” He bites the inside of his cheek, regretting the question before he even finished asking it. But to his surprise, you shake your head again.

“Stay,” you confirm quietly, just loud enough for him to catch. His hand itches to reach out to you again – to pull you in and hold you close until he’s made sure that you’re okay. But instead, he just nods. “Movie?” He suggests so gently that your heart almost skips a beat at his attempt to still keep you away from your desk, just not as pushy as before.

When you settle on the sofa next to Jake, he places his arm on the cushions behind you. You stare at the screen, but you don’t really pay attention to whatever is playing. All you can focus on is Jake; the scent of his body wash, the way just sitting next to him leaves the palm of your hands sweaty despite the air conditioning, and how his arm behind you makes you feel so close to him, although he doesn’t touch you. You glance down right in time to catch Jake spreading his legs a little further – just enough for his knee to softly brush against yours.

Tentatively, you lean closer until your head reaches his shoulder. He lets his arm slide off the cushions and around your shoulder almost instantly, pulling you more in so your head rests fully on his shoulder. You stay like that in silence, Jake absentmindedly letting his fingers slide up and down your arm, until you scoot a little closer. He reaches for your thigh with his free hand, slowly curling it around the inside of it just to place your leg on top of his own.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly as he lets his hand rest on your knee.

The simple, innocent contact is enough to make your breath hitch, enough to let goosebumps erupt on every inch of skin he touches. Not trusting your voice, you opt for a quick nod of your head that draws a sheepish smile on Jake’s face.

You stay like that for a bit, both pairs of eyes on the screen without really paying attention. Jake traces gentle patterns on your skin, trying his best to not be too obvious about how he follows every small twitch of your thigh or every inch you slowly scoot closer. Skin crackling under his touch, a soft sigh gets caught in your throat as he slings his arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap.

“Better?” he asks quietly, almost inaudible over the sound coming from the TV. You reply with a hum, before hesitantly draping your arms around his neck. Your fingers gently lace through his hair as you lean forward to rest your head on his shoulder again. His hands settle on the small of your back, just holding you in place for a while.

Although neither of you speaks, the show that’s playing slowly wanders to the very back of your mind, attention zeroing in on the sound of Jake’s steady breaths and the feeling of your body gently pressed against his, somewhat peaceful, yet unsettling at the same time. Not enough.

As if reading your mind, Jake softly tugs at your sweater to wordlessly gain your attention. Shifting slightly, you lift your head from his shoulder to look at him. His eyes find yours immediately, softening just a bit at how they now seem much calmer than before. You allow yourself to get lost in his brown orbs, and, for the very first time, embrace the warmth that spreads through your chest. You're so absorbed in his eyes that you don’t even acknowledge the strand of hair falling onto your face until you feel Jake gently tugging it behind your ear.

His hand lingers on your cheek as his eyes dip down to your lips. Chest buzzing from your quickening heartbeat, you tentatively lean a little closer. He lets his hand slide to the back of your head and gently pushes you forward until his breath fans over your lips – and before he can ask, you close the last bit of distance between you.

Surprised at first, Jake reacts quickly, eyes closing and lips moving effortlessly in sync with yours. His fingertips gently press against your scalp as he angles his head slightly to deepen the kiss. The blissful shiver his touch sends down your neck draws a whimper from you, so quiet you would have thought it went unnoticed by Jake if it wasn’t for the twitch of his fingers. When you slowly pull back, breaths coming more ragged, his hand moves from the back of your head down to your neck, fingers curling around your throat ever so gently – just enough to pull you back in.

He kisses you almost feverishly now, earlier hesitation gone as he glides his tongue against yours and gently bites on your lower lip. Each of his antics has you pulling on his hair a little harder, sending blissful shivers down his spine at the memory of all the times he felt that same tug on his scalp with his face buried in between your thighs.

Slowly pulling back and allowing both of you to breathe, his hand drops from your neck to your hips, pushing past the hem of your sweater to rest on your bare skin. Then, his lips are on you again, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, your neck, the spot right under your ear and your collarbone. He sucks on your skin, gently bites down wherever he knows it will draw a quiet moan from you, and quickly licks over the bruised skin to soothe it – all while firmly holding you close to him, fingers almost boring into your skin.

His other hand toys with the fabric of your sweater, softly tugging on it without making any attempt to rid you of it. But the ache between your legs only grows bigger with every second that passes with him marking what seems like every accessible inch of your skin. You let your hands sink to his shoulders, squeezing softly to get his attention, but his lips stay attached to your collarbone, leaving yet another love bite.

Only when you manage to mumble his name, voice breathy and almost breaking at the end of the syllable does he pull back to look at you. “Take it off,” you mutter – and before he can open his mouth to ask if you’re sure, you beat him to it with a quiet “please.” He nods, hands sliding to the hem of your sweater to slowly, almost shakingly push it up. Trying his best to keep his eyes on yours, he can’t help but peek down as he carefully pushes the piece of clothing over your head and drops it somewhere on the sofa.

“So pretty,” he whispers, leaning forward again to softly place his lips on top of yours, hands sliding up hesitantly before cupping your boobs and giving them a gentle squeeze that draws another quiet moan from you. His lips trail down your neck again, touch gentle yet somewhat impatient, until he reaches your chest.

Raising his head to look up at you, he waits until you give a short nod, before attaching his lips to one nipple. The content sigh that leaves your lips at the contact shoots right to his hardening cock. Eager to draw another one from you, he flattens his tongue against the bud, gently sucking on it right after. Once the quiet moan reaches his ears, the corners of his lips curl up into a smirk. He pulls off to come eye-level with you, chuckling softly as he catches the hint of disappointment on your face at the loss of contact.

“Don’t hold back,” he orders, voice not as firm as he initially planned, but the hint of softness makes your heart flutter a little. “I know you can be louder than that. Let me hear you, hm?” He asks, bringing two fingers in front of your lips. You slowly open your mouth just enough for him to push the digits past your lips and onto your tongue. Keeping your eyes on his, you hesitantly start sucking on his fingers, not missing how his jaw tenses although his expression never falters once.

“I said let me hear you,” he repeats, voice dipping lower – just enough to make another shiver run down your spine, but you stay silent. He pulls his fingers out with a tsk. “You’re not usually this shy, what’s up today?”

Instead of waiting for a response, his mouth is on your nipple again, the fingers that pressed down on your tongue just moments ago coming up to flick and twist the other one. Your head lolls back with a shaky breath, nails digging a little deeper into his clothed shoulders.

There’s a part of you that wants to keep holding back, not only out of shyness, for this is the first time Jake has ever seen you shirtless. It’s the way his antics grow messier, almost desperate to finally get the reaction he wants, that just feels too good. While you’re busy wondering if just nipple stimulation has ever caused your underwear to stick to your drenched core this much, one particularly harsh pull rips a surprised moan from you.

Although you keep your eyes closed, partly to spare you from embarrassment, you can feel Jake smiling against your skin. You subconsciously slide forward, his hardening cock pressing against your heat, and the tiny bit of friction is enough for you to clench around nothing. When you press against him again, Jake curses under his breath, but you don’t quite catch what he says. Both his hands are quick to land on your ass, fingers digging into the plush skin while he guides you, and the way the outline of his clothed hard-on perfectly presses against you draws whimper after whimper from you.

Your eyes roll back each time his tip meets your pulsating clit, the sensation feeling almost overwhelming despite the layers of fabric between you. Not knowing how to deal with the mix of not wanting to stop and really, really wanting more, his name leaves your lips in a moan that has his hips stuttering for a second.

“What do you want?” he asks softly, tilting his head to the side the adorable way he often does when talking or listening to you.

Instead of replying, you only press against him harder. His eyes roll back with a low groan, but he refuses to give in.

“Use your words, pretty.”

“Want you,” you murmur, and although he really wants to hear you say it again, he’s too impatient to make you repeat yourself. Instead, he quickly manhandles you from his lap onto the sofa, your back pressed against the cushions as he hovers over you and starts leaving more kisses from your neck over your chest and stomach down to the waistband of your shorts. He quickly pulls it in between his teeth and down your legs without breaking eye contact. Once your shorts and underwear are carelessly discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands find their way to your thighs, spreading them apart to put your dripping core perfectly on display for him.

You let your forearm fall over your eyes as you feel the familiar heat creeping up on your cheeks, feeling timid no matter how many times he’s already seen you like this. The feeling of two fingers gently sliding in between your glistening folds makes you arch your back, and although you can’t see him, you can practically hear Jake’s grin as he speaks, “so wet just for me?”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your response and licks one long stripe from your hole up to your clit, where he circles the bundle of nerves with his tongue before tentatively sucking it between his lips. The moan that rips from your throat only motivates him to do it again, making your back arch off the sofa again. When his tongue finds your hole, his nose bumps against your clit, drawing another whimper from you while he laps up everything you give him with a content hum.

Just as he focuses on your clit again, grabbing your thighs and placing your legs over his shoulders to bury his face deeper between them, you manage a quiet “stop” in between moans.

Jake quickly sits back on his knees and brings his hands to your thighs to gently massage them. “Is everything okay?” The soft look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat, your chest feeling warm with endearment.

“I just… I want you,” you admit, watching as his eyes widen.

Suddenly, Jake’s throat feels dry, and his chest rises and falls quicker as he tries his best to find a different meaning to your words than the one he initially comes up with. “What do you mean by that?”

You hesitate for a moment. “I want you to–... I need you to fuck me.”

Jake’s hands come to an immediate halt, as he swallows the lump in his throat to physically hold his jaw from dropping at your words.

“Fuck, you can’t say this like that,” he mutters.

You don’t respond, just look up at him with pleading eyes as you can practically see his brain short-circuiting.

“I don’t have any con–”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt him, “please, Jake.” Grabbing the collar of his shirt, you pull him in for a soft kiss that completely contrasts the urge in your core. He immediately melts into the kiss, reciprocating it with the same tenderness, until he pulls back way too soon and pulls his shirt over his head.

Your hands find his skin, marvelling at the toned chest and abs he’s been hiding from you. Jake sighs softly at the contact, muscles contracting under your touch as your fingers curl under the waistband of his sweatpants to pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, perfectly hard with beads of precum dribbling down the sides. You reach out, but Jake grabs your wrist to stop you. His other hand pushes your leg more to the side before he carefully guides his tip through your wet folds, over your clit and down to your leaking hole. He hisses at the feeling, clenching his jaw tight to hold back from moaning just from the feeling of your arousal alone.

“Jakeee,” you whine, bucking up your hips just enough for his tip to slide in. Choking back a groan, he places one hand on your knee to angle your leg so that he can properly line himself up with your entrance. He looks at you as if scanning your face for any kind of uncertainty, but before he can ask if you’re sure, you nod.

Jake slowly pushes in, head thrown back as your warm walls welcome him inch by inch. His fingers dig into the flesh of your leg as he tries to hold onto whatever little sanity he has left in him and give you time to adjust.

“Doing so good for me already,” he mumbles more to himself than to you, but the praise is enough for you to clench around him in a way that draws a hiss from him while his eyes shut close. He wants to tell you how you can’t do that to him just yet, but he doesn’t trust his voice. Just as he tries to focus on not bursting without having even moved, your gentle grip on his biceps makes him open his eyes.

“You can move,” you say softly. And so he does, head dropping to the crook of your neck as he slowly starts moving.

Although the stretch feels amazing, the way his hips roll against yours so perfectly, hitting all the right places in a way you haven’t felt before, something feels off. You try to angle your hips differently, to change the placement of your legs, squirming under him for less than three seconds before he quickly comes to a halt. He lifts his head, eyes searching yours as his hand quickly comes up to cup your cheek.

“Hey… what’s wrong? Do you want to stop?” He asks so gently it almost hides the breathlessness in his voice.

You shake your head, letting out a shaky breath as you feel your body tensing in frustration. “No, I just… I don’t know what’s wrong,” you murmur. Suddenly, you feel a lump forming in your throat again, the stress from earlier mingling with the newfound frustration now.

“Babe,” he coos, the sudden nickname bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve never done this before. It’s okay if something doesn’t work out immediately.” His thumb brushes against your cheek tenderly, and leaning into his touch, you slowly start relaxing.

Jake slides his hands under your back, pulling you with him as he sits up and positions you on his lap without slipping out of you. You hold onto his arms again while you slowly sink down on his lap fully, gasping softly at how deep he reaches now. “Let’s try this,” he suggests, hands sliding down your back to your hips. He gently lifts you up a little before he guides you back down, shivers running over his body at the soft moan you let out.

“Just go with whatever feels good for you,” he says, voice so gentle you completely miss the way he’s losing his mind internally.

“But you–”

“Don’t worry about me, you feel perfect for me,” he reassures before you can voice your doubt.

So you start, going slowly, hesitantly at first, then a bit faster – this time quickly finding a rhythm that feels just right for both of you.

“Fuuuck,” Jake pants as his head falls back against the sofa and his fingertips bore a little harder into the flesh of your hips. Your hands weakly grab onto his shoulders for support as you feel the burn in your thighs intensify.

“Just a little longer, baby. Can you do that for me?” He asks when you slow down, lazily grinding on him rather than riding him. His voice is breathy – laced with a strange mix of exhaustion and lust that is enough to send shivers down your spine.

You nod tiredly, though you can’t fully register what he even asked for. His voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears; the only thing you can truly focus on is the way he fills you up so perfectly and how fresh waves of pleasure shoot through your entire body every time your clit rubs against his pelvis.

Jake lifts his head from the sofa to take a better look at your face, and if it didn’t boost his ego so much that your cheeks were flushed, your eyes almost teary and your lips slightly bruised from all the kissing, he would almost feel pity for you.

“So pretty like that… Such a good girl for me,” he breathes, but his words don’t quite reach you. You let your head fall into the crook of his neck where every breath of yours covers his skin in goosebumps and every little whimper makes his cock twitch inside you.

You barely register how he tightens his grip on your hips until he holds you down firmly enough to stop your movements. Before you can even lift your head to look at him, he bucks his hips up, his tip kissing your cervix so deliciously that you can’t hold back a surprised moan as your nails dig deeper into the skin of his shoulders.

Jake’s eyes flutter shut at the way your walls clench around him. He rolls his hips into yours another time, leaning his head against the cushions again and relishing how good you feel around him, how your warm slick coats his length and drips down his thighs.

His hands find their way to your ass, lifting you up just slightly, only to roughly push you down to meet his next thrust.

The world around him suddenly goes quiet – the sound of the TV playing in the background, even the quiet hum of the air conditioning that Jake always hears – none of these reach his ears anymore. The only thing he can focus on are your moans that echo off the walls, each of them only spurring him to make you feel better, to make you moan louder.

You can barely hear the string of curses he mutters under his breath, but his breathy whimpers pierce through the wall of pure pleasure, shooting straight to your core. Your legs feel numb, but the way he whines just a little louder and grabs your ass just a little tighter whenever he reaches so deep you’re sure you could see the bulge in your stomach if you had the strength to lift your head from his shoulder motivates you to keep going.

Jake moves one hand up to the back of your head, fisting some of your hair and pulling your head back so gently it’s almost endearing compared to his thrusts. “Keep your eyes on me, baby,” he mutters, holding back a moan at just the sight of your fucked out expression.

Your entire body is tingling, making it hard to not squeeze your eyes shut. “I said eyes on me,” Jake manages between whimpers, focusing his own gaze fully on your face. He can literally see how each snap of his hips brings you closer to release, and god does he love to see it. How he has you right where he wanted you for so long, how he can draw those pretty moans from you, how he doesn’t even need you under him to have full control over your pleasure.

“Jake,” his name rolls off your lips with a moan that makes his hips stutter, his jaw tensing as he tries to solely focus on not letting go just yet.

His hand slowly lets go of your hair and roams over your body, leaving goosebumps in its trace. He cups your breasts, gently squeezes your waist, places his hand on the small of your back to pull you impossibly closer until he finally settles for your clit. A small sigh escapes your lips when he starts to rub slow circles around the bud. You let your head fall on Jake’s shoulder again, strands of hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks, covering your eyes that you shut tighter with each snap of his hips.

Jake feels his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as every thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs all over again. His fingertips dig deeper into your skin, relishing how fast your arousal covers his other hand and how each of your moans bring him closer to the edge.

A murmured “don’t stop,” is all you can muster as you feel the tension in your body reach the unbearable. The sensation makes your head spin – your clit throbbing under his touch, your walls clenching around him tighter and tighter and your skin tingling on every inch your bodies meet.

You can’t even warn him before your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, leaving your body shaking and your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, I–” Jake cuts off, his eyes rolling back as he feels his cock twitching. He places both hands on your back, pulling your chest flush against his, so close that you can feel his heart beating rapidly against yours, as he finally allows himself to let go.

He lazily thrusts his hips up a few more times, not only riding out his own high but yours too, before he stops completely and lets his head fall back against the sofa again. Your heavy exhales hit Jake’s sweaty neck as you try to catch your breath, forcing another shiver down his spine. He lets his fingers brush up and down your back gently, waiting for both of your heartbeats to slow down while he softly murmurs words you’re still too far gone to understand.

Only when you slowly lift your head from his shoulder does he open his eyes to look at you. The corners of his lips curl up, offering a smile that feels so warm you almost don’t notice how your body temperature slowly begins to drop.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice ever so gentle although slightly hoarse, as one of his hands lets go of your back and instead moves up to your face to carefully brush your hair out of your face.

You reply with a short nod, tiredly reciprocating his smile. “I’m tired,” you mumble, which earns a soft chuckle from Jake.

“Shower or bath?” he asks, letting his hand rest on your cheek and softly brushing his thumb up and down your skin. You allow yourself to lean into his touch slightly, yet you pout your lips, “nothing.”

Smiling softly, Jake leans forward to press a light kiss against your forehead. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Jake drops his hands to your hips, slowly lifting you up once you exhale to carefully pull out of you. Only when he gently sets you down on the sofa do your legs stop shaking. “Good job,” he mumbles. Then, he pushes himself up from the sofa, picks up his sweatpants from the floor and quickly slides them on.

You watch him, gaze wandering over his bare back, the marks your nails left on his skin and the way his muscles slightly flex with each small movement, before he turns around with a soft smile and leaves the living room.

Your eyes are barely open when he comes back with a glass of water in one hand and a dampened washing cloth in the other. He hands you the glass with a soft smile, waiting for you to drink and placing it on the coffee table after. Then, he motions you to lay back with a gentle push against your shoulders. Placing his hands on each of your knees, he slowly spreads your legs apart to carefully clean you up.

The warm fabric feels soft and the way Jake wipes it over your sore skin ever so gently makes your heart flutter as the familiar warmth of just being around him spreads through your chest. Just as your eyes begin to close, the feeling of Jake’s soft lips against your forehead makes you open them again. He’s leaning over you, eyes and smile filled with something between warmth and fondness.

“You hungry?” he asks so quietly he might as well have whispered as he reaches out to gently tuck some strands of hair behind your ear.

Your tired eyes light up at the mention of food. “Can we order pizza?”

Jake nods with a chuckle. After finding his phone somewhere on the floor, he hands it to you. “Choose what you like, I’ll be right back, yeah?” Already invested in the options, you barely register Jake leaving the room again, until he returns with a shirt in his hand. You would have mistaken it for one of yours, if not for the bigger size and the unmistakable scents of his detergent and cologne as he carefully pulls it over your head and guides your arms through the sleeves.

“I always keep an extra one in my bag,” he explains before you can open your mouth to ask.

Trying to dismiss the bubbly feeling in your stomach, you nod in response and mouth a quick ‘thank you’. Jake offers another gentle smile, before taking his phone from your hands, choosing his food and placing the order. The two of you just wait in silence, you sitting on Jake’s lap, one of his hands around your waist to hold you close while he rubs soothing circles onto your back with the other.

After you finish your food – well, Jake’s food, simply because you liked it better than your own and he immediately switched the two boxes – he curls one arm around your waist and the other under your knees and picks you up to carry you to the bedroom where he gently lays you down on your bed before crawling in next to you.

As if it was second nature, his arms find their way around your body again, pulling you in and holding you so close it almost feels like he never wants to let you go again. And despite being too tired to really think about it, you can’t help but wish he means it.

“Jake?” His name rolls off your lips before you can stop it.

You feel his chest vibrate underneath your head as he hums in response. You hesitate for a bit, letting his slow breaths lull you in until you feel yourself drifting off and you barely register the confession you mumble right before sleep pulls you under.

“I really like you.”

The next morning, you wake up from a shiver running over your body. Eyes still shut, you scoot closer to Jake, expecting to be embraced by the warmth of his body, but his side feels even colder. When you slowly open your eyes, you’re met by the bright sunlight that shines through your curtains, and an empty other half of the bed. You hold your breath for a moment, checking for any sounds coming from the bathroom or the kitchen, for quiet footsteps outside your room. But when you hear nothing, the apartment feeling more silent than ever before, you push the air out through your nose.

Although your body feels heavy, your legs and core a little sore, you slowly sit up and reach for your phone on your nightstand. As soon as you grab it, your screen lights up with Jake’s name, the pile of messages he sent the day before, and one from only 43 minutes ago.

Jake: had to leave early for practice and didn’t wanna wake you up :( hope you slept well tho. you looked cute haha. text me when you’re awake?

Biting your lip to hold back a smile, your eyes skim over the previous messages – his question if you wanted to grab dinner after practice, his repeated attempts to ask if you’re okay, if you’re really just studying for so long, or if he did anything to upset you – before they land on the most recent message again. You quickly type your reply and hit send, before falling back into bed, pulling the blanket over your body and letting Jake’s scent take over your senses until you’re fully embraced by it.

When he responds just a little later than usual that day, you don’t think much of it. He tells you about practice, how he doesn’t have any bad bruises this time, and even sends you a picture for proof. You smile at his messages like you’re used to by now, and your heart does that little jump when he sends a voice note to wish you sweet dreams later that night.

Then, little by little, his replies begin to come later, his calls less frequently. He slowly replaces the occasional forehead kisses for kisses on your cheek, or sometimes, none at all. And although you try to shove it away, sometimes you can’t help but think about it. You begin to wonder whether his touch really feels a little less soft than usual, or if your mind is just playing games with you. If his message was intended to sound a bit colder, or if you’re reading too much into it.

He never brings up your quiet confession, and you don’t either, unsure if he even heard, when in reality the four words are constantly replaying in his mind. When you repeat them without saying them, just because your touch is so much softer than before. Because your eyes search for his more often, and the look in them makes his heart drop. And sometimes, when he keeps his hand around yours a bit longer, you allow yourself to think that he might not let go. You almost ask. But each time, he quickly pulls away, changing the topic as though he’s terrified of what could happen if he gives you enough time to think.

Yet, he’s still around. He still comes over after practice, still eats dinner with you, still checks in on you, and still stays when you’re studying. Just not as frequently, and seemingly not as whole-heartedly.

“This one looks painful,” you mumble, standing between Jake’s legs as you clean up a cut on his lips. He doesn’t reassure you that it’s fine. Instead, he just responds with a hum that sounds more indifferent than anything else. His breath flattens when you finish up by applying some of your favorite chapstick to his lips like you usually do, its familiar scent flooding his senses until all he can think about is how it tastes on your lips. And for a second, he seems like he might lean in. But then he stands up so rapidly that his forehead almost clashes with yours, mumbles a quick thank you, something about having to run errands, and rushes out of the door with nothing more than a short goodbye-kiss to your cheek.

Jake doesn’t send you his usual good night text that night – neither the night after. He stops coming over as much. Because he’s tired, busy, or already has plans. But when you tell him that you miss him, he still responds that he does too. Until he doesn’t respond at all.

You reassure yourself he’ll text tomorrow, but tomorrow turns into the day after tomorrow, and then into the day after that. Your follow-up message remains unanswered, and the next one stays a draft until you eventually erase it.

After that, you only see him once. He walks past you in the college hallways, so quickly that you have just enough time to catch a glimpse of the angry red bruise blooming right over his cheekbone. You almost turn around, almost call his name and reach out to ask if he’s okay, but he’s gone before you can second-guess it. And you don’t see him again until he rings at your door a few days later.

“Can we talk?”

Jake almost shoots the question at you, as if he’d forget it if he didn’t get it out fast enough. You look him up and down for a moment, silently wondering why, suddenly, he wants to talk, when he’s been so painfully obvious at avoiding you for what felt like an eternity.

At first, you don’t reply, stuck between having no words to say and having too many. A part of you wants to slam the door in his face, another one wants to hear him out, and despite the feeling of discomfort in your stomach, one part in the very back of your heart hopes that this somehow means something good. “About?”

“Us.”

You swallow lightly, yet it’s enough for Jake to register. When you step to the side to let him in, he hesitates for the blink of an eye. Then, he comes in, waits until you close the door, and hesitates again when you look at him expectantly, before he takes a deep breath in and finally speaks.

“I don’t know where this is leading, and I don’t know where you want this to lead.” He takes a break, eyes searching yours as if searching for the confession you’re not ready to make a second time.

You subconsciously pick at your nails as the silence seems to stretch the small space between you infinitely. Then, taking a deep, shaky breath, you break it. “If this is about the other night, we can just forget it.”

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks quickly, sternly, voice laced with a tone that tells you there’s no correct answer to the next question. “About liking me?”

You hold his gaze for a while, trying to make out the emotion his brown orbs hide, but to no avail. So you lower your eyes before slowly nodding your head yes – and with each passing second in silence, the air only seems to thicken with tension.

“We should stop whatever this is,” he says with an unfamiliar coldness, as if he’s trying to prove there’s no room for argument – as if the lack of an answer wasn’t the answer already. And although meeting your expectation, the words still hit you like a punch to the gut, causing your head to snap up to look at him again, only to find nothing of the usual softness on his face.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in your throat, clogging your airways until it feels hard to breathe. Jake’s eyes flicker down to his hands, observing his bruised knuckles, before he brings them back up and locks them with yours.

“If you want more than this, we should stop,” he repeats matter of factly, eyes never leaving yours. “I can’t be the guy you need, much less deserve. I’m not gonna take you on nice dates or be there for you on call. It took me years getting to where I am now, and I’ll work harder to get where I want to be. I can’t do it halfway, Y/n. And I won’t choose you over boxing.”

“You should have thought about that before you started to act like my boyfriend.”

Jake’s eyes widen slightly at your words. He looks at you for a while, a hint of tension in his jaw, until he visibly gulps and lowers his gaze. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Your interruption makes his eyes snap back to you, the sarcastic undertone in your voice drawing his brows together. “I thought you were sure when you started all this, my bad.”

“Listen, I wasn’t trying to mess with you,” Jake replies, the slight tremble in his voice mirroring the one in his hand as he runs it through his hair, pushing back some strands that fall right over his eyes again the second he lets go.

“It just didn’t feel that casual to me,” you mumble, unsure if he hears, or if you even meant for him to.

But his eyes widen again, a wave of something similar to panic washing over his face. “It wasn’t casual,” he defends, almost stumbling over his own words from how fast he spits them out. And for a second, you allow a spring of hope to bloom in your chest, allow yourself to breathe – until his words snatch the air away from you once more.

“I just can’t give you more.”

You look at him, eyes boring into his as if you could find a glimmer of something else behind them. Something that tells you he doesn’t mean it, that he’ll change his mind. But he stays silent, just holding eye contact for a moment before breaking away from it.

“Right,” you say quietly, but Jake still catches the way your voice cracks a little, and he swears his heart does the same when you continue, “you could just give me enough until I slept with you.”

“Huh?” He exclaims almost a little too loudly, taking a step forward to reach out to you, simply because he lacks ideas of what else to do – but you quickly step back, eyes shooting up to his in a way that tells him to keep his distance.

“Y/n, that’s not true.”

“Well, the shoe fits,” you reply, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists to refrain from reaching out again. “That’s not true,” he repeats.

“If it wasn’t casual, what was it then?”

Your question comes quietly, but surprisingly stable. You hold Jake’s eyes, even when your throat starts burning from how tight it feels and you really want to look away just to hide the tears that you feel pricking at your eyes. But you don’t have to, because Jake is the first to look away, eyes wandering to the side to look right past you and thinning his lips as though keeping them sealed.

“Okay. Got it.”

And with that, you open the front door again and tilt your head toward it to wordlessly signal him to leave.

“Dude,” Sunghoon groans frustratedly as Jake barely dodges another punch the younger throws at him. “You’re slower than a sloth,” he continues, but Jake doesn’t reply – just stumbles back a step to avoid another hit.

“That girl still taking up all your focus?”

Jake’s eyes dart up immediately, eyebrows pulling together and lips parting ever so slightly, yet he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he steps forward, aiming for his friend’s ribs. Blocking the blow with his arm, Sunghoon’s lips curl up to a grin that tells Jake he’s simply trying to get any type of reaction from him.

“The one you were desperately trying to reach a few weeks ago, if you remember,” he clarifies unnecessarily, voice laced with mocking innocence, as if Jake could have forgotten who he means.

“We’re not talking anymore,” he replies finally, voice tight enough to show he’s not willing to talk about it.

“But you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Sunghoon presses with another question that earns him a quick but sharp punch to the gut instead of an answer. He winces at first, but the initial cough from the air being pushed out of his lungs violently soon turns into an amused chuckle.

“Take that as a yes,” he mumbles before collecting himself and standing up straight despite the dull pain in his stomach. “Then she must have been really clingy. Or a really good fuck.”

Jake clenches his jaw tightly, the line between his brows deepening further. “Stop speaking about her like that.”

“You didn’t deny it,” Sunghoon replies, not even trying to hide the grin on his face as he watches Jake practically imploding.

“Shut up,” he growls, “that’s not how it was.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, replacing his teasing look with a more serious one. “How was it then?”

Jake’s face slowly relaxes, the tension disappearing little by little until there’s nothing left of it. He opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the process once more before he slowly lowers his gaze to the floor and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know. Good. She felt good to be around. Calming, if that makes sense. She seemed comfortable and just herself with me, and…”

Sunghoon doesn’t reply, just hums to tell the older to keep going.

“I’m probably making that up, but I think sometimes she smiled a bit more when I was around and then my heart did that thing and it made me want to make her smile forever?”

“And how did you mess up?”

The question causes Jake to look up again, cluelessly blinking at his friend.

“You said you’re not talking anymore,” Sunghoon continues, “but it sounds like she really liked you. So: How did you mess up?”

“She does like me!” Jake exclaims so quickly he almost stumbles over his own words. “Or… did. I don’t know. I told her I can’t give her more than that and she got it all wrong, talking about how I could give her just enough until she slept with me and–”

“Woah, hold on,” Sunghoon interrupts with one hand held up, “I know you’re not an asshole, why are you acting like one?”

Jake doesn’t reply at first, just replays his friend’s question over and over in his mind.

“I just… look, she deserves the world, okay? And I’m just so caught up in boxing, and I need to focus if I wanna go pro.”

Again, Sunghoon’s eyebrow shoots up. “She ‘deserves the world’, so you go give her nothing? Doesn’t sound logical to me.”

“But making this professional has been my goal for years and–”

“I know. Did she make you choose?”

Jake hesitates, then slowly shakes his head.

“So you just freaked out.”

“I didn’t freak out.”

“I’ve known you for years now, and as your friend I feel entitled to tell you that 99% of the time you’re the epitome of freaking out,” Sunghoon deadpans. “Do you have feelings for her?”

Jake gives Sunghoon a look that somehow says everything and nothing at once, and it’s just enough for the younger to understand.

“You’re in love with her.”

Jake hesitates, holding his breath for just a second, before pushing the air out with a sigh. Then, he slowly nods. “I am.”

“Then why’d you drop her, dumbass?” Sunghoon asks, throwing his head back with exaggerated frustration. But Jake just slips through the ropes of the ring and rips off his gloves – completely oblivious to the fact that, just around the corner, with his words echoing in your mind, you’re holding a little tighter onto the shirt you intended to give back to him.

Diploma in one hand, you wince at the pain in your heels as you slowly push through the crowd of people. You’re almost at the exit, eager to catch some fresh air after what felt like hours of ceremony, when a soft tap on your shoulder makes you turn around. And suddenly the noise around you fades, as though the world stopped for a moment.

You look at Jake, his own diploma in one hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other, and your breath catches in your throat when he slowly reaches out to hand it to you. Goosebumps erupt on your hand, shooting up your arm and down your spine, when his fingers softly brush yours as you hesitantly take the flowers from his hand.

“Congratulations,” Jake mumbles so quietly you don’t catch it, just reading it off his lips. He wants to tell you that he knew you’d make it, that he’s proud of you, that he hopes you’re proud of yourself, too. That he misses you to a point where it hurts, and that just seeing you again made his heart skip several beats. But the words stay on the tip of his tongue, slowly evaporating into thin air with every second he doesn’t get them out.

“Congrats to you too. Didn’t think you’d graduate, given you don’t have time for Plan B,” you manage, although the words taste bitter, feel forced, and make Jake gulp visibly. But he notices the soft look on your face, the apology in your eyes that contrasts the harsh tone of your voice, and he knows that you’re not really trying to hurt him – just trying to protect yourself from getting hurt first.

He stays silent for a while, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, and releasing it again before responding. “Well, someone once told me that getting beat up for my dreams isn’t a solid career plan.”

Before you can help it, the corners of your lips twitch just a little, barely enough for Jake to see the faintest hint of a smile.

“Oh, and you listened to that someone?”

“Only ‘cause that someone is special… and definitely not Plan B,” he says with a shrug that looks way too forced to make it appear casual.

You absentmindedly tighten your grip around the flowers, wanting to snap back a reply to hide that the walls you’ve been building around yourself aren’t so stable after all – but your mind blanks.

And Jake swears he would take the snarkiest remark, but your silence and the insecure look on your face makes his chest tighten uncomfortably.

“Anyway, you should go celebrate with your family and–”

“They didn’t come,” you interrupt with a shake of your head.

“Huh?” He surprisedly raises his eyebrows.

“My family didn’t make it. Too much work, or no flights, or whatever,” you shrug, slightly shifting from one foot to the other as if that could loosen the tension you feel creeping up your spine.

“Do you wanna join mine?” He blurts out before he can stop himself. “It’s… nothing fancy, just dinner. You should come.”

This time, it’s your eyebrows that shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“You should come.”

For a while, you just look at him. Take in the hint of hope on his face, the way he slightly raises his eyebrows in anticipation, and the way he starts fumbling with the diploma in his hand. And you try hard to ignore how your chest warms at the simple habit of his that somehow makes you realize just how much you missed him.

“Did you mean it?” The words come out before you think about it, surprising both of you.

Jake furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What? Of course. You shouldn’t be alone today.”

“No, I mean… Did you mean it when you said you were in love with me?”

You watch as his eyes widen and his adam’s apple pops up and down as he gulps. He opens his mouth, but you beat him to it. “I was going to return your shirt, and I guess I overheard your conversation. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you guys just don’t know how to talk in normal volume.”

Jake looks at you with a face that doesn’t quite give away what he’s thinking – something like a strange mix of shock, relief, and uncertainty. Face paling, he waits and waits for the realization to settle, searches for things to say, but suddenly it feels like he lost all the words he once knew.

“I… Yeah, I meant it,” he begins slowly. “I didn’t realize it before– I mean, honestly, I did. I knew I liked you, but–”

“You freaked out,” you interrupt, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s tone of voice, but you can’t help the hint of sadness coating your words.

Jake reciprocates your half-smile for a second, then he nods with a sigh.

“I did freak out. Listen, I’m sorry for the way I left things, and I know sorry isn’t gonna make it better magically, but…” He trails off and lowers his head. “You mean a lot more to me than I showed you, and I’d like to prove that to you at least today.”

You gulp as if that could help you get rid of the lump that has been forming in your throat the second you turned around and faced him. And despite it getting only harder to breathe when his eyes find yours, you don’t look away this time. Instead, you let his gaze steal the air from your lungs little by little as you keep searching for the slightest hint of insincerity. But even as seconds turn into what feels like an eternity, you find nothing that makes you doubt he means it. So you slowly nod.

“Fine. But only ‘cause I really want dinner,” you give in, and although you try to sound stern, you can’t help but mirror Jake when his lips curl up just a little.

When Jake introduces you to his family, you learn that he’s been talking about you – ‘once or twice’, according to him, and ‘the entire fucking time’, according to his brother. Your eyes shoot to Jake, who just scratches his neck sheepishly, but the honesty in his look makes it hard for you to really shrug it off.

He stays close to you throughout the entire evening. Wherever you’re walking, his hand hovers over the small of your back just enough to prove he’s there without really touching you – and during dinner he sits next to you, perfectly distanced for your legs to not brush against each other’s but so you can still feel the warmth of his body. And although his family includes you into the conversation just perfectly, he occasionally nudges your shoulder and looks at you with a questioning look to make sure you feel okay.

When you bid goodbye to his parents and brother later that night, you’re so busy thinking about how oddly comfortable you feel, that you don’t notice how Jake struggles to hide the oh so evident adoration in his eyes. The need to keep you close. But he swears that even if you decide you never want to see him again after this night, the soft smile on your face is enough for him, as long as he was the one who painted it there.

He insists on walking you up to your apartment, hand itching to reach for yours, but he quickly shoves it in the pocket of his dress pants. Once you stand in front of your door, you hesitate to look for your key. Instead, you turn around to face him.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you say quietly, offering him a tiny smile that he immediately reciprocates.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he replies so gently your knees almost buckle just at that.

“Well, I told you I really wanted dinner,” you try to joke, but your voice sounds far more charged. Jake smiles nonetheless.

For a while, you just stand there, looking at him without feeling like you’re drowning. You can almost see it on his face how he wants to take a step closer, but refuses to give in to it. And despite everything, you’re the one to do that instead. Jake’s breath flattens as he looks down to you, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between you, but he doesn’t move – doesn’t back away either when you slowly bring your hands up to his jacket and pull him down until your lips almost touch.

He gulps as he reaches for your waist with shaky hands to pull you in more, trying to ignore the way his heart skips a beat once he feels your body against his. And when you slowly angle your head up to close whatever distance was left between you, the goosebumps that erupt on his body almost make him shudder. His fingers dig into your waist softly, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re real, while his lips gently move against yours in a way that makes you feel like he never left.

Nearly overwhelmed by the feeling, you allow yourself to melt into his touch until you slowly, almost reluctantly, pull away for air. Jake’s breath brushes your lips as he gently rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

“Fuck, I’m so in love with you,” he mutters, not even registering the words until he said them.

When he feels you tensing just slightly, he quickly takes a step back. “Sorry, I–... You don’t have to say it back, I just– sorry I shouldn’t have said that,” he stumbles over his own words, only stopping his ramble when you take a step forward again and tenderly place one hand on his chest. Then, you curl your fingers around the fabric of his shirt just enough to pull him in again.

You kiss him so softly it proves not only that you feel the same, but also that you’re not yet ready to really tell him again. That you want to let him in, but still make sure he keeps one foot out the door. And for now, that’s enough for Jake.

His touch is gentle when his hands cup your face, thumbs carefully sweeping over your cheeks as he pulls away the second time.

“You mean a lot to me, Y/n,” he confesses, intentionally this time, steadily, although his voice shakes a bit. “I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise.”

Your heart squeezes not only at his words, but the way they feel more genuine than anything he’s ever told you before. And you can’t help the soft smile when you look right into his eyes again and find nothing but endearment and honesty.

“You did prove that to me today,” you mumble, smiling a little brighter at the evident relief on his face.

“Will you let me prove it again?” He asks tentatively, the glimmer of hope in his voice making you chuckle softly.

“I’ll see.”

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witchywithwhiskey · 3 days ago

Text

what good girls get after movie night

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

summary: movie night in avengers tower gets interesting when you and bucky barnes test the limits of your secret relationship.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), thunderbolts* spoilers, smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, edging/orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, come eating, semi-public fooling around (under a blanket during movie night), 'need to be quiet so we don't get caught' trope, sneaking around/secret relationship, dirty talk, light degradation, praise kink, teasing, biting, pet names (sweetheart, baby), established relationship, both bucky and reader are members of the new avengers—let me know if i missed something!

word count: 3.1k

a/n: here's my first ever entry for @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event!! idk yet how many weeks i'll be able to write for, but i'm gonna try to do a couple at least. and to start us off, we've got a very dirty Bucky Barnes and some New Avengers tower shenanigans 😅 hope y'all enjoy! ♡

prompt: “Mind your own damn business.” | [Secret Sex/Relationship | Embarrassment | Denial]

It was movie night in Avengers Tower—or rather, New Avengers Tower—and you plopped down in one of the end seats of the overstuffed couches in the lounge.

You always made sure to show up early so you didn’t end up crammed between John Walker and Ava Starr. Their bickering could ruin any movie.

Sure enough, the pair entered the lounge not long after you, arguing about who won some sparring match during their training that day, and whether it was cheating for Ava to use her powers. She was threatening to phase into his room and stab him while he slept as they took their seats on another couch.

You breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t sitting near you. The seat next to you was still open, and you had hopes for who would take it—though you tried not to look hopeful as the others filtered in.

Alexei Shostakov, Yelena Belova and Bob Reynolds entered the lounge a few minutes later. Yelena flopped down on the floor, while Bob sat on the couch closest to her, the two of them having a conversation that was much more civil than the continued bickering between John and Ava, which had devolved into threats of bodily harm.

Alexei went straight for the remote to the massive TV before settling into the lounge’s only recliner armchair. Everyone had long ago agreed that was always his spot because he fell asleep five minutes into the movie and snored like a fighter jet mid-battle.

Just before Alexei hit play on the movie, Bucky Barnes slipped into the lounge and took the empty seat next to you. Immediately, your heart began to beat a little faster, and you tried to hide your joy as you looked around at the others on the team.

You’d spent hours wondering whether everyone else knew you and Bucky were sneaking around together, trying to keep your relationship secret so it wouldn’t get back to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Neither you nor Bucky knew how Val would react, and you both figured it was easier not to find out.

That night, no one was paying you and Bucky any mind—Yelena was snapping at John to shut up while Alexei’s recliner creaked loudly as he settled into it. You figured they either hadn’t noticed how close Bucky was sitting to you, or they didn’t care.

Knowing The New Avengers as you did, you truly couldn’t determine which was more likely to be true.

Finally, the movie began. The sound was turned up to a nearly deafening level, and you let your worries about what the team did or didn’t know fall away.

A few minutes in, Bucky grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and he casually tossed it over the two of you. When you looked at him and caught his eye, the ghost of a smirk danced at the edge of his mouth, and you shot him the barest smile in return.

Glancing around the room, you made sure everyone was engrossed in the movie before curling into Bucky’s side. You threw your legs over his thigh while his metal arm wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you into his body.

Ducking your head, you hid a pleased smile as you got comfortable. Your body relaxed into Bucky, your fingers holding the blanket up to your chin so it covered as much of your entwined limbs as possible.

Snuggled up with your secret boyfriend, you settled in to watch the movie in peace. But Bucky had other ideas.

While everyone else was focused on the TV, Bucky shifted so he was curled more around you, his hand slipping onto your knee beneath the blanket.

Just that touch had tingles of warmth dancing up your thighs to settle heavily between your legs, your body already beginning to crave Bucky’s. But with the team littered throughout the room, you did your best to ignore your reaction to Bucky’s touch.

Then, oh so slowly, Bucky began to slide his hand up your thigh. His palm was blazingly hot through the thin cotton of your leggings, teasing you with his heat when you truly wanted him to be touching your bare skin.

The higher his hand got, the less you could ignore it. Especially when his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh, earning a choked whine from you.

“Bucky,” you gasped on the softest exhale you could manage, well aware that there were two other super-soldiers in the room. No matter how loud the TV was, there was always a chance someone would hear you, or—god forbid—sense you another way. “We can’t.”

Lifting your head, you looked around the lounge with quick, sharp eyes.

Thankfully, Alexei was already asleep, the loud rumbling of his snores drowning out the quieter moments of the movie. Bob looked totally engrossed in the TV and Yelena was playing with one of her knives while she kept an eye on Ava and John, who were bickering again, though about what you couldn’t tell.

“Shh, sweetheart, watch the movie,” Bucky murmured teasingly in your ear, clearly having done his own sweep of the room and noting that no one was paying any attention to the two of you.

Bucky took advantage of the team’s distraction to slide his hand even higher up your thigh, until his big palm was cupping your pussy through your leggings. It was all you could do to bite down on your plush lower lip and hold back the sharp gasp that wanted to escape. His hand was so big and it felt so good pressing between your thighs.

A smirk slashed across Bucky’s face, his hungry eyes watching your expression closely so he could devour each and every one of your reactions. He pressed his fingers into your throbbing slit, watching as your lips dropped open and your eyes went hazy from the pleasure pulsing in your pussy.

He kept rubbing your cunt, and you knew the moment he realized you weren’t wearing any panties under your leggings because a soft growl rumbled in his chest. You’d already soaked through your leggings, and you were certain his fingers were growing wetter and wetter with every swipe of your pussy.

“You’re such a little slut, baby,” Bucky purred, ducking his head so his mouth was right against your cheek. You could feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin, and you squirmed on his lap, trapping his hand between your thighs, which only made him chuckle. “You wanted this, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

His words were so condescending and filthy, they had your heart racing in your chest, battering against your ribs. Embarrassment heated your cheeks, but you didn’t protest Bucky’s accusation—because he was right. You had foregone wearing panties hoping it would give Bucky easier access to do exactly what he was doing.

“You wanted to fool around during movie night, didn’t you, baby?” Bucky murmured, his impish grin pressed into your cheek. “You wanted me to rub your bare pussy through your leggings while the rest of the team are right here.”

It was so dirty, what the two of you were doing, but you didn’t want to stop. So even though his last words weren’t a question, you nodded. You lifted your eyes and looked at Bucky from under your lashes, letting him see all the naked desire in your expression.

Bucky’s grin widened, turning wolfish and hungry as his eyes sparkled in the dim blue light of the TV. His hand rubbed your pussy harder, thumb pressing tight circles into your clit, dragging you tenaciously toward the edge of your release.

“They could catch us at any second,” he warned, his voice still low enough that only you could hear. “And then they’d know just what a filthy little slut you are for me, huh?”

“Bucky, please,” you rasped on a stifled sob, turning your head and burying your face in Bucky’s neck. Your shoulders trembled, fingers curling into fists as you clung to his t-shirt. The pleasure rolling through your body was made even more overwhelming by the need to keep quiet.

“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t let them catch us,” Bucky rumbled soothingly, his hand between your thighs slowing to draw out your pleasure. “You just be a good little slut—stay quiet and let me play with your sweet, greedy cunt during the movie.”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered into Bucky’s neck, pressing a kiss to his skin as you spread your legs wider for him beneath the blanket.

“Good girl,” he cooed against your temple, making you quiver from the pleasure.

For a long while, Bucky rubbed your dripping cunt through your leggings, getting the fabric soaking wet while stoking your pleasure to a constant, burning heat. He was merciless, playing with your clit and your puffy pussy lips as if trying to get you to slip up and make a sound.

For your part, all you could do was try to be good. You muffled your moans in the warmth of Bucky’s neck, huffing out soft mewls and breathless whimpers that were drowned out by the movie playing on the TV and Alexei’s snores.

When you thought Bucky was going to edge you like that for the entire movie, he pulled his hand from between your thighs. Without warning, everything sharpened around you, your mind surfacing from the haze of constant pleasure.

Despite the reprieve from his torture, you nearly whined at the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch. Your fingers curled tighter in the soft cotton of his t-shirt and you were about to say something—but then he hooked his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and slid his big hand inside.

Bucky’s warm, calloused fingers pushed between the messy, swollen lips of your pussy, and the feeling was so good—so filthy and exquisite—that you were nearly helpless to it. At the last second, you ducked your head and sank your teeth into the hard muscle of his pecs to stifle the moan that demanded to spill free.

A grunt came from Bucky when you bit him, and you lifted your head in time to catch him glancing furtively around the room. When it was clear that everyone else was distracted by the movie or each other, you both breathed a sigh of relief.

Bucky’s fingers, which had stilled against your pussy, slipped deeper between your thighs. Two pushed into your hole, spearing you open and sinking inside you to the knuckle. They stretched you deliciously, stroking against your sensitive inner walls, and for a moment, you forgot yourself.

“Oh god, Bucky,” you breathed on a sigh of delight, pushing your face into his neck in a belated attempt to muffle your sounds of pleasure. He smelled like salt and leather and you wanted to lick him and moan with abandon.

“Shh, ya gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” Bucky chided you, his tone warm with affectionate teasing. “You don’t want anyone catching us, do you?”

Pleasure was throbbing through your body, so sharp and insistent, you could hardly bring yourself to care about getting caught anymore. You just wanted some relief—you wanted to come.

“Need you,” you whined as quietly as you could manage. “Please,” you begged pitifully, tugging weakly on Bucky’s shirt, as if that would sway him toward giving you what you wanted.

A reprimanding growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest and when he spoke, his mouth brushed against your ear, his words filling your head.

“If you can be a good girl and be quiet for the rest of the movie, I’ll take you back to my room and show you what good girls get,” he said, and then, as if deciding to make his point even clearer, he went on. “Good girls get to come on my big, fat cock while I spill my seed in their greedy, hungry cunt.”

His words were a lightning bolt straight to your pussy, and you nearly moaned again. You had to bite down on the base of Bucky’s throat to stifle the sound, and as soon as it passed, you pulled your mouth away to respond.

“I can be good—I can be good, I swear,” you promised in a rushed babble, a whine in your tone as you nodded your head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Good girl,” Bucky purred in your ear, his metal arm tightening around your shoulders and tucking you deeper into his chest. All the while, his fingers fucked your dripping hole slowly, torturously, ramping up your pleasure before easing you back down.

Bucky brought you to the edge three more times before the movie ended, rumbling in your ear to be a good girl and not come on his fingers so he could reward you later. It was a near thing each time, but you managed it, your body trembling more and more beneath the blanket concealing your bodies.

He’d let you wind down after each edge while he slipped his hand from your leggings and licked your desire from his fingers. His eyes would glimmer with barely leashed lust as he held your gaze, making you watch him taste you while you quivered in his arms. Then he’d start the process all over again.

By the time the movie was over, you were wound so tight, you knew you’d explode the second Bucky slid his cock into your aching, hungry cunt. And you couldn’t wait another minute for that release.

The second the credits began to roll, you yanked Bucky’s hand from your leggings, the super-soldier letting you free his fingers with a low chuckle. Then you tossed the blanket off your overheated bodies and hopped up, heading straight for the door with Bucky hot on your heels.

“Where are you two going?” John called as you tried to make a hasty escape, drawing all eyes to you and Bucky. “Don’t tell me you guys are tired already, we only watched one movie! Bucky might be ancient, but what’s your excuse, rookie?”

“Mind your own damn business, Walker,” you snarled, hurling the comment over your shoulder as you picked up your pace.

You didn’t care anymore if the team knew about you and Bucky and what you got up to when you were alone in the tower. All you could think about was the pounding pulse between your thighs and your need for release.

Looking over your shoulder, you caught Bucky’s eye, and he looked just as desperate and hungry as you felt. With a jolt of understanding, you realized he didn’t care if anyone else knew either, and the thought made you smile happily at him. His wolfish grin answered you and urged you on.

As the two of you retreated from the lounge, you heard John whining to the others, “What’d I say?” The last thing you heard was everyone else—save for Alexei, who was still asleep in his chair—laugh at him.

Once you were out of sight of the team, Bucky hauled you over his shoulder and took off. He jogged through the winding hallways of the tower until he got to his room. There, he pushed quickly through the door and locked it behind him, before tossing you down on the bed.

“Leggings off now, unless you want me to tear them off you,” Bucky growled, already yanking his clothes off.

You grinned at his impatience, as if he wasn’t the one who’d tortured you for the last two hours by edging you during movie night. But you decided to save your teasing for later, because you wanted him too badly to say anything. Instead, you just tore of your own clothes as quickly as you could.

Then Bucky was on you, his hips bullying between your legs, his cock smacking against your wet, needy pussy. Your thighs spread wide to welcome him into your body, your lips parting on an obscene moan when he crushed you into the bed with his heavy form.

In one thrust, he was inside you, and you let loose an uninhibited scream of pleasure that filled his room, bouncing off the walls and shattering the stillness of the night.

Just as you’d predicted, you came the moment Bucky slid home inside your pussy, your release helped along by the way he was grinding the base of his cock into your clit. He knew exactly what he was doing, pushing you over the edge with relentless efficiency.

And you were helpless to it. The pleasure coursing through you, crashing over you in blissful waves had you trembling and whimpering beneath him, riding out the overwhelming release with your thighs wrapped tight around his waist.

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re coming like a perfect little slut on my cock,” Bucky praised you, brushing kisses to your cheeks before capturing your lips in a filthy kiss. “You were such a good girl, so quiet and perfect for me while I played with your pretty pussy.”

Bucky started rolling his hips, thrusting into you with deep strokes of his cock, filling you up over and over again. You could feel the twitching and throbbing of his hard length, but he didn’t let up, just set a brutal pace, pounding into your cunt. Before your release had even fully subsided, he was urging you toward another.

Gripping your jaw in one hand while he braced himself on his metal arm, Bucky held your face still, his eyes locked on yours. There was a promise of pleasure in his feral gaze, in the slash of a smirk on his face, and you couldn’t help the eager grin that pulled at your lips at his next words.

“Now it’s time for me to show you what good girls get after movie night.”

Bucky Barnes was a man of his word, and show you he did. He fucked you long and hard, making you come so many times you lost count, until the evidence of your pleasure was seen in the uncontrollable quivering of your exhausted thighs and the amount of come—both his and yours—making a mess as it spilled from your body.

Meanwhile, the rest of the New Avengers team gave Bucky’s room a wide berth for the night. They all had a good idea about what the two of you got up to when you slipped away from the others to be alone; they all knew about your “secret” relationship and your not-so-secret cuddling during movie night. (Thankfully, that was all they knew about.)

Well, everyone knew about you and Bucky Barnes except John Walker. But he was always the last to figure out anything.

All told, it was a pretty standard movie night in the New Avengers Tower.

thanks for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

#hotbuckysummer2025 #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #witchywithwhiskeywork #established relationship #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan characters #sebastian stan #thunderbolts #the new avengers

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woollypoison · 2 days ago

Text

Never odd or even

Male reader x Le Sserafim Kim Chaewon Word count: 10k

"It’s fifty-fifty. It either happens or it doesn’t."

You set your glass down on the table so hard it nearly cracks. "It is not fifty-fifty."

She shrugs—Chaewon’s quintessential uncaring attitude about anything you say—as she falls down into the couch. "But it is, though." She pops open another beer like she hasn’t had enough to drink already.

She always does this. Chooses some ridiculously wrong position to dig her heels in. Like if she just believes it to be true, the universe will bend to her will out of sheer exasperation. You should just ignore it, and just let her believe what she wants to believe. There really is no point to it with her. You drag a hand down your face, because you've been here before. You’re always here. There is a universe where you’ve been having this argument since the dawn of time. Monty Hall sits upon his cosmic throne and watches you suffer.

"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.

“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.

She might be onto something.

“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.

You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”

She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.

Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.

It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal. Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.

She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.

“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”

You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”

She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘

Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.

That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.

And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.

She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.

You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”

Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.

“Make me.”

She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.

It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.

So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.

She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred.

“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”

“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”

You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.

“We’re settling this tonight.”

She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”

You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”

And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”

“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”

“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.

She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”

She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”

How could you?

“Chaewon.”

She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”

Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”

“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”

Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.

You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”

“Aaaah.” Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.

That’s it.

You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”

She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”

“Do you ever stop?”

Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”

It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”

She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”

“That’s really not how probability works.”

“That’s how life works.”

You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”

She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”

Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”

She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”

And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”

Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”

She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”

She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”

“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.

She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”

You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.

That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.

You hate how right she feels here.

She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.

“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”

Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”

She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.

You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”

Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”

She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.

It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.

She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.

The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life.

Sleep doesn’t come.

You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.

It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.

Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.

It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.

It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.

And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way.

The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.

Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”

The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.

And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.

But something did happen to you.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.

Chaewon: You awake??

You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.

You: Yeah.

It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.

Chaewon: Cant sleep

If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.

You: That sucks.

Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.

Then:

Chaewon: Are we okay?

You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.

You: We’re fine, Chaewon

Chaewon: Thats not a yes…

You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.

You: Do you want me to lie?

The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?

Chaewon: No Chaewon: IdkChaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this

You: Like what??

Chaewon: DistantChaewon: CarefulChaewon: Upset with me

Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.

You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon

Chaewon: Idk either…Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk

The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…

You: We’re talking now.

Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant

And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.

Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?

Chaewon: I miss you…

And before you can even overthink it—

You move.

There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.

“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.

You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”

It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.

She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.

You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.

You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.

“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”

Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”

The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”

“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.

You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”

“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.

There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.

“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”

You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”

Both of you say it at the same time.

“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.

“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”

She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”

The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.

Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”

She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”

“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”

Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—

Fuck.

Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.

She freezes. "Oh."

Oh? Fucking oh?

“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.

Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—” “You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”

“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”

It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”

Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?” You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.

Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”

“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”

Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”

There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”

“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.

“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”

You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”

Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.

The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.

“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”

It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying. “I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”

She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.

“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.

“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”

She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.

“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”

“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.

“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.

“But I didn’t let you?”

“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.

“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”

Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”

“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”

“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”

“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”

She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”

Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”

You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.

“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.

“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.

But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”

She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.

“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”

She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.

“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."

You stay quiet.

“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”

She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.

“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."

Her voice wavers.

“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”

There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.

She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”

You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.” “I—” “But you had to try.” Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.

“You’re saying… it’s still open?”

You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”

Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”

She flinches. Just barely. But enough.

“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”

You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.

And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.

“I just wanted you to want me still.”

And that? That fucking cracks something open.

You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.

“I never fucking stopped.”

There’s no pause this time.

No “but what if—”

No “are you sure—”

No more fucking Monty Hall.

Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.

It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.

It’s honest.

She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.

You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”

Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”

“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”

She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.

And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”

Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.

“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”

Her breath hitches. “I know.”

And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.

You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.

“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.

“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.

She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”

It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.

“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”

A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

But she just smirks.

“Chaewon.”

“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”

You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.

“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”

You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”

She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”

“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.

Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”

It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”

She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”

But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.

You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.

“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”

“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.

You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.

You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.

“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.

You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.

“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”

She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.

“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”

She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”

She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.

You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”

She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”

You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”

“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”

You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”

Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”

You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.

She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”

You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.

“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.

She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.

You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”

Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out.You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.

You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—

She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.

“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.

Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—

“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.

“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”

You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,

You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.

“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”

She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”

You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.

“I love you, you idiot.”

She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face. “And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”

“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.

Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”

She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.

“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.

She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”

“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.

You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.

“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”

She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”

You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.

She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”

You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”

“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.

You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.

“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”

You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.

“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”

You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.

Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.

“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”

You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”

She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”

feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”

She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.

You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”

You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on. She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.

Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.

“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”

She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.

You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.

“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.

“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.

You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.

You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.

“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”

She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and— “Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.

“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.

Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.

“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.

The shower is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.

She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”

You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.

“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.

“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”

“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.

“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”

You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”

Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.

She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.

You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.

“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”

You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.

“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.

“Hmm?”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.

“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.

You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.

“I still think it's fifty-fifty.”

#le sserafim smut #chaewon smut #male reader smut #kpop smut #idol x male reader #smut #kim chaewon smut #kpop fanfic #le sserafim chaewon smut

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 days ago

Text

Make it Clear

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends with benefits to lovers, light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (oral f! receiving, p in v, cockwarming), humor, love confessions

Summary/Warnings: Friends with benefits doesn't work. You fall out of line and fall in love, trapped in Dean with no hope of escaping.

But he might never want you to leave.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one was very fun. All time favorite hobby, giving men emotions.

Word Count: 5.4k

The room is dark.

You never let Dean turn on the overheads, there are no windows in the bunker, and you angle yourself to stay away from the hallway light—leaking under the door—so it’s as dark as you can possibly make it.

It’s still not enough.

Your eyes aren’t your friend, and they adjust. You can still hear your skin slapping against Dean’s as he guides you up and down his cock, and his groans of your name whenever you squeeze around him or scratch at his chest. You can feel him, everywhere, and it’s the best, cruelest thing in the world.

He’s deep inside of you, pressed right on that spot no one else can ever it, and you can feel it lighting up in every nerve of your body. He keeps trying to grab your hand, and you don’t know what that’s supposed to help with, but you can’t let him. But there’s not winning, because the only way to avoid it is planting your palms flat on his chest and feeling the firm muscle shift and flex whenever he ruts up into you. He’s got a hand secured on your hip to keep you above him and the other playing with your tits. Flicking at your nipple and palming at them more for himself than you, but it still feels good. Then his hand will shift down to flick at your clit, and you’ll arch your back with a high gasp, and it’s too much and never enough.

It really doesn’t matter if Dean is doing this for you, or for himself. You’ll give him whatever he wants.

But it’s not dark enough.

So you keep your eyes squeezed shut, and try not to think about who’s below you. It’s an impossible task, when nobody else is a good as he is. Nobody fits into you like Dean, no one else has that deep, gravelly voice and says your name like it’s a baseline in their favorite song, no one else knows that if they grab you by your neck and press their thumb into your mouth, right as they slam up into you, you’ll make that stupid, high, breathy sound and your pussy will flutter around them.

And Dean always laughs to himself after, and the sound rumbles in his chest and vibrates against your clit, and then you let out the loud moan of his name that means you lost.

You know it’s Dean below you. It’s always going to be Dean below you, until he kicks you out to the curb. And even then, you’ll just sit in the gutter and hope he comes back.

You love him. You’d never want anyone else but him.

But Dean doesn’t do love.

And you knew that, the first time he kissed you after a bad hunt, right after yelling at you for ten straight minutes about trying to get yourself killed. You knew it when cornered you in the hallway with a hungry expression, licking his lips and muttering that he didn’t mean to yell, but he needed to be able to touch you. You’ve known it, every time you’ve fallen back into bed with him—only more and more as the months pass, until it’s more of a routine than an itch being scratched—and he’s pulled you apart, and you’ve failed to find a room that’s dark enough.

Because this is the part that you always try so hard to avoid, and never can. Dean moans your name and tries to pull you down into a kiss, and you can’t stop him—you don’t hate yourself that much, or enough—but you still can’t look at him. And then you can taste the cherry and whiskey from dinner on his lips, and feel him a little more than everywhere, and he mutters your name again.

You push up. You always sit right back up, even when Dean tries to trap you against his chest.

But you also fail again.

Your eyes open.

And he’s art. Looking up at you will the sex-addled expression you only see half shrouded in shadows, where his eyes are hooded and he’s licking his lips. And he looks like he was carved from marble rather than just made, and his chest is heaving as he fucks up into you at a brutal pace, and when your mouth falls open in a silent scream he pushes up and kisses you again.

You manage to close your eyes.

The damage is already done.

You love him. You love his face, and how he never stops you from digging your nails into his chest until it’s littered with small marks, and how when he cums in you he moans your name in the only way you’ve ever wanted to hear it. You love how he always stays in you for another moment after, and buries his face in your breasts like he can’t bear to move—even though he always does, and you know he just likes boobs—before kissing your neck and going to clean you up.

The cleaning you up is the worst part. You have to wait for him, because whenever you try to leave after that he just picks you up and tosses you back onto the bed. And your heart won’t be able to take that, right now. The way he’ll just wrap his arms around your stomach and carry you to the mattress, pinning you down and grumbling that you’re like a stray cat sometimes, just taking his food and running away before he can take care of you.

And you always tell him he doesn’t even like cats, and he just laughs, shrugs, and pushes your legs apart to clean the mess between them.

Today, you don’t try to run. It’s already too much to have him watching you so carefully as he works, and leaving soft kisses on your knees and thighs. You have just stare at the ceiling and take it, trying to fight down the soft sob rising in your throat.

This isn’t fair. You love him, and he’s just doing this to you like it’s not breaking and remaking you every single fucking moment, and you want to hit him then climb right into his chest forever.

And you know Dean cares about you. He’s your friend, and that’s probably why you’re allowed to stay in his bed after. Why he always brings you water and food to get your energy back. Friends is still a part of the arrangement. Even with benefits.

But it’s been too much, today. So before Dean can even grab the box of your favorite snack he keeps in his mini fridge—just for you, which is even crueler—you’re running. Grabbing your clothing and scrambling into it, then slipping out the door before he can stop you.

It’s fucking cowardly.

But you need a shower so you stop feeling his phantom warmth on your body. To wash away the smell of him all over your hair, and give you a safe place to cry on the floor until it feels a little better. And if you’d told Dean you needed a shower, he’d just try to shower together.

It’s so mean. How he does sweet things like that and expects you not to fall for him, to keep the line between sex and friendship so firm.

You can’t even tell him he’s being mean. He doesn’t know you love him. He has no way to know.

You still need to curl up in the corner of the shower and cry, though. Where the soft sobs that shake your body are drowned in the water, and the tears are washed away the same second they fall. Then you can pick yourself up, drag yourself back together where Dean had unraveled you, and just keep moving.

It’s not good form, to ignore him. You have to smile at Dean when he walks into the kitchen the next morning, and not start crying when all you get is an odd frown in return. You just drop your gaze back to your cereal, and bite your lip to keep it from wobbling. And when you go to town with Sam you can feel him staring at your back as you leave, and when you’re putting away the groceries and talking to Sam about something stupid, Dean won’t stop walking in and out of the room without saying a single word.

He’s still your friend. You smile at him every time, but wait for him to speak first, and he never does. He just frowns and grumbles something at Sam, then fucking walks away.

He’s ignoring you.

Maybe he’s done with you. Maybe he called it, last night, and now he’s trying to figure out how to tell you. And that fractures at your heart all day, right until you’re curled up in the library, trying to think about anything but Dean, and failing just as drastically as you always do.

Or maybe Dean’s just Dean. Grumpy and bad at talking about anything.

Because he doesn’t seem done with you when he leans over your chair and starts to kiss along your neck.

You shouldn’t let him. Not when he’s barely said a word to you all day.

But you love him. And he hasn’t been angry or rude. He might have just had a bad day.

So you angle your head a little to the side to grant him further access, and let out a long sigh.

He bites and sucks a deep mark against your skin.

You’re going to fall apart again, and he’s barely even touched you.

“Dean,” you mumble, trying to keep your attention on your book. “Sam’s in the other room.”

He grunts, big hands brushing your hair to the side. “So? He’s seen me do a hell of a lot worse than kiss a pretty girl.”

“But- It’s-“ Your breath hitches as he nips at your throat, and you shake your head weakly. “Dean- I can’t.”

He freezes. “Can’t what.”

“Have sex.” You mumble, turning another page, having not read a single word on the first one. “I- I’m busy.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart, we can just sit.”

“But- I- I’m busy-“

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He sighs, right in your ear, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Then he says your name, and you have to just keep fucking looking at your book.

He repeats it. You just hum. You can’t-

“Look at me.” He grunts, and you swallow.

All the words on the page look more like scratching marks. All you can really see is Dean in your periphery, moving to kneel before you and taking your face between his hands.

You still can’t look. Even as he tilts your head up, you keep your eyes fixed down.

You don’t know what he’s trying to do, when he grunts your name again.

You know it’s mean.

“Son of a bitch,” He mutters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you almost start crying again. “Fucking- Just look at me-“

You shake your head weakly. “I- I’m busy-“

“Too damn busy to look at me?”

There’s no good answer to that. And Dean know is, because he lets out a long, slow breath, and shakes his head.

“C’mon, baby, I- I know you’re pissed at me, but-“

That gets your gaze to snap up to his. And he looks devastated. Like you’ve been kicking him on the ground, with a deep frown and furrowed brow and open expression of strain over his handsome features.

You really don’t know what’s happening. At all.

“What?”

Dean clears his throat, and suddenly you can hear how hoarse his voice is. “You’ve been ignoring me all day-“

“You’ve been ignoring me-“

“I’ve been giving you space.” He grunts. “And don’t try and tell me something isn’t wrong. You fuckin’ bolted last night, so I know something’s wrong.”

Fuck. “I- I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. And I know I fucked something up, and I’m gonna fix it-“

“You can’t fix it, Dean.”

His brows raise. “So there is something.”

Fuck. “You- Uh-“

“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters, tracing his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. “I’ll fix it, baby. Promise.”

“I-“ You let out a long, slow sigh. Too late to go back now. “Dean, I told you, you can’t.”

“Not if you don’t tell me.” He grumbles, holding your gaze. “Did I forget something? Say something? Was- Uh- Was it bad last time-“

“It’s never bad.” You say quickly, and his frown twitches. “And you- this isn’t your fault-“

“It sure goddamn feels like it’s my fault.” He snaps. “And you just need tell me what to do. I’ll do it. Swear I will, I’ll do anything, just tell me how to fix it.”

You need to look away from him. He’s on his knees and begging you, and it hurts. He’s pressing on a raw, open wound in your heart and he doesn’t even know it, and you’re confused and trapped in him, and he doesn’t know. He can’t know. He’s never known. And you have to look away but you can’t. You’ve never been able to. To look away, or walk away, or stop loving him.

And Dean looks like he’s in pain, and that should make you mad, but it just breaks your heart even more.

“Dean.” You hold his hands against your face, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s not your fault. I promise.”

His eyes narrow. “Alright, then tells me whose fault it is, and I’ll kick their ass-“

“It’s my fault.” You whisper, your voice already cracking. “I- I know you don’t do relationships, Dean, and I’m not trying to like, give you an ultimatum or something, but I can’t- I can’t keep-“

You take a shaking breath, and Dean mutters your name, but you just squeeze your eyes shut and keep pushing.

“I- I love you, and this,” you gesture between your bodies. “It’s hurting me, Dean. It really hurts. And that’s not your fault. But it still hurts. That’s it.”

He’s not saying anything. And you’re still not looking at him, so you can’t work out if he’s pissed, or annoyed, or indifferent.

Pissed you can take. At least you can try and let him fully break your heart, so you’re cured of him. Annoyed you can handle too. You’reannoyed with yourself too.

But indifferent might break you. The idea that Dean simply doesn’t give a shit that you love him, and he’s willing to keep fucking you as long as you don’t expect more-

That will slam you into the dirt, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to drag yourself back up.

He says your name, and you can’t read that tone. “Open your eyes.”

You shake your head. He’s still touching you. Rough, warms hands so gentle on your face. Maybe he knows he’s about to shatter your heart, so he’s trying to be careful with the rest of you.

“Baby, I need you to look at me.”

Baby.

That’s not fair.

Your eyes drag open, and Dean’s frowning at you. But it’s not his angry frown, where he looks like he’s gunning to rip something in half. It’s not his bored frown either.

It’s just that hurt look. Like a kicked dog, wet from the rain and whimpering to be let inside.

You were wrong about the indifference.

This hurts more.

“You love me?” He whispers, and it’s hard to talk through the lump in your throat.

“I- I’m-“

He mutters your name, firm and demanding, and you nod.

“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”

His jaw clenches. “You- You’re fucking sorry?”

You blink. “I-“

“And you think I don’t love you?” His voice is raising. Not to a shout, but still something angry. “You- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re-“

“Dean-“

“Of course I fucking love you!” He snaps, and you might be floating out of your body. “I- Goddamnit, I’ve been- I thought you just- Fuck-“

“Dean.” You try to make your voice sound firm, but it just comes out a plea. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I know you don’t, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head, and you bite on your lower lip until you taste blood. “Shit, I’ve been such a dumbass-“

You frown. “No you haven’t-“

“Yeah, I have. I didn’t know this wasn’t a-“ He swallows, scanning over you with a broken expression, his voice almost a rasp. “I thought we were dating.”

You might be drowning. Or dead. Maybe Sam crashed the car on the way back from town, and this is just hell or heaven or limbo. The world is blurry, but you can see Dean clearly. There’s a ringing in your ears, but you still heard him.

You think you heard him. You’re really not sure.

“What?”

“You’ve been it for me,” Dean says your name, and your grips tightens on his hands. “For a goddamn year, you’ve been everything. And I- I thought I told you. We- we go to bar together, and we sleep in the same bed on hunts, and I- Son of a bitch, we’ve gone on dates-“

“No, we haven’t-“

“We go to the movies all the goddamn time-“

“As friends.” You protest, and Dean snorts.

“Friends don’t give each other hand jobs in the theater, sweetheart.”

You flush, but still shake your head. “But you- You never told me-“

“Yeah, I did.”

“Dean-“

“I said I had to have you.” He mutters. “That I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t need you.”

Your eyes widen. “I- I thought you meant my body.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I figured that out myself.”

“It’s- You’ve just always said you don’t do relationships-“

“I didn’t. Before you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He pauses, scanning over you carefully, his voice still a rasp. “Do you- do you want that?”

You frown. “Want-“

“Me.”

You can’t stop your mouth from falling open. “Of course I fucking want you, dumbass, I just said I loved you.”

Something flashes over Dean’s face, and he nods slowly. “Good. That’s- Good. C’mon.”

He starts to tug you to your feet, and you just stare at him. “Dean, what-“

“Move, sweetheart, I’m trying to fuck you properly-“

“You always fuck me properly-“

“Apparently not, if you thought I didn’t love you-“

Your heart does a little stutter stop. “You really love me?”

“Course I fuckin’ love you. More than anything. But you didn’t know, so I gotta fix that- Son of a bitch.”

He’s staring at you, and you blink up at him in open confusion. “What?”

“That’s why you always make me turn off the lights.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “And why you’re always on top, and you never hold my hand, and- Fuck, baby, I thought you were just shy-“

“Dean, I-“

“No.” His hand moves to cover your mouth, his eyes narrowed on yours. “We’re doin’ this right, this time. I’m gonna fuck you with the lights on, and you’re gonna look at me and take everything I give you. Blink twice if you’ve got it.”

You’re only staring at him, something dying then rebooting in your brain. He loves you. Dean loves you. And he’s looking at you as if you’re all he’s ever wanted, and you need him, and you can’t remember how to do anything but look at him-

“I need you to blink, sweetheart.” He mutters. “I’m not doing anything until you’re good with it.”

That’s the reset. You need him, now, and you can move again.

You pull his hand down slowly, holding his gaze as you speak. “I’m good with it. Please.”

His throat bobs, and you get a tight nod in return. “Good. Hold on.”

“Hold- Dean!”

At the very least, Dean moved your book out of your lap before he tossed you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He’s walking before you even get a chance to wiggle, and the moment you try, a sharp slap lands on your ass.

You squeak, twisting and pushing on his back to glare at him, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s wearing a shit-eating grin.

“Dean Winchester, I’m gonna kick your ass-“

“You’re cute when you threaten me.” He turns to nip at the exposed skin of your thigh, and a moan escapes your throat. “C’mon, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You frown, but still slump into his hold. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I- I dunno-“

“You better not be talking about what we’re about to do.” He hums, and you go almost boneless as one of his hands trails right between your thighs, rubbing your pussy over your shorts.

“Dean-“

“Trust me, baby.” He shoulders open the door to his room, and lowering you down to sit on the edge of the mattress and settling between your legs. “This is about me.”

You swallow, nod, and Dean’s smirk splits into a full, wide grin. He holds your face so carefully, as he pulls you into a kiss. Trailing his tongue over your lips and nipping at the corner of your mouth, chuckling as your arms wrap around his neck and you must be dreaming. You’ve had this dream. The one where you bite his lower lip right back and he growls, deepening the kiss until melted against him and clinging to his as tight as you can, pulled entirely apart from only a kiss. The dream where you’re still Dean’s to do whatever he wants with, but all he wants is you.

It hits you fully, when he helps you out of your shorts without ever fully breaking the kiss, presses his hand against your clothed pussy, and groans into your mouth.

All Dean wants is you.

“So fucking wet,” he mutters your name, rubbing his palm in a slow circle. “You ever get this wet for anyone else, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, your fingers curling on his neck. “N- No, Dean-“

“I know,” he coos, almost teasing, and you start to grind into him. “You need it bad, don’t you-“

“Yes-“ You gasp as the heel of his palm starts to rub over your clit. “Feels so good-“

“Yeah, it does.” He mutters, and you buck into his touch. “Jesus, baby, someone would think I’ve been neglecting you-“

“Dean-“

“Sorta have, I guess. Need to fix that.” His fingers drift up, playing with the band of your panties. “You like these?”

“No-“

“I’ll buy you new ones anyway.”

You hear the rip of the fabric, but a weak protest barely leaves your throat before Dean’s diving down, and everything narrows to heaven. It’s always heaven, when Dean licks a firm stripe your pussy and sucks your clit between his lips, giving it just enough attention drive you insane before he moves away. Dragging down and tasting every bit of your pleasure, groaning against you when your thighs squeeze his head, the sound vibrating through your body and making you fall flat back on the bed.

Your hands fly into his hair, as he pushes his tongue into your entrance and lets his nose rub on your clit. His stubble is tickling at your inner thighs, and he keeps moaning into you, and whenever you gasp his name, it only seems to spur him on.

“Shit- I-“ You take a sharp breath when his teeth scrape against you, and his hands squeeze your ass, angling you a little higher. “Dean-“

He groans, and when you angle your head up, he’s fucking rutting against the edge of the bed.

He’s getting off on it. On eating you out like he’s been starved of you.

And you’re seconds from toppling over the edge when he pulls away, and a high whine leaves your throat.

“Taste so good,” He mutters, kissing right over your clit and sending a shiver of pleasure through your body. “Son of a bitch, baby, the sounds you make-“

His thumb presses on your clit, a loud moan pushes itself out of your throat, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, just like that.”

“Dean,” you mumble, tugging at his hair. “I was so close-“

“I know, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, dragging your hand away before kissing over your knuckles as well. “But want you to cum on my cock. You think you can do that?”

You nod frantically, and Dean grins.

“Good girl.”

He rises up, shedding his clothing like it’s coated with toxins, and crawls over you with an almost feral grin. You can see how hard he is, thick and long and all yours, and your legs spread wide to let him settle between them.

This is usually the part where you make him flip you over, and you fix your gaze anywhere but his face. But tonight, it’s all Dean. And he’s keeping you right below him, twinging his fingers in yours and squeezing your hand with a wide grin.

You don’t know how you ever lived without this. Without your eyes wide on Dean’s as he pushes into you, watching his nostrils flare, and mouth fall open in pleasure. You’re never going to be able to not have it, now. But that was always the fear.

Now you get to have Dean bottom out, lean down to give you a heavy, hot kiss as he lets you adjust, and fall apart from only the adoration in his gaze.

“Ready?” He mutters, his voice a deep, gravely sound that makes you clench around him, and he groans. “Goddamnit, sweetheart-“

“Sorry,” you whisper, and he laughs.

“No, you’re not.”

You’re really not.

Because Dean starts to fuck you.

He’s everywhere. Drilling into you until your right back on the edge, his lips attacking every bit of bare skin he can find. One hand stays in yours as the other angles you up to drive himself impossibly deeper, until he’s hitting a deep and needy spot that makes stars cloud your vision. Every time you roll to meet him, he moans your name and captures your lips back against his, and your arms wrap around his neck to keep him a close as possible. So his body is molding into yours, and there’s no clear line between you, and every time you plead for more he just swallows it with a kiss, and throws it right back to you.

The hand on your hip moves without warning, pressing right over your clit, and you fly apart. Warmth washing over you like a wave as your scream, and Dean just eats that sound too.

He’s not stopping. His cock slams right back against that spot, and you’re thrown even higher up. But Dean just keeps catching you—fucking you into oblivion and rubbing your clit until you’re a messy, whining frenzy—and when you sense him reaching the edge, you hook your legs around his waist to try and keep him.

You know you have him.

But you don’t want to miss a single thing.

Dean slams home with another moan and pinch of your clit, and you cling to him as tight as you can. You’re a boneless, heated mess of want, but you’re Dean’s. And he’s still rutting into you as your last orgasm shivers up your spine, and he collapses over you with a grunt.

“Can I-“ Dean clears his throat, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “I’ll clean you up later, promise, but I kinda wanna-“

“Stay?” You whisper, your voice a little hoarse from the everything, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah. That.”

“Okay.”

He pushes up on his palms, remaining sheathed inside of you as he gives you a pointed look. “That easy, huh?”

You flush, your fingers curling on his neck. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he rolls his hips, already semi-hard again, and your lips part in a sharp gasp. “For months. Thought you just didn’t like, y’know-“ He nods down between your bodies. “This.”

“Cuddling?”

“Yeah. And if I knew all I had to do was ask-“ He frowns to himself. “Would you have said yes?”

“To you?” Your voice is still soft, and Dean only gives you a small nod in return. “Yeah.”

“Even though you thought we weren’t together?”

You sigh. “I still loved you, Dean.”

He nods slowly. “And now?”

“Wha-“

“You love me now, right.”

You giggle, tugging him down into a long, slow kiss before humming against his lips. “Now, I’m never letting you go.”

“Good.” He mumbles, twitching inside of you and making your hips jerk. “Not gonna go anywhere. I’ll latch onto you like, uh- What’s something that sticks-“

“Velcro?”

“Sure.” He kisses and sucks a path down your neck, finally stopping to bury his face in your breasts, his words muffled against your skin. “Long as I get to hold you, babygirl, ‘m good.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s impossibly good to be able to touch him like this. Like he’s yours, and if you so much as try to blow away in the wind, Dean with launch up and catch you. If you start to drift, he’ll tug you right back. And you can see now, all the moments he’s been doing that before—kiss you with too many teeth to not want to leave a mark, holding you to his chest like you’re a lifeline—and it breaks your heart, but it’s already mending. You’ll make it up to him.

And he must be reading your mind, because he props his chin up with a deep furrow in his brow, grunting your name like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Dean.” You mimic back to him, and his lips twitch.

“You’re getting sassy, sweetheart.” He nips at your skin, and you squeal, whacking his shoulder. “I like it.”

You swallow, holding his gaze. “Nobody says sassy-“

“I said it-“

“Because you have the heart of a ninety-year-old, my love.” You boop his nose with a soft smile—now that you’re allowed to do this, you don’t think a gun to your head would stop you—and his eyes widen into a look of what might be awe.

“Marry me.” He whispers, and you blink.

“Dean, we’ve been dating for an hour-“

“Been four months for me. And I meant it, you’re everything for me, I- I gotta-“ He’s pushing up to hang back over you, framing your face with one hand and almost a frantic look in his eyes. “I love you, babygirl, and if I know I’m not gonna be good at telling you that, but you need to know-“

“I know.” You smile up at him, wiggling slightly around his cock, and he grunts. Given the surprise over his face, he might have forgotten he was in there. “I do, Dean. I only didn’t because I was- I dunno- I just didn’t. But I know now. So let’s give it at least another four months before that.”

“Four months.” He mutters, nodding. “What day is it.”

“Uh- I’m not-“ Your eyes narrow. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know shit, sweetheart.” Dean rolls you over without warning, pinning you to his chest above him and looking up at you like you’re the final answer to every question in the universe. “We’re gonna go on some real dates, and I’ll sleep in your bed and make out with you in front of everyone-“

“You already try to do that-“

“Yeah, but I’m gonna do it more. Everyone will know that you’re my girl.” He kisses to corner of your mouth, and you giggle again.

You sound sort of like an idiot. You’re certainly smiling like one.

You really don’t care.

“I’m gonna make you fall in love with me so hard.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“I am in love with you-“

“Then more. You’re gonna love me more.”

You shake your head, giving him a soft smile. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

His eyes flash again, and get a deep, heavy kiss before he speaks again. It’s all exploration and time, because Dean knows you, but he seems to want more, and you have all time in the world.

And he tucks the hair behind your ears when he pulls away, his touch so soft, and his smirk dangerous as he thrusts up into you, and your breath hitches in your throat.

“Never cared about possible, sweetheart.” He drawls. “You’re mine, and I’m never gonna give you a reason to leave.”

End Note: Thinking about Dean going to the movies like "this date is going great!" and she's just straight sweating.

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undreaming-fanfiction · 2 days ago

Text

Mary Harrington finally gives up one day, boards a plane home alone knowing that her husband is likely already in bed with a woman ten years younger than her. For the first time in her life, she doesn't feel hurt. Only mildly disgusted, maybe with herself too.

She arrives in Hawkins to ruins that are slowly getting rebuilt, smoke almost cleared, and weird whispers about her son and his new friend, the trailer trash Eddie Munson. Something about being too close, too intimate for two men. She feels the familiar disdain, the words "what would your father think" - and then exhales and lets them go. She is past caring about Richard Harrington.

Instead, she sits down with them. She is honest, she was in love once and she knows those eyes - Steve's look like her own, after all. Behind the adoration, she sees the darkness in Steve's face, the pain, and thinks - I couldn't fix my husband, but I can fix this. She gently asks them both if anyone has been giving them trouble. When she hears several familiar names of local God-fearing women, she laughs for the first time in what feels like forever. "Leave them to me," she says.

She stops by for coffee. Chats a little. Gently opens the topic of the rumors about her son. And then: "I understand, Linda. Homosexuality is a sin. What a funny thing, one could say the same about fucking my husband last spring. Of course, it's been so long...I'm sure your husband knows?" One by one, the rumors quiet down and Mary's smile grows into its old radiance.

The first evening back, she summons all the remaining rage, disappointment and sadness over wasted years, poking at old wounds until she's sobbing. And like that, she calls Richard and wails into the phone how everything is destroyed, their house almost gone, and gently guides Richard to the brilliant idea of signing over the small flat in the center he's been renting to Steve. She knows Richard has no patience for her emotions, and she sobs out how Steve has been fixing the town, how he'd become everything Richard had ever wanted, a true pillar of the community, but he has nowhere to sleep, oh how it's breaking her heart, what would the town think-

He promises to send over his lawyer the next day. She thanks him through the tears, says one last "I love you" and with the click of the ended call, dries her tears and pours herself a glass of wine. "How did I do?" she asks.

Steve just laughs and hands her a cheese plate he's been preparing in the kitchen. He nudges Eddie who is staring with wide eyes. "What?" asks Steve with a smirk. "You've always admired my bitchiness and pragmatism. Where do you think I got it from?"

The flat is signed over the next day. Mary kisses her son and Eddie goodbye - she would go back to her parents for a while, she says, just to get the divorce finalized. Plus, one of her old friends still seems interested, her being the one that got away and all that, and Mary intends to test that theory. She will keep in touch, she says. And for the first time, Steve believes her.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie drabble #steddie fanfiction #steve's mother #this all started as an intrusive thought of Steve not having parents but Karents #as in Karen parents #and this happened #i am sleep deprived af but this demanded my attention

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reignpage · 2 days ago

Text

Frat Boy!Gojo

Still water: got all I need

Word Count: 7.7k Contents: final part, angsty at multiple parts, cursing, chaos breaks out, happy ending, lots of bickering and arguing, they're really annoying actually, smut, 18+, mdni, barely proofread Find previous parts and a whole college au world here

You sigh.

You didn’t sleep at all and it’s showing — complaining incessantly, your mother points out everything wrong about the way you look to anyone who’ll listen. What feels like a hundred people pile into your room in the Zenin manor: makeup artists, stylists, assistants, PR managers, and maids. All dedicated to making you the perfect Zenin bride.

Which apparently means waxing you raw, detangling your hair until you’re sure you’ve got more bald spots than locks, spraying you down with every perfume known to man, creating an ungodly cloud of the most nauseating particles of air that brings tears to your eyes, and critiquing everything about your appearance.

Wrangled here, pushed and pulled there, ‘look up here’ and ‘don’t look there,’ your head’s on a swivel. You’ve lost all control of your limbs and can only rely on the strings that keep you tethered to a reality you no longer recognise.

Their clattering is driving you mad, but you bite your tongue. You don’t want to give them a reason to torture you on purpose.

One minute you’re engaged to someone you thought you’d never be able to tolerate, then he turns out to be…alright, and the next you’re a free woman because he can’t stand you, and now you’re back to where you started.

The universe must be having a grand old time.

Good for her.

Far removed from the planning, you can do nothing but sit back and watch everything construct itself before your eyes. The flowers they’ve chosen are the purest white lilies; they better resemble funerial flowers than marital. You don’t say a thing. On a rack, your dress hangs — it’s simple, quite pretty, actually. It’s somewhat eggshell white, long satin, not form fitting. Classic, elegant and chic. Totally not your style.

You know, without needing to ask, that he chose it. Yet another thing to mock and taunt you with.

Father nowhere in sight, as usual, you’re stuck with your mother. She hasn’t spoken to you since yesterday, her drunken stupor gone, likely to make herself look presentable to the Zenins.

The first couple hours in the morning had been spent trying to catch her eye all while you’re being groomed, hoping she’ll see the absurdity of this farce, that some kind of maternal instinct will click and she’ll whisk you away. Of course, none of that happens but one can daydream. Not like you have a prince charming on a white horse waiting to strike.

She wasn’t always like this. You recall some time, long ago, deep in your childhood, when she’d sing lullabies and rock you to sleep, hiding you behind her legs when scary men would stare too long at parties, and sneaking you candy. Somewhere amidst the pressure to run the family business and estate while her husband did as he pleased must have erased it all. Perhaps, when you’re older and you have your own children too, you’ll resent them for the sins of their father too.

No.

Never.

“What should we do with her makeup?” A flamboyant man in purple pantsuits asks.

Manicures being carefully done, your mother looks up, red lips curling up into sharp points, and eyes staring straight through you. “Get rid of it. All of it. Make her look like someone worth marrying.”

Great.

——————

“Are you sure about this?” She asks.

Gojo shrugs. “No, but it’s the only idea we’ve got so, let’s just go for it.”

His friends share a look, unsure and slightly concerned. When he gets into these moods, where he’s hyper-focused, undeterred, and determined, they know better than to try and talk sense to him. It’s proven impossible before. Still, they’ve never seen him look quite so…terrifying.

Sporting a sharp glint in his eyes, he eyes the door, locked from inside. Barely restrained tension runs through his body, keeping him ready to pounce at any moment, fists clenching and unclenching. He’s not even wearing his sunglasses. At the present moment, they’re hiding behind a bush, looking out for security guards which patrol the surrounding area. The cathedral stands silent, deceptively so — inside, they know, are a whole congregation of Eden’s elites. The Gojo clan have not been extended an invitation. In fact, apart from those directly invited by the Zenins, no one even knows what abomination is happening inside.

“Where did you even get these things?” Suguru lifts the lapel of his suit with mild disgust, finding the polyester itchy on his precious skin, no doubt.

“Fushiguro.”

The girl makes some undignified noise. “Fushiguro? The guy who has a vendetta against you for no reason?”

Ducking with experienced speed, they all hide in the shrubbery as a guard makes his rounds. A second passes. And another. Then three heads peek back up again, all staring at the door at the back of the cathedral, where the vines grow thicker, zigzagging wildly.

Gojo argues, “He doesn’t have a vendetta against me. He’s helping me actually. I kinda know a secret of his — occupational hazard as the Gojo heir or whatever — and I was gonna blackmail him into helping but weirdly, he was totally on board. Said something about ‘payback’ and ‘anything to fuck some bitches up’ — not that I use such a derogatory term, by the way, I am an ally for wome—“

He earns a smack on the head.

“Ouch! Okay, yeah, as I was saying, he said he has connections inside and to wait here.”

They share a glance again. Hesitantly, the more nervous of the three asks, “And you’re sure you can trust him? That he’s not gonna fuck you over?”

“No,” he answers truthfully, “but I have no choice. This has to work. It just has to.”

When a couple more minutes passes and time starts ticking closer and closer to the edge of no going back, both friends’ doubts double. Early in the day, when the white-haired man sent the group chat a message saying, EMERGENCY EMERGENCY CODE RED BUT NOT FOR SHARK WEEK, they both thought, ‘what now?’

Maybe he wanted to dye the school fountain red again or steal another university’s mascot. They’d have preferred that actually, instead of pissing off one of the most powerful families in the country. Usually, their crimes involved being in the dead of the night, fuelled by burning alcohol and a youthful lack of shame, but right now, as the sun has only begun to set and there’s hundreds of people inside the place they’re looking to break into, they think they might have finally bitten off more than they can chew.

“Satoru, maybe we sho—“

“Look!”

The door creaks open. A little boy in a sharp suit steps out, looking left and then right before waving straight at them. A second passes and yet another. They’re stuck, frozen, in their spot, unsure of what to make of the scene.

Suguru whispers, “Is that…Fushiguro’s son?”

Beckoning them over, the boy makes a frustrated noise; they’re taking too long. A guard is about to round the corner. They need to make it inside and they need to do it now. Gojo surges forward. They follow.

The door clicks.

“Oh, fuck.” The girl pants. “I’m too sober for this.”

“Agreed,” the long-haired man says.

Deaf to their expressions of concern, Gojo surveys the area: it’s a tight space at the foot of a winding staircase made of stone with cobwebs in the corners and dust settling on all surfaces. It’s dark, lit up only by the sunlight peering through the slits on the wall. If he was to hazard a guess, and he must insist it really is just a guess since he knows nothing about architecture and history, it could be a super-secret passageway for like monks and stuff.

“You guys should go.” All eyes fall down to the little boy with a flat expression. He doesn’t look perturbed at all at the prospect and reality of having just helped some college kids crash a wedding. “They’ve already started.”

Suguru nods. “Alright. I’ll go left, you go right and Satoru...tone down the theatrics as much as you can, will you?”

His friend waves him off and he sighs.

“I’ll text everyone to stand by and on your count, we’ll attack,” the girl says. “I can’t wait to tell my boyfriend all about this. He’s gonna have a heart attack.”

Filing out, sucking in their stomachs and stretching as thin as they can to make it through the rickety wooden door and properly inside the cathedral, they anxiously go through the plan in their heads, but not before Gojo can the last word in. “What’s your name, little dude?”

“Megumi.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Megumi. Tell your brother thanks too. Coolest siblings I know for sure.”

A little shy suddenly, the boy huffs his chest out, attempting to stand taller in his perfectly fitted suit, shiny shoes, and untamed hair. “Yeah, we are.”

And off Gojo went, dressed similarly and with a plan he’ll kill to see through.

——————

There are so many eyes on you. On any other day, you’d shake it off; you’re used to it after all. But, today’s not like any other day, and you can’t hide behind your expressive fashion. Now, you’ve been stripped bare and polished all pretty and palatable for a man who stands beside you, cold as ice but carrying a hellish heat that’s threatening to send shivers up your spine.

None of the guests here are friendly faces. Most are familiar, having met them through those stupid galas and balls, but they don’t know you. Probably couldn’t even say your name. No, of course not, because they’re not here for you, they’re here for him. For his family and the name he bears. The name you will soon carry on you like a festering brand.

And as the priest rattles on through centuries of tradition and your dark future awaits you, all you can think about is, would it have been better or worse to have seen Gojo sitting amongst the crowd?

It doesn’t matter, really. You barely knew the guy. He was just that person you had to learn to tolerate to maintain your sanity and soon, he’ll be the guy you once knew, the guy you think about here and there as you send your children off to school and kiss your husband goodbye.

“Smile,” Naoya commands through gritted teeth. “You look like you’ve been kidnapped.”

You fire back, “I was.”

If the priest heard that, he gives no indication. Instead, he continues his spiel and avoids your eye. So, seeking sanctuary is a no go.

“And should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Eyes rolling before you can help yourself, you remark how stupid the tradition is. What even is the point? Does anyone ever actually object to—

“I object!”

Your head spins back so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. You know that voice. There’s no one else in the world with such a grating, fiendishly arrogant timbre. He’s there, at the very back of the cathedral, standing by the massive double doors, and dressed in a waiter’s uniform?

A round of gasps make waves around the great hall, shocked and horrified. If anyone had been dozing off, they’re surely awake now. Hell so are you.

Heart beating fast, you can’t grasp that he’s really here. He came. For you. But he didn’t want anything to do with you. He made that abundantly clear. Still, he’s grinning right at you, looking at no one else, not even when they whisper his name like some kind of curse.

“A holy matrimony’s the last thing my girl wants; she’s a devil worshipper, your honour. So, unless there’s a goat sacrifice, she won’t be very happy.”

Naoya hisses. “How did that filthy Gojo get here? Security!”

Tall, muscular men who had been hiding in the shadows come out into the light, all eyes on the interloper. They’re going to kill him. They’ll actually kill him.

“Aw, Nao Nao, you think you’re the only one with an army of men? Dude, I’m a frat president. The overwhelming stench of testosterone is all I know.”

And at his cue, doors to the side, and the doors behind him, open.

Flashes of skin, roars of excitement, whooshing blow of air brushing past you. A huge crowd of men and women rush in. They hoot. They cheer. Whoop and shout and yell. They run through the aisle, in just their underwear, carrying buckets of water and sponges. No one expects their designer, bespoke clothes to be drenched in soapy water. Just as no one expects college kids to give them lap dances, covering them in confetti and boa scarves.

Chaos breaks out faster than you can process.

Screams resound. Everyone’s shouting and clambering in all directions. A flurry of panic fills the holy grounds. They reach you, bumping and grinding and laughing. You’re lost. You can’t see past shiny chests.

Deafening music plays on rogue speakers, blasting from all angles. It dulls your senses – you can barely tell who’s who, but it feels like the entire Eden Uni student population has crashed in like a tsunami. Frats and sororities merge indiscriminately, throwing each other around, ripping the flowers decorating the aisle up and tossing them in the air. The school mascot, a chicken is on the altar, pecking at the priest.

The guests have been blocked in. Women are being twirled by younger, muscular boys. The men are being touched up by much younger girls and don’t seem to be complaining. Everyone’s dancing and singing, carried by the high of doing something they know is wrong in the worst place to be doing it in.

It’s the kind of euphoria you’ve missed.

Water is splashing all over your white gown, soaking you through. The cathedral has turned into a waterpark and a nightclub at all once. Arms are reaching, touching, pushing and pulling. You’re being swept along with no destination in sight. Breathless, reeling and lightheaded, you let the crowd swallow you.

Laughing.

You see Naoya through slivers between bodies. He’s outraged. You laugh harder. There are soap suds in his hair and suit. Attempts to stomp over to you are curbed by hormonal frat guys grinding on his body and pulling at his clothes. From personal experience, you know they can be real annoying to deal with. They’re persistent and they use their charms to get their way. It’s how they always fill their charity quota so easily.

Goodbye asshole.

Solid arms tug you back. You fall onto a firm chest. A dizzying scent fills your nostrils.

“Hey, baby.” An annoying voice whispers in your ear. “Wanna be the Wednesday to my Pugsley?”

You’re speechless, veering off course and truly discombobulated. He’s here. He’s actually here. Staggering back with him, you let him lead you through the crowd. Naoya gets further and further away. He’ll never get to you. “They’re siblings, you idiot.”

Gojo laughs, loud and intoxicating. “Yeah, I know. Was just testing you. Passed with flying colours, by the way. Missed me?”

“No, I barely even remember who you are.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to get me hard.”

And then you’re out, feeling the warm embrace of the sun.

The churchyard is just as busy and bustling too. There are tons of people in beachwear dancing on tables and throwing your gifts into the air as they dance to music booming out of huge speakers on backs of cars and pickup trucks. Somehow, whilst you were in there, accepting your fate, a party had been building.

Your wedding had gone from a metaphorical funeral to a quad party you won’t be stopping any time soon. And you finally understand why Gojo’s parties are treated like a national holiday on campus; you really wouldn’t want to miss it at all.

He spins you around. In his heavy hands, your face is held, gently. Thumbs brushing your cheeks, bright blue eyes search yours. There’s a softness to his gaze when he scans your entire body. “Aw, baby, look what they did to you.”

“Don’t I look better now?”

It’s unbelievable how easily you find it in yourself to speak so clearly, to tease and prod even when you feel like you had just faced death and had barely escaped its clutch.

Leaning in close, his nose skims yours. Eyes flutter shut and he takes a deep breath, hold on you tightening with a concerning quiver. “No. I like my girl terrifying and looking like she just put a curse on me.”

“I’m surprised you even recognised me.” Truly, you’re unrecognisable. Even your mother had paused when she took her first look at you with all your makeup, lace, and piercings gone. It was as if she was looking at her little girl again and it didn’t matter at all.

Gojo’s lips touch yours. He’s not kissing you. He’s just touching, feeling, absorbing the moment. “‘course I recognised you. Are you crazy? How could I ever forget those eyes? They’ve traumatised me so much I get nightmares.”

You stand on your tiptoes, chasing his lips. “Asshole.”

His hand travels to the back of your head, holding you still.

“Witch.” So close...just one tiny push and you’ll kiss him. He knows it too. Knows how easy it’d be to taste you on his lips, and he hopes you don’t hear the pounding of his chest. “You want this too, right? It’s not just me?”

“Hmm, I do.”

“Y/n!”

Through the thunderous music, you hear your mother’s voice call out. She’s standing at the threshold, over the crowd, glaring right at you. She’s drenched from head to toe. There’s a look of complete and utter devastation on her face, marred with an anger you’ve become so familiar with you hardly notice it over the desperate pleading in her eyes. She’s aged a lot.

Walking forward, she’s weaving straight for you, manicured hands reaching and reaching. “Don’t do this. Don’t be so selfish! Y-you can still marry the Zenin boy. Think of our family! We’ll be broken without his money.”

Pressing close, you feel his presence, supportive and resolute. It’s what gives you the power to finally meet her stare after years of looking away, of cowering, running.

“Our family was broken a long time ago, Mother. And it’s never been my fault.”

Then you turn and never look back.

——————

“Okay, wait, wait. You actually snuck in dressed as servers?”

You’re both sat on the swing set, just rocking back and forth, watching the night sky. The cold breeze is refreshing, and you can’t get enough of it. Fairy lights on and warm, it’s just you two, hidden away deep in the woods behind the cathedral. In fact, you’re so far away, you can’t even hear the distant thrum of music. Whether the party is still going on or if the police had been called, you don’t know and you don’t really care to ask.

“Yeah,” Gojo admits with a proud laugh. “I was by the cloak room waiting for my cue and pretending that I was keeping guard.”

He’s wearing a white shirt under a black vest, tailored trousers and loafers. Truly looking the part of ‘help’ and somehow making it look good, he’s rolled up the sleeves, revealing toned arms and pristine skin.

Laughing, you ask, “How long have you been wanting to do the whole ‘I object’ thing? Be honest.”

“Oh, like since forever. I wanted to so bad I’ve been contemplating crashing a random wedding just to do it.”

Knowing him, he’s not lying or exaggerating at all. In fact, it’s so him you can’t help but throw your head back and laugh even more. “Okay, so you’re totally welcome then.”

“Yeah, thanks, but don’t do that again. I don’t think I have it in me to pull something like that off again.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Abruptly standing up, he comes to you and extends his hand. Smiling down at you with no hint of mischief whatsoever and with the tips of his ears ever so slightly pink, you note how young he suddenly looks. He just looks like a boy staring at a girl hoping she won’t slap his hand away. You take it without thinking and you’re whisked up and away. Swaying you to an inaudible music, he grips you close. Even though the night’s a little chilly, you don’t really feel the cold, not when he’s shielding you from it like he can’t stand the thought of anyone but him touching you.

Things had changed so fast in the last day and a half, turning your life into a rollercoaster you thought you’d never be able to get off. Still, you persevered, a true fighter. You allow yourself that one moment of pride.

Basking in his warmth and his scent washes away the remaining fears of your past catching up to you. On your way here, he had conspiratorially whispered that his family will take care of the Zenins, that their clan head owes them a favour and Naoya can’t do a single thing about it.

And though you’re no longer tied to that Zenin and you’re with Gojo again, you know things have been done that could never be undone. You’ve lost your family. Both literally and metaphorically.

Tenderly, he asks, “Did he...did he touch you?”

“No. But he killed my friend,” you confess.

Gojo stills for a second before he continues swaying you, head resting on yours so he can lay a gentle kiss. Muttering against your hair, he says, “I’m sorry. Really...I-I’m sorry...Tell me more about him.”

“I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

Chuckling, he whispers, “I got my girl back and she’s dancing with me under the stars. Nothing could ever ruin this.”

You hold him tight, cheek resting on his chest like as if it’s the most natural fit in the world. With just one second to gather yourself, you tell him a story. “He was the son of the groundskeeper in our home, back before our family went bankrupt because of my dad. We became friends. Best friends. Stayed that way until we were like eighteen. It was weird to meet someone so understanding, so similar, so you, but I knew I’d do anything for him from the very first moment I met him.”

“If he’s anything like you, he must have been very special.”

“The most special,” you admit. Then, you look up. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

He gives you a sheepish smile. “Would you think less of me if I say yes?”

Unable to help yourself, you graze your teeth against his chin, finding the urge to just rip him apart overwhelming. “There’s no way I could think less of you. You’re pretty far down already.”

“Hopefully far enough to see up your dress.”

You laugh. “Let me finish my story and I’ll think about it.”

And he zips his mouth shut.

“There was something different about him. Something that made him stand out, never fitting in, just like me. Maybe that’s why we gravitated towards each other, why we were inseparable.” Bittersweet memories flash before you, drowning you in a time long past and you’ll never get back. “He was gay, and his parents hated it. They didn’t understand. They thought they could beat it out of him. And he’d always meet me at my window, climbing up the tree, with different bruises every week. It was hard to see someone you love try and smile through their pain.”

Gojo’s hum tell his own story.

“And when we couldn’t take it anymore, when I knew that soon, there’d come a day when he just would stop turning up, I begged him to run away with me. I just wouldn’t stop pestering him. He didn’t want to; he thought it was unfair to drag me down with him or something. And though I hated my parents too, I did have it better than him, I know that. But I would have given it all away for him. And I was going to. But then…”

No longer swaying, he just keeps you tucked in his chest, waiting patiently for you to catch your breath. He doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t offer condolences, or all false promises.

“We were driving away. We were making it out, but I got a notification on my phone. My mum was trying to reach me. And I don’t know, I felt guilty, and he must have seen it because he tried to do a U-turn and...and…I made it out alive and he was just barely there.”

For the longest time, this story, his story hadn’t been uttered to anyone. And though you did once think it’d be nice if they could meet, you wish it wasn’t under these circumstances. You wish they’d both be breathing and not severed between life and death.

“My family was paying for his hospital fees for as long as they could, before all the money dried up and we were running on fumes trying to keep up the facade. Maybe that’s why I put up with them for so long, why I never tried to run away. That gratitude I had kept me stuck there for so long, even once a charity picked up his case and took over.”

“That sneaky old man.” He mutters under his breath but then notices your confused look and shakes his head. “Ah, I’ll tell you another day…I’m sorry about your friend. I’m sorry for what Naoya did. If I could make him pay, I would. I will.”

You chuckle. He sounds so sure you can’t help but find him absolutely adorable.

“No, he does deserve to pay but honestly, I’m relieved.” A huge part of you had always carried tremendous guilt of having put him in that position to begin with. He was destined for more and you had kept him confined to that hospital bed for your own needs, unable to let him go, to accept the truth. “His heart may have been beating but he had been gone a long time ago. Now, he’s truly at peace, I think. He’ll be happy to finally go.”

Gojo kisses your forehead. “If he’s any bit as loving as you, then I think he’d be happy you’d be able to move on. Y’know, start living your life for yourself.”

You laugh again. Loud and obnoxious, you’re sure. It startles him.

“God, you’re so annoyingly sweet when you want to be. You’re supposed to hate me. To be disgusted that I’d been so selfish, so cowardly for so long. But instead, you’re looking at me like I hung the moon and stars.”

He tilts his head, a playful smile on those soft lips of his. “You didn’t?”

“Just kiss me, you idiot.”

And so, he does.

He quite literally sweeps you off your feet, lifting you up so he can smother your lips with his. He tastes of sugar, of a long fight for freedom, and of youth you’ve never had. And when you’re in his arms, tongue twisting together and savouring this moment that feels like a long time coming, you can’t think about anything else other than how this is right where you belong. Your hands get buried in each other’s hair, bridging the gap until not a single atom keeps you apart. Despite how tight his clutch is, you find comfort in the reminder that he’s with you now and he’s not going to let you go.

When you part, your lips tingle and his teeth pull your bottom lip, tugging it just to watch it bounce back into place. His hair is a mess, his lips swollen and cheeks flushed. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admits.

You peck him. “Did it leave up to your wet dreams?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

You two fall onto the grass, kissing and touching and gasping. He doesn’t let your body touch the ground, taking the brunt of your weight as if you’re as light as a feather. A hand slides to the back of your dress, pulling down a zipper.

“I hate this dress…” He breathes out. “I’d never let you wear something so plain at our wedding.”

Giggling, you indulge in the ticklish touches. “Aren’t you getting a little too ahead of yourself there, Gojo?”

He smashes your face back to his, swallowing your words like he doesn’t think it belongs on the lips he could spend eternity worshiping. “Satoru, baby. Call me Satoru.”

And now you’re both back where you left off, sending déjà vu coursing through your veins. Sitting up, away from his lips which attempt to chase you, you slide off his body, crawling back on to the grass. Gazing at you with wide eyes, he doesn’t miss a thing when you spread your legs slowly. “Promise not to cum in your pants if I do?”

“No.” He scrambles towards you. “Can’t.”

Smiling, you say, “Oh, but you must, otherwise you’ll cut this night short.”

The white-haired man grabs your ankles, rubbing warmth on your skin. Eyes never leaving yours, he removes your heels, one by one, lifting each to lay a kiss on your sole. Then, as you’re lying back, looking up at him, he asks, “You wouldn’t happen to be wearing a garter, would you? Because if you are, then I might actually cum in my pants.”

“Come and find out…Satoru.”

He dives forward, pushing through the thick heap of fabric, warm skin leaving a trail on your inner thighs and finding, hopefully, a black lace garter you had snuck on as a quiet act of rebellion. Naoya would have flipped out if he saw it, you’re sure, but it would have been worth it. No matter the price, you would have kept finding ways to keep your identity try as he might to erase it.

“Ah, baby, you must have known I’d end up here, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have left a present with my name on it.”

Warm breath brushing your panties, you fight the urge to shiver. “You like my garter?”

Just as you had bitten his chin, he bites your thigh and licks up the mark quickly, soothing the skin. Your body is aching, and he isn’t even touching you where you wish he would.

“It’s pretty and I’m keeping it for my spank bank for sure,” he promises. “But I’m talking about this.”

You gasp.

Satoru licked a stripe up your clothed slit, tongue poking at your clit. He pauses. Oh no, he must have found your real gift. So many nights spent dreaming about how it’ll shut him up to finally know where your final piercing is and the feeling of his body surging heat throughs yours doesn’t live up your imagination.

Swimming out of the dress, his eyes, unobscured by those dark sunglasses of his, widen comically. You’re watching a blush blossom on his cheeks in real time. “You have a clit piercing!”

“I do.”

‘Oh fuck,’ is all he says before he climbs back in and pulls your panties to the side. You squeal at the sudden sensation of his long tongue exploring your pussy in a rush. Again and again, he licks and licks until he can’t get enough and begins sucking at your already twitching clit, playing with the metal bar. “Wow, I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me...That’s the real tragedy...”

It’s been so long and he’s so good at that, you’re nearing your climax much sooner than you’d like; his head is already massive, if he makes you cum from a couple licks you’ll never hear the end of it.

“Did it -mhm- hurt?”

Back arching, you grip blades of grass for tether. “Y-yeah. The recovery was rough but totally worth it. I’m even more sensitive down there now.”

Two fingers worm their way inside your pussy, feeling the pleats and enjoying the gumminess of your walls. “Yeah, I can -hah- tell. You’re gushing on my fingers. I can’t get enough of you. You taste so incredible, how is that even possible? You must really be a witch...no, a fallen angel sent to damn me.”

“You’re so melodramatic,” you breathe out, hips jolting.

His arms are wrapped around your thighs, keeping them spread nice and wide for him. You’re sure he can’t breathe under your dress and with the sloppy noises he’s making, you’re not convinced he’s already decided this is how he’d like to die. “Can’t help it...pussy’s so -ha- good I want to recite p-poetry...to be or not to be and whatever.”

A hand falls onto his head over the fabric, keeping him between your legs and pressed up against your pussy. He’s playing with your piercing with his tongue, rolling it around like a fidget toy. There’s no technique to whatever he’s doing but goddamn it, it sure does feel fucking good.

“I could spend all -hah- day eating you out.”

He’s given you an opening to tease him more. You sure as hell take it. “If you hadn’t fucked shit up by telling on our parents to the press, then you would have been well acquainted with my pussy by now.”

An embarrassed sound escapes him. “I’m sorry…I thought I ate that up. Whoops. I’ll make it up to you four though.”

“Four?”

“Yeah, you, your tits and this kitty.”

Wow, that almost dried you up. “Shut up, Satoru. Like actually. Please.”

“Okay, but can I actually spend all day eating you out? I’ll work for it.”

“You just want an -ngh! don’t suck so hard, fuck!- e-excuse not to go to classes.” You smile when he huffs against your pussy, curling those fingers against your g-spot. He’s lying flat on his stomach and without needing to look to be sure, you know he’s rutting his hips against the grass.

He sucks hard at your clit despite your command. You cry out. “Hmm, you already -hah that’s it, ride my face- already know me so well, baby. You obsessed with me or something?”

“So obsessed I o-orchestrated a -hngh- wedding just for you to crash it.”

Obscene noises are emanating from under your skirt. He’s making out with your pussy, slurping and lapping up your juices like a man starved. “You’re so sweet to me. So so sweet. Are you gonna cum soon? You’re tightening up like you are. Come on, show me how you sound when you cum. Let me know if my imagination lives up to reality.”

Just as he says, you cum all over his face and his fingers, writhing on the grass and dirtying the wedding dress with reckless abandon. It’s possibly the best orgasm you’ve had in years or ever and you almost admit that to him but the fact that he had been able to make you cum at all is embarrassing enough that you keep all praises to yourself.

Instead, when he comes out, a shit-eating grin on his face, and his shirt unbuttoned at the top, you tell him, “T-take your pants off and fuck me already.”

“Woah! Buy me dinner first.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m serious. Hurry up and get inside me.”

He smiles and leans down to press a kiss on the tip of your nose, smearing your wetness on your skin accidentally. Muttering an ‘oops,’ he quickly licks up the sheen before he wipes it with his hand altogether. “And I’m being serious. As much as I would love to — trust me, I’m actually kicking myself right now and this will haunt me — we can’t. I don’t have a condom on me.”

“Oh, god, I hate you.”

Slumping on top of you just to hear your sudden groan, he mumbles between the valleys of your breast, pulling your dress down to bare them to him, “Yeah, my bad, baby. I hate Satoru too.”

Just as fascinated with the piercings on your nipples, he fiddles with them like a stress toy, pulling and watching for your reaction. You bite your lip. You won’t moan for the bastard.

Pussy still tingling, you just lie there carrying his heavy ass as he fondles your tits and introduces himself to them. You really want to get laid. You’re practically desperate for it. These past couple months have been so stressful, so disastrous, you want compensation in the form of orgasms. Damn it, he will give it to you since he caused all of this to begin with.

“Take me back to your frat house. You must have condoms there.”

Mouth full of your breast, he says, voice muffled, “You are totally obsessed with me. Like, you’re so bossy when you’re horny.”

You smack the back of his head. “Don’t even pretend you’re not grinding your dick onto me, asshole. Take me to your frat house now before I go back to Naoya.”

His hips still. He gets up and pulls you with him. Pouty, he grouches. “Okay, so now you’ve ruined the moment.”

“I ruined the moment? Are you kidding me? You’re the one who didn’t bring a condom!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know there’d be sex involved in my rescue mission.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Satoru. You knew there would be. Why else would I keep you around?”

He gasps. “Excuse me? You’re objectifying people in this day and age? Wow! Wow wow wow. Am I just a piece of meat to you?”

“Shut. Up.” As you stomp around, stabbing his chest with your finger, he just hums and slides your dress off, lifting you up and out of the ugly thing. Now in just a thin slip, he wraps his arms around you and carries you out of your hideaway like you weigh absolutely nothing. “Admit it. Admit you forgot the condom.”

“No, I didn’t bring any because I respect you for your mind and personality. I’m not some kind of animal who’s led by her clit.”

Clutching him for warmth, you let him expertly navigate his way out of the labyrinth and into the car park. In his car, you argue the whole way. The fucker won’t admit what you both know to be the truth, settling for singing along to the pop songs on the radio. Whilst you rant about his stupidity and recklessness, finally scolding him for even getting you into this position, he just smiles and takes it all in, keeping a hand on your bare thigh and daring to rise higher. You let him finger you into another orgasm.

Still complaining even when you two finally arrive at the frat, wolf whistled at by his exhausted brothers before you arrive at his room, you glare at him.

It’s spacious and pretty empty, devoid of much personality unlike his childhood room. When he lays you down on the bed, pulling sticks and leaves out of your hair, he gets right back in between your legs and keeps eye contact the whole time. Though it isn’t a whole day like he wants, he does give you a couple more orgasms in two hours.

He may be neglectful of his education, but he does not mess around with your cunt. In fact, he treats it like it’s life and death, muttering praises about how expressive she is, how tight and well-behaved. So fucking cheesy.

“Ugh, leave her alone now. Come up here and show me what I’m working with.”

Eyes hazy and looking like he’s not all there right now, he emerges and fumbles with his pants, kicking them off to reveal his cock. Your jaw drops.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Satoru shrugs and leans down to kiss you, shoving his tongue inside so you can taste yourself. “You’re so mad, aren’t you? Gojo Satoru really does have it all, doesn’t he? Don’t be upset, babe, you’re pretty hot yourself.”

Of course! Of course, his dick would be big. Long and thick, he keeps it clean down there, baring the long veins that wrap around his impressive length and reaching his pretty pink tip which aggressively leaks precum. Firmly, you say, “That’s not gonna fit inside me at all.”

He hums, sucking marks on your neck, collarbone and on your breasts. “You can take it. My girl can do anything.”

“Ah, fuck it.”

To be with him like this, all warm and safe from everyone that’s tried to control you two, feels like heaven in the most sinful way. You’re being engulfed by his scent and his body, stronger and more muscular than you ever thought it could be. The way he touches you, greedy but careful, as if he’s just been presented with the most tempting feast he could dream of is driving you wild.

Pulling him up for a kiss, you give yourself up to the overwhelming urge to consume him. He’s yours. He always has been and always will be. You don’t know how the future will go but that’s how it feels in the moment and it’s more than you could ever ask for.

“How do you want me?” You ask, leaning up on your elbows, ready to get into any position he wants.

Satoru’s smile is so sheepish and simultaneously shameless, it makes you sigh – it’s the kind of smile that tells you he knows what he’s about to say is incredibly idiotic, but he means every word of it. And you’re just as idiotic, you think, because you actually want to hear him out. “Just as you are.”

“Ugh, I hate you.” You slump back down on the bed, staring up at ceiling and wondering how you’re going to put up with him for the foreseeable future.

Swallowing your complaints with his lips, he and quips, “If this is how good you taste when you hate me, I can’t wait for you to sit on my face when you’re in love with me.”

“Never gonna happen.”

“Hmm, never say never, baby. I think you’ll find I can be quite persuasive.”

Honestly, you should be scared; he really is persuasive. You’ve learnt in the past few months that when Satoru wants something, he gets it. And right now, he looks so hell bent on winning this bet you’ve raised he looks like he’s casting a spell on your pussy with his dick as he rubs the length along your slit, getting it wet before he grabs a condom from his bedside drawer. In true frat guy fashion, he’s putting on the ultra-thin ones and you’re also not surprised to see that they’re strawberry flavoured.

Sensing the judgement in your eyes, he chuckles, forehead meeting yours. Held up by his forearms, you notice the quiver in them. “Pinch me. Please. I have to know this is real, that you’re mine.”

You whisper, running your hands through his hair and listening to him purr, “I’m yours, Satoru. I’m not going anywhere. So...hurry up and fuck me before I dry up.”

His laugh is so unbridled, so obnoxious and loud it brings you to laughter too.

“Hey...y’know, you’ve bewitched me, body and soul...I’ll follow you the depths of hell.” He confesses, angling his hips so his cock head is right at your entrance, teasing and prodding. “Remember that because you’re gonna be so mad when I tell you I did forget. Whoopsy.”

“I fucking knew it—AH! FUCK!”

In one smooth thrust, he’s forced himself inside you. Your walls squeeze, pulsing, desperate to acclimatise to his cock. He’s hitting all your sensitive spots, filling you up so good it’s like he’s shoved all the air out of you, occupying your lungs. Eyes roll back, jaw hanging low.

“Yeah, my b-bad, baby. Just let me -oh, you feel so good- a-apologise, yeah? I’ll make you forget all the things I did wrong.” Pace steady, he works his cock in and out, swivelling his pelvis against yours every time he bottoms out, enjoying the feel of your cold clit piercing on his skin.

You moan. “I highly fucking doubt that. You’ll probably just keep fucking up again and again anyways.”

He smiles.

“Probably, but I’ll never s-stop trying to apologise. Now, quit being so -hah- tight; I’m gonna cum early.”

The headboard is rattling against the wall with his increasing speed. Uncaring about how noisy you two are — with the slapping of skin, the dirty squelches, the long moans and grunts – he continues fucking you like there’s no one else in the house than you two. His face is tucked in your neck, swallowing your sweet smell; he can’t get enough of it. Of you. Back muscles shifting and hard under your touch, you run your nails through his pale skin, desperate to leave your mark on him, to make him yours in all the ways you can.

“Don’t -ah! right there, S’toru- act like that’s not normal for you.”

He flicks your nipple piercing, huffing in tense amusement when you gasp, before engulfing the bouncing thing with his large hands, fingers digging into the fat. “We’ll see -ngh- who cums before who, M-morticia.”

“Yeah, Gomez?”

You swear he throbs inside you.

“C-can I walk you to class, baby? Maybe I s-should change courses. I -oh, fuck, you’re incredible- I want to be with you all the time. I think I’m going absolutely, totally crazy.”

Legs locking behind his hips, ankles digging into his ass to keep him deep inside you, you mouth kisses into every inch of skin you can reach, inhaling his scent too. It’s so clean, so light and heavenly, you feel it go straight to your clit. “S-sure, follow me -ah!-wherever. I’ll keep you around, let you -ngh! I’m close, keep going, just like that—I’ll let you sit on my lap and do -hah shit- tricks for me. Don’t that sound fun, Toru?”

Yeah, he definitely just grew bigger inside of you.

“Ruff! Ruff!”

Your laugh comes out broken, punctuated by dizzying moans. “God, you’re so stupid.”

He laughs too. “No, you.”

Even as he fills you up with his searing cum and you both lose yourself in the pleasure of finally being together in a way you worried you’d never get to be, you argue back and forth, pushing each other’s buttons, mocking and taunting. And it doesn’t ever really stop.

Not then, not the next day, or the next week, month, or years after.

And neither you nor Satoru’s ever look back.

#jjk angst #Gojo x reader #gojo angst #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fic #jjk x you #gojo satoru #modern au #gojo fluff #gojo smut #jjk smut #jjk fluff

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inkdrinkerworld · 2 days ago

Text

Joaquin is trying really hard not to laugh as you lean all your weight into him as he opens your front door.

“You said we were going home Joaquin.”

He chuckles then, “We are home,” he wraps an arm behind him to hold onto your waist as he pushes open the door.

He needs to change that hinge.

“But this is my apartment, I wanted to sleep in your bed.” Your voice catches as you speak. Joaquin can tell tears are near.

He shakes his head, amusement lighting his face as he sets the keys in the dish near the door and sits you on the sofa.

“Amor,” he presses a kiss into your knee, spotting a bruise from the bar that he’s not sure how you got. “We live together.”

Joaquin’s hands are quick as they free your feet from your heels.

A quiet, “Oh,” leaves you at his words.

His hands massage the arches of your feet, chuckling a little when you squirm.

“Want some water?” You shake your head, cheek pressed into the back of the couch as you look down at him.

“Want a kiss,” he sits up and kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “A real kiss.” You whine and Joaquin laughs now, right in your face.

His forehead touches your chin, “We’re going to bed, nena. Just to bed.” But he lifts his head and gets a glimpse of your puppy dog eyes and he indulges in a quick peck to your lips.

You grumble, “Not being fair.” But Joaquin pretends he doesn’t hear you as he lifts you off the couch.

Joaquin carries you all the way to the bathroom, pushing your hair back with a headband he’s seen you use many times.

He has to remove your hands from neck twice when you pull him flush to your chest, trapping him against you.

“Baby,” he laughs, hugging you back before pulling away a little. You’re pouting at him severely. Joaquin already knows what you want from him.

“Just one.” You plead and he sighs.

He’s not really great at denying you, and presses his lips against yours.

Your lips move lazily and they lack a little coordination, but Joaquin makes it work. One hand cups your cheek, stabilizing you against him.

When he pulls away your lips are a little swollen and glossy.

“Better?” He asks and you nod, a happy smile on your face as you sit still again for him to finish going through your skincare.

His fingers are gentle as they scrub your eyes and face. Circular motions lulling you to sleep.

“You falling asleep on me?” He whispers and you shake your head, all slow and heavy like your head’s weighing your movements down.

“Wanna sleep with you.”

His eyebrows raise, “Oh yeah?”

You open your eyes and Joaquin gets lost in them for a moment. They’re intense pools to stare into and sometimes he wishes he were an artist, so he could render their depth.

“Yeah, we can do it naked.”

He laughs again, kissing your forehead. “As long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

Joaquin doesn’t let you sleep naked, instead you’re wearing one of his old Air Force t-shirts and underwear.

You cuddle up next to him, a vice-like grip on him as he lays beside you. You fall asleep before he even says goodnight.

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chrissssssmut · 2 days ago

Note

winter aespa school student president x male loser reader smut?

DETENTION

School President Winter x Loser Male Reader

AN: I've got so much time now! I am currently on a break from my work which explains the everyday upload! Love y'all!♥️

It was almost 5:00 PM. The school hallways were long emptied out—no chatter, no squeaking shoes, no slam of lockers. Just silence.

Except for Classroom 2-C.

You were still in there, sitting awkwardly in the back row, tapping your pencil against the desk and glancing toward the front of the classroom. And there she was. Still there, arms crossed, standing by the board like she ran the entire building.

Because she did.

“Still spacing out?” Winter said, voice clipped, authoritative. “It’s no wonder your grades are in the gutter.”

You sat up straighter immediately. “I—I’m not spacing out. I’m just… I thought detention was over by now.”

She slowly turned to face you fully, blazer pressed, school emblem pinned over her chest, and a little clipboard in her hand.

“Oh?” she stepped down from the podium. Heels clicking. "You thought? That's funny, considering you barely think at all during class. Late three times this week. Homework—missing. And I hear from Ms. Choi you were dozing off during her lecture.”

You rubbed your neck, cheeks heating. “I mean… yeah, but—”

“Enough.” Her voice sliced through your excuse.

You didn’t dare talk back. Not to her. Kim Minjeong, aka Winter, was a legend. Student council president. Top of every class. Ice-cold, terrifying, beautiful.

She stepped closer.

"Everyone else has left," she said softly. Her voice changed—calmer, but still in control. “But you? You’re staying.”

Your breath caught. “Why…?”

“Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

Winter looked down at you, her arms finally relaxing to her sides. Then she reached into her skirt pocket and slowly pulled out something small, lacy—

Your brain froze.

Pink panties.

Your eyes widened.

“W-what—are those—”

“Mine.” She twirled them on her finger casually. “They’ve been in your bag all day, haven’t they? You think I didn’t notice?”

You panicked. “I-I didn’t steal them, I swear! Someone must’ve planted them—”

Her hand suddenly pressed against your desk, leaning in close. Her cold, unreadable face just inches away. "You didn’t steal them?" she whispered. “Then why are they wet, loser?”

Your mouth dried. “I-I didn’t—”

Winter smirked—just barely. “You're such a pervert. Always staring when you think I don't see. Always so quiet, so obedient... You act like I don’t know every single filthy thought in your head.”

Your cock twitched in your pants.

She saw it. Of course she did.

And instead of being disgusted, Winter... smiled.

“You like this, don’t you?” she asked. “Being put in your place by your school president. Having me hold your detention hostage while you sit there with your cock getting hard in your pants like a dog.”

You bit your lip.

She raised the panties to your face and let them rest across your cheek. "They were on me this morning. I wore them in every council meeting, every class. And now they're here. With you.”

Then she slid them down… down to your lap. Rubbed them across your bulge slowly, carefully.

You shuddered.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

She tilted her head, tone mockingly sweet. “What was that?”

“...I like it.”

She smiled again. “Good boy.”

Then Winter moved like a switch flipped. She grabbed your tie, yanked you forward, and kissed you. No hesitation, no testing the waters—just full lips, soft scent, hot breath, and a tongue that claimed your mouth like it was hers.

When she pulled back, a thin string of spit connected you.

She walked back toward the teacher’s desk, sat on it, and spread her legs.

Her skirt was still on. But no panties now. Just skin underneath, smooth and soft and wet. Your mouth hung open.

“Crawl,” she said. “Come here.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

Your knees hit the floor. You crawled down the aisle between desks like a pathetic little pet and knelt in front of her. Her shoes brushed your sides as she opened her legs wider.

Winter leaned back on her hands, biting her bottom lip slightly. "Look at you. All that quiet loner act, and now you’re on your knees for me. Such a good little loser."

You swallowed hard. “Can I taste…?”

She looked down her nose at you. “Beg for it.”

“Please…” you murmured, breath shaky. “Please, President… I want to taste you so bad…”

“Of course you do.” She slid forward on the desk, pussy now inches from your lips. “Now shut up and show me you’re worth the breath it takes to keep you around.”

You dove in.

She tasted sweet and sharp, hips jerking just slightly as your tongue flicked across her folds. She grabbed your hair, fingers laced tight, forcing your face deeper. Your nose was buried in her as you licked her slit, circled her clit, sucked when she gasped.

“F-fuck—mmph… just like that,” she muttered. “God, you’re so good with that tongue, aren’t you? Knew you’d be good for something.”

You moaned against her.

The panties she left on your lap were now stuffed into your hand—and you used them to jerk yourself off, the scent of her soaking them while her taste coated your mouth.

Suddenly—her grip tightened.

"Stop."

You froze.

Her eyes were cold again. “You don’t come until I say so. Got it?”

“Y-yes.”

She stood up, fixed her skirt. Walked over to your desk. “Sit.”

You stumbled to your feet, pants around your ankles, dick throbbing hard.

Winter sat on your lap facing you, straddling, her pussy rubbing right over your tip.

“Been thinking about this for weeks,” she muttered. “Watching you squirm in the back row, hiding your hard-ons like I don’t see them. Wondering what your cock would feel like.”

You groaned. “Please—”

She cut you off by sliding down.

Just like that—tight, wet heat wrapped around your cock.

You choked out a breath. “F-fuck—Winter—President—”

Her eyes rolled back for a second. “God… you are thick…”

Then she began to move.

Slow, deep, grinding strokes that made the desk creak. Her skirt hiked up around her waist, your hands desperately grabbing her hips as she rode you like she owned every inch.

She leaned in close again, lips brushing your ear. “You like when your school president’s pussy’s wrapped around your cock?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“You like when I fuck you like I own you?”

"Please—keep going—"

She moaned, breath hot. “Keep talking like that and I might let you come.”

Just as you felt your release creeping up—

Click.

The doorknob turned.

You both froze.

Outside: heavy footsteps.

A voice. “Hello? Anyone still in here?”

Your eyes went wide.

Winter didn’t move.

“Don’t you dare make a sound,” she whispered, her pussy still squeezing you inside her.

“Security,” the man outside called. “Classroom check.”

Winter leaned forward and bit your neck. Hard. Your mouth opened in a silent scream.

Her hips slowly moved again. Riding you. While a grown man stood just outside the door.

She whispered, “Keep it together. Be a good little fucktoy. Don’t spill until I say.”

The security guard rattled the knob once more… then moved on.

Silence.

Then—

Winter slammed down hard.

You cried out—but she kissed you to muffle it, riding you mercilessly now.

“Come for me,” she ordered. “Fill your school president up like the obedient loser you are.”

Your vision blurred as you spilled inside her. Her pussy milked every drop.

She bit your lip when you sagged backward, panting.

Winter grinned, satisfied. “Not bad,” she whispered. “Maybe I’ll keep you for extra lessons.”

You were still twitching, your cum leaking down your shaft and dripping onto the chair.

Winter stood up, pulled her skirt back down, and walked to the door like nothing happened.

“Oh,” she added, turning back. “Detention tomorrow. Same time.”

She winked.

“And maybe, just maybe, I'll let you keep my panties.”

THE NEXT DAY

Your legs couldn’t stop shaking under your desk all day.

Every time you blinked, you saw it again—her skirt riding up, her panties in your lap, her voice whispering filth in your ear while she ground herself on your cock like she owned it.

Winter. Kim Minjeong. Your school’s untouchable student council president. And now—somehow—the girl who made you cum inside her in Classroom 2-C while the security guard nearly caught you both.

She didn’t text you. Didn’t look at you during class. Didn't even acknowledge your existence.

But as the final bell rang, and students started filing out, a note slid across your desk.

"President’s Office. 4:30 PM. Don’t be late."

Your heart nearly stopped.

By the time you stood in front of the council office door, your palms were sweaty. You knocked—once.

No answer.

You tried the handle. Unlocked.

The room was dim—sunlight low through the blinds, casting stripes across the wooden floors and bookshelves. There was only one person inside.

Her.

Winter sat behind the wide mahogany desk, blazer folded neatly off to the side, white shirt fitted tight to her body, first two buttons undone. Her legs were crossed, black heels tapping the edge of the carpet.

She didn’t look up.

“Took you long enough.”

You stepped in. Quiet. Nervous. Hard already.

She flipped a page in the file she was reading. "Close the door.”

You obeyed. The click of the lock sounded way louder than it should’ve.

Winter finally looked up.

Eyes sharp. Hungry.

“You remember what I told you yesterday?” she asked.

“Y-yeah.”

“Repeat it.”

Your voice trembled. “You said… detention. Same time. Same place.”

She smirked faintly. “You remember everything I say so well. Guess that loser brain does work when you’re thinking about the right things.”

She stood. Walked over slowly, hips swaying.

Then she sat on the edge of the desk in front of you, legs open just enough to tease. You looked down—no panties again.

She was completely bare under that tight school skirt.

Your breath caught.

Winter tilted her head. “Well? Are you just going to stare?”

You dropped to your knees.

“Good boy.”

You leaned in, but her heel pressed to your chest, stopping you.

“Not yet,” she said. “Tell me what you thought about last night.”

You swallowed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. About how tight you felt. How wet. How—fuck—I came so deep inside you—”

“Mhm,” she said, pleased. “I thought about it too.”

Her heel lowered.

“You begged so nicely with my panties in your lap.”

Then she leaned back again, this time reaching down and parting herself with two fingers.

"Now come worship properly."

Your tongue was already out before she finished speaking.

Winter moaned softly as your lips found her again. Her pussy was already dripping, soaking your chin as you licked up and down her folds, slow, obedient, desperate.

She tugged your hair and pulled you in deeper, grinding her hips to your mouth. “God, you eat pussy like it’s the only thing you’re good for. Maybe it is.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn't. Her taste filled your senses and her grip kept you locked in.

“Use your tongue right,” she hissed. “Circle my clit—slower—don’t stop until I say.”

You obeyed every word.

Then—

She stopped you.

“Sit down,” she said, pointing to the chair in front of the desk. “Strip.”

You did. Shirt off. Pants gone. Cock standing proud and throbbing.

Winter walked over, heels clicking, and straddled your lap—but didn’t let you in.

Not yet.

Instead, she pulled something from the desk drawer.

Your jaw dropped.

It was the same pink pair of panties from yesterday.

She ran them over your chest, then down to your shaft, wrapping them around the base like a makeshift cock ring and tying a knot.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “You don’t get to come until I untie you.”

You whimpered.

Winter leaned down, her voice in your ear.

“You're going to sit there and take it like a good little loser while I ride your cock until I cum—over and over.”

Then she guided herself down—slowly, torturously—until your entire shaft was inside her again.

You almost exploded on the spot.

But the tight knot at the base kept it from happening.

She used you.

Rode you hard, bouncing in rhythm with her breathless moans, her nails digging into your shoulders as you clenched your fists, panting through gritted teeth, desperate to finish.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Not until I’ve milked every drop you’ve got stored in there.”

She fucked you with practiced rhythm. Hips snapping. Wet, obscene sounds filling the council office as her thighs slapped against yours. Your cock throbbed painfully, restrained, held back by the knot of her panties.

Then suddenly—knock knock.

You both froze.

Winter immediately slammed her hand over your mouth. Her hips didn't stop.

"President?" a voice called from behind the door. "It's Mr. Park—building check. Are you still inside?"

Your cock twitched inside her.

Winter leaned close, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re hard in your president while someone’s talking to us through the door,” she whispered. “You’re such a fucking pervert.”

You moaned behind her hand.

She answered, voice perfect, calm.

“Yes, Mr. Park. Still finalizing the reports. I’ll be done shortly.”

“Oh, alright then. Just locking up soon.”

You both waited. Silence.

Footsteps faded.

Winter looked back at you.

Then untied the knot.

“You may come,” she whispered, tightening her walls around you. “Now.”

Your whole body snapped.

You exploded inside her, load after load, thick, twitching ropes spilling deep in her pussy as you cried out into her palm.

She moaned softly, grinding down to take every last drop.

When you finally stopped shaking, she leaned back and smiled.

Your cum dripped out between her thighs as she stood, slowly putting her blazer back on.

She walked around the desk, sat back in her chair, crossed her legs.

“Clean yourself up,” she said without looking.

You grabbed tissues. Wiped your cock. Pulled your pants on.

“Same time tomorrow,” she said, eyes still on her laptop. “I expect you to knock this time. And bring me something sweet.”

You blinked. “Like… candy?”

She looked up, smirking.

“No. Your mouth.”

519 notes · View notes

jinjoohaa · 2 days ago

Text

Jealousy looks good on you, baby

nanami hugs a girl infront of you (Roommate! AU)

CW: NSFW, explicit sexual content, nipple play, possessiveness, breeding talk, jealousy, age gap, light humiliation, dirty talk. 18+ only.

The warm Friday night air clings softly to your skin, the scent of waffle cones and melted sugar floating around you as you stand before a glowing ice cream stall. The board above you lists too many flavors, all chalked up in messy cursive— caramel, cotton candy, triple chocolate fudge, blueberry cheesecake…

You chew your bottom lip, hands folded nervously in front of you as you scan the options.

“I—can’t decide…” you mumble.

“Buy all of ‘em,” Gojo says immediately, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid on a sugar high, sunglasses pushed up into his white hair. “I’ll pay. Just blink twice if you want me to fund your sweet-tooth era.”

Nanami sighs beside you. “You’re not paying.”

“Says who?” Gojo smirks. “You took her out but I’m the one who makes her smile.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night,” Nanami mutters.

You glance up at them both, cheeks already warm. Gojo’s grin is wide and chaotic. Nanami’s stoic, hands in his pockets.

You shift on your feet, heart fluttering. Honestly, you’re still recovering from yesterday—bruises high on your thighs hidden under your skirt, soreness that hasn’t left. Nanami had held your trembling body all night, apologizing under his breath, lips pressed to your temple, promising—

“I’ll make it up to you. This weekend. Ice cream. Just us.”

Except Gojo overheard.

And now here he was, ruining the peace.

“Oh, oh—try that mango one. Mango makes everything better,” Gojo says, tugging lightly at your sleeve. “Like, imagine it melting on your tongue while someone’s fingering you. Messy. Hot.”

You suck in a breath, eyes going wide. “G-Gojo!”

He just chuckles, shameless and unbothered, then leans down to whisper near your ear, “Or do you prefer chocolate? Because, baby, chocolate and moaning sounds like a combo I’d pay to hear.”

You try not to combust on the spot.

Nanami exhales deeply. “Stop talking.”

Just then, a voice calls out from across the street—smooth and playful.

> “Kento~!”

Nanami turns, brows furrowed. Gojo does too.

And then her voice registers. You look just in time to see her: tall, elegant, maybe in her early thirties, blonde waves swept back in a high twist, a sharp black blazer hugging her curves. Red lipstick. Confident heels. A smile that could kill.

Gojo whistles low. “Damn. Older women are always a blessing for my pretty eyes…”

You go quiet. Nanami's expression softens the second recognition hits. He smiles back—smiles—and lifts a hand in greeting.

> “Baby,” he says gently to you, touching your shoulder. “Pick something you like, hmm? I’ll be back in a minute.”

Your lips part to reply, but he's already walking across the street.

Your heart sinks a little. Just a little.

Gojo keeps talking, mostly to himself. “You think she spanks men for fun? She gives off that boss lady dominatrix vibe. Shit, I’d let her tell me to sit, and I’d bark. Proudly.”

You blink at him, mouth twitching, but your eyes keep slipping across the road. Nanami’s posture is relaxed—he’s not usually like that. The two of them talk, and she laughs, her hand brushing his forearm.

“Maybe I should get the vanilla,” you murmur, too soft.

"Mhmm you sure you're a vanilla girl?" Gojo smirks.

He picks up a sample spoon, dips it into the pistachio, licks it once, then makes a face. “Nah. That’s a bad head flavor. You want something creamy. Like hazelnut. Or caramel. Something that melts easy. So when it drips on cunt, I can just lick…”

He mimics licking it off his wrist.

You squeak, tugging at your skirt. “G-Gojo… there are kids here…”

“There’s life lessons here,” he retorts with a wink.

Your attention drifts back across the road. Nanami’s laughing now—laughing. You pout slightly, eyes burning even though you tell yourself it’s nothing. Just an old friend. An ex, maybe. He’d never said. He wasn’t the type to hide things, but still…

When they hug, something inside you twists.

And then he’s coming back, straightening his sleeves, walking towards you.

“Have you picked?” he asks, voice smooth, eyes on you.

You nod, pointing weakly to the blueberry cheesecake.

Gojo hums something under his breath. You catch the words “lick” and “cream” but don’t want to ask.

Nanami pays. You’re too quiet now, licking the corner of your spoon as you three begin walking home. Gojo talks enough for all three of you, arm slung lazily around your shoulders like a cat in heat.

You keep sneaking glances at Nanami, trying not to think of her laugh. Her lipstick. The way he smiled at her like—

And beside you, Gojo’s fingers tap-tap along your shoulder, his voice low and smug.

The walk back home is filled with low chatter—Gojo is talking a mile a minute about some anime theory that somehow ties back to boobs and ice cream—but you don’t catch most of it.

You’re quiet.

Too quiet.

Your fingers curl tighter around the paper cup in your hands, the ice cream inside mostly melted now. It tastes sweet on your tongue, but your expression doesn't match. You’re trying not to pout. Really, you are. But every time the image of that woman hugging Nanami flashes behind your eyes, something in your chest just drops.

Gojo glances down at you as you trail beside him, head a little low.

“Hey, bunny,” he nudges you gently with his elbow. “You okay?”

You nod quickly.

“…You didn’t like the ice cream, huh?”

You blink up at him. “No—it’s not that. I—”

“You’re pouting,” he says in your ear.

“I’m not,” you whisper back, even though you definitely are.

Nanami slows his steps until he’s walking on your other side, eyes narrowing as he watches you. You don't meet his gaze.

“You cold?” he asks, already unzipping his coat.

You shake your head, but your voice betrays you. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t listen.

Nanami wraps his coat over your shoulders anyway, hands lingering on your arms for a second longer than needed. The warmth makes you sink into the fabric without thinking.

“Thank you…” you murmur.

“You're quiet,” he says under his breath, like he’s filing that thought away.

When you reach the apartment, the door creaks open to the familiar scent of home. The living room is dim. Toji’s passed out on the couch, one arm draped over his face, mouth open slightly. Geto’s door is shut, faint music playing behind it.

You toe off your shoes quietly, still wrapped in Nanami’s coat.

Gojo—of course—doesn’t know how to be quiet.

The moment you try to step into your room, he squeezes in right behind you.

“Hey, hey—don’t shut me out. I missed you.”

“I...I was with you just this morning,” you whisper, glancing at Nanami over your shoulder.

Gojo grins. “Yeah, when you were bouncing on my cock and making the prettiest little sobs I’ve ever heard. Doesn’t count as ‘quality time’.”

Your face turns crimson. “G-Gojo!”

He steps closer, arms ready to wrap around you—when Nanami grabs the back of his collar and yanks him out of your doorway like a misbehaving mutt.

Gojo stumbles back into the hallway. “HEY! Rude.”

Nanami slips inside your room and closes the door behind him—firmly.

Gojo starts a full-blown tantrum outside. “You two are selfish! I offer free love and look what I get! Used and thrown away like a fuckin' tissue—”

“Gojo, bed,” Nanami snaps.

Gojo groans. “Ughhhh. Fiiine. Just so you know, this is why I’m emotionally distant with men.”

You hear him muttering something about being “underappreciated” as he stomps off to his room.

The door clicks softly behind him.

Now it’s quiet.

Nanami exhales, hands loosening as he approaches you. His eyes are softer now, searching your face. “Did you enjoy the ice cream?”

You hesitate, then nod.

He steps closer. “You sure you’re alright… from yesterday?”

You glance down at your legs, where his grip had bloomed purple over your skin just last night. You’d clung to the sheets, sobbing, overwhelmed and wrecked, but never once saying no. He had taken you apart, lost in you, rough and gasping.

You nod again, more shyly this time.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

He cups your face gently and kisses you—deep, warm, lips pressing slow like he means it. You lean into him without thinking, letting his hand slide to the small of your back.

When he pulls away, his voice is low. “Alright, sweetheart. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He starts toward the door.

Your heart panics.

You speak before you think—your voice trembling.

“Uhmm… Nanami?”

He pauses, hand on the knob. Looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, baby?”

You shuffle in place, wringing your fingers. “I… uhh… can… can we… I-I wanna…”

His brows lift slightly. He turns to face you fully. “Hmm?”

Your throat goes dry.

“I wanna… do it.”

His expression shifts—amusement curving his lips, but his voice stays warm.

“Oh?” he hums, stepping toward you again. “Are you saying you want me to fuck you, baby?”

You nod once, face burning.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers. “Who am I to say no to that?”

He kisses you again, deeper, his tongue slow and thorough like he’s savoring the shape of your mouth. Then, he lifts you gently and lays you across your bed. His hands unbutton your top carefully—like he’s unwrapping something rare.

“Such a shy little thing…” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your chest. “But look at you asking for my cock. You must’ve missed it, hmm?”

You whimper softly. “… Yeah.”

He smiles. “Then I’ll give it to you. Nice and slow.”

The room fills with soft gasps and the shuffle of fabric. Nanami’s mouth maps every inch of your skin—tongue warm, lips dragging over your neck, collarbone, breasts, thighs.

He kisses every bruise he left before.

“Sorry,” he whispers each time. “You were too good… couldn’t help myself.”

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet.

First, he worships.

Hands firm on your thighs, spreading you, he licks your cunt like a man starved—slow, precise, tongue swirling around your clit, letting your moans get louder and messier until you’re writhing and clinging to the sheets.

Only then does he finally slide into you—inch by slow inch—watching your face the whole time.

“You always take me so well,” he breathes, groaning against your neck. “So tight—like your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”

You’re gasping, arms around his shoulders, every stroke making your mind blur. His hips move slow and deep, kissing the ache in your belly. His hand sneaks between your legs to rub you just right.

You cry out.

“Shh, shh… I got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, darling.”

By the end, your skin is slick with sweat, your thighs trembling, every nerve burning in the best way. He stays buried inside you as you both pant for air, foreheads pressed together.

Then, he pulls out and gathers you close, arms snug around your waist. You’re tucked in his chest, your leg thrown over his, fingers tracing small circles on his ribs.

The room is quiet.

You swallow hard.

Your voice is soft.

“…Nanamin, can I… can I ask you something?”

His voice was still thick with post-orgasm warmth, low and soft against your temple.

"Oh? What is it, baby? Need something? Water?"

You shook your head slowly, your cheek still pressed to his chest where you could hear the steady beat of his heart.

"Uhmm... do you like my hair?"

He blinked, pulling back slightly to look down at you, brows slightly furrowed.

"Huh? Yeah, baby—of course I do. Your hair's just as pretty as you. Why ask me that all of a sudden?"

You avoided his eyes, fiddling with a strand of your hair nervously.

"Nothing, just..." you mumbled, "I was wondering if I should colour it."

Nanami hummed and brought a hand to your head, threading his fingers through your hair and tugging you closer until your chest brushed against his.

"Hmm? Why, baby? I mean, if you want to, of course. What colour do you have in mind, hmm?" he asked, voice turning warm again as he tilted his head and nuzzled into your chest. He licked over your nipple suddenly, making you jerk slightly.

"Ah! Ngh... uhm... do you think I’d look prettier in blonde?"

He paused to press a kiss against your tit, then glanced up.

"Blonde? Hmm. Well, I think black suits your eyes more—makes you look soft and sweet."

Another slow lick over your nipple.

"But yeah, you’d still be pretty in blonde. You’d look pretty with anything."

You blinked down at him.

"Ohh... hmmm..."

He raised an eyebrow, then chuckled softly.

"Why baby? Did Gojo ask you to colour your hair?"

You quickly shook your head, lips pressing together.

Nanami smirked and leaned up to kiss your lips, a slow, lingering kiss that soothed your nerves.

You gently pulled away, slipping from the bed, naked still, as your eyes caught sight of his coat on the table. You padded over, slipped it over your shoulders, and hugged the fabric close.

Nanami sat up on the bed, admiring the view with a soft groan.

"Nanamin… do I look good in this?"

His eyes dragged over you like hot honey, and he huffed a little laugh.

"In a blazer? Of course, yeah. You look like a corporate baddie who’s about to ruin a man’s life."

You blushed a little, biting your lip.

"S-So… does this style suit me more?"

He narrowed his eyes, sensing the undertone in your voice.

"You look good in everything, baby. No matter what you wear."

You hesitated, then mumbled,

"But... d-do you like this type of dress more than… my usual?"

Nanami stood, walking over to you completely naked, still semi-hard and completely unbothered by it. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in.

"I didn’t say that." He kissed your forehead.

"I said you always look pretty. Whatever you wear."

You stared up at him with wide eyes before slowly sitting on his lap, facing him—skin to skin now, his cock twitching against your thigh. You curled your arms around his neck.

"Can I ask you something again?" you asked quietly.

He smirked, brushing his thumb along your jaw.

"Oh? You sure have a lot of questions tonight. Come on, ask me."

You bit your lip.

"Who… who was that woman?"

You tried to sound casual, keeping your tone soft, neutral. But he picked up on it right away.

Nanami blinked, then gave a small exhale.

"An ex-colleague. We worked together for about five years."

"Were you close with her?"

"Not really. Just professional stuff. I saw her today after more than a year."

Your fingers fidgeted with the lapel of his coat.

"Are… are you going to see her again?"

Nanami tilted his head slightly.

"She mentioned grabbing a coffee sometime, just to catch up. Why, baby?"

You looked away.

"No… nothing..."

He went quiet for a moment. The silence hung in the air before you whispered again.

"Uhm... Nanamin?"

"Yeah?"

You took a shaky breath.

"D-Do you like... women your age more?"

He blinked, brows furrowing, before his face broke into an incredulous little chuckle.

"Ohh... so this is what it’s about, huh?"

"Wh-What—" you quickly shook your head, eyes wide, cheeks burning.

"Jealous, baby?"

"I’m not—jealous! Why would I be—"

"Mmhm." He leaned in, kissing your pout. "My pretty little girl’s all possessive for me, huh?"

You looked away again. He cradled your face with one hand and murmured,

"She’s just an old friend, baby. Married. Has kids. Even if she wasn’t—it wouldn’t matter."

He pulled your face back to his.

"I have you. Yeah?"

You looked into his eyes, soft and hopeful.

"Promise?"

He smiled—and then bit down on your nipple without warning.

"Ah! Nanamin!"

"Promise." He grinned, lips tugging at your sensitive flesh before letting go with a wet pop.

"Jealousy looks real good on you, baby..."

He moved to your other nipple and sucked hard, swirling his tongue.

"...but you’d look even better bouncing on my cock again, wouldn’t you?"

You slapped a hand over his mouth, your cheeks flushed.

"Don’t say that!"

He laughed against your skin, licking your palm teasingly before pulling your hand down and murmuring,

"C’mon... just one more round, yeah? Wanna see you fall apart on my cock again. Wanna fill you up, make sure you know who you belong to."

His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing tight.

"You’re not leaving this bed till I’ve fucked that jealousy right out of you, baby."

Your breath caught in your throat as he lifted you effortlessly, lining you up on his cock again—

and then he paused, smirking,

"Still wanna ask more questions, sweetheart? Or are you ready to get fucked dumb again?"

Got another ask where the reader gets jealous over nanami, So i had to 💅

Comment down to get tagged for any JJK content. Also I started a backup account in case something happens to my current one - just to be safe lol, So if y'all are interested, @jinjoohaa-blog do follow !

taglist: @sparkling-obsidian @yaurss @pota-hoe @shiroonii @unrxdcl @xanhnax @bunny-wunni @kkmaysen @dinokens-blog @starryyairis @stellavirgindaddy @lilahardell @dollbwun @anacod @ellieebellee @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @nina-from-317 @a1zennn @lenafushiguro @imoutofpot @riszei @mikasasarm @seobinghard @dontcallmedoc @savagecatsuga @satorus-sweetbunny @socksfirst1 @mimiluvzu2 @slovesyouuu @dayarncollector @pettypinkprincessblog @novyscotia @lady-haitani @airandyeah @bitchycoffeellama @odysseusmom @r0seyposey @teenbreakup @originalcrazycatlady @fairygardenprincesss @lolliibunny @yurixxiii @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @sunoooooassss @toofoxmoon @angelita-uchiha @spicytteokbokki @certifiedchangbinlover @maliciouslullaby

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annievrse · 3 days ago

Text

in plain sight

roronoa zoro x reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic summary: when the straw hats start speculating about zoro's mysterious girlfriend, you and he decide to let the rumours run wild—until the truth comes out most unexpectedly. w/c: 3.6k c/w: secret relationship, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns.

There's no other way to get through to him than being straight up. That's how it works with Zoro, and it's something Nami has learnt to do without regret.

"You're seeing someone."

The swordsman shifts where he sits against the mast, his lips quirking into a scowl. "And you think it's your business because...?"

Nami has the urge to punch him in the shoulder, but it isn't like he'd feel it anyway, so she refrains.

"So it's true, then?"

"Can you just leave me alone? Aren't there clouds you need to yell at?"

She growls, deep and irritated before stomping to the back of the ship where she knows you and Robin will be.

Zoro smirks to himself, happy that he's palmed the problem off to you. He knows Nami will figure it out eventually, but seeing her so frazzled is satisfying.

You slam your book down on your thighs, your eyes darting around suspiciously like you can feel someone scheming against you. There's a tightness in your chest before Nami stops before you, her hands on her hips and her brows set in a nasty frown.

"He's unbelievable!"

Robin gives you a sidelong look before bookmarking the page of her book and sliding it onto the table. "What's the matter?"

"Zoro."

You bite your tongue and close your own book without marking the page, eyes trained on the navigator. From the way your heartbeat increases, you already know what she's going to say.

"What'd he do this time?" You squeak, hoping they don't hear the shake in your tone.

Nami rolls her eyes as she collapses onto the sun lounge. "He's keeping a secret."

"This again?" Robin chuckles. "How can you be so sure?"

"He smiles."

You blink. "What?"

Robin can't contain her giggles. "That's your evidence?"

"Yes!" Nami exclaims. "And he showers more than once a week!"

"Maybe he's working on himself..." You offer, the cuticle of your left thumb close to bleeding. Small hands close over where you pick, and you glance at Robin who remains focused on Nami.

"Are you sure you're not looking at this too closely?"

Nami shakes her head at the archaeologist. "This is different."

"Ladies! Could I interest you in a beverage?"

Your attention turns to Sanji, who glides over to you, a tray of pink and orange drinks in his hand. They tilt dangerously to the right when he presents them before you, and you take one. The condensation is a welcome sensation against your hot skin, and you immediately slurp down the drink—the nerves simmering through your veins make you hasty.

"Slow down," Robin tuts, taking a sip of her own cocktail, her eyes narrowed.

You know she knows, otherwise she wouldn't be babying you. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

"Rumour has it..." She continues, tilting her head at Sanji. "That Zoro has a girlfriend."

You choke on your drink, but Sanji's reaction draws the attention away from you, thankfully.

"What?" He yells, spluttering. "Who? Why? How?"

It's not really a secret, just the beginning of a newfound mutual attraction—you wouldn't even go as far as calling it a relationship yet, let alone labelling you as Zoro's girlfriend.

Nami nods along, seemingly egging Sanji on despite her earlier vexation and interest in the situation.

"Who is it?" Sanji presses his hand to his forehead. "I feel bad for her. We need to get this poor girl outta there."

Robin shrugs. "It's just a rumour. Who knows if it's even true."

"He didn't deny it when I asked him," Nami says, her gaze meeting Sanji's eagerly. "We need to figure it out."

The cook nods. "And when we find her, we need to perform an exorcism."

"Do you remember that waitress from Dressrosa?"

"The one who winked at him?"

"Yes!"

Nami and Sanji disappear, the wind carrying their voices and their sandals and dress shoes heavy on the wooden deck of the Sunny as they converse to the galley.

"How long are you going to let them meddle before you tell them?"

You twist your lips. Of course, Robin knows. "We only started speaking about it a few weeks ago. Nothing's official and we aren't even sure if it would be appropriate."

She hums, mulling over your words as she swirls the straw around in the sunset-coloured liquid.

"They don't know it's you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it."

You snort. "You're evil."

Robin smirks, picking her book back up with her free hand. "Just think about it."

—

You step out of the lower quarters, Zoro’s green haramaki jacket slung loosely over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs like it belongs there. It’s warm, a little scratchy, and it still smells faintly of sun-dried sweat and steel—undeniably him. The night air bites at your legs, but the jacket holds you like a dare.

Robin’s words from earlier echo in your head, smooth and dangerous: “They don’t know it’s you, so I see nothing wrong with having a little fun with it.”

So you decide to take her advice.

The galley is quiet when you push open the door. Dimly lit, the overhead lamp hums, casting a warm glow over the countertop where Sanji and Nami are standing far too close, heads bent together in hushed conspiracy. The air smells like citrus and tension.

Sanji is mid-sentence—something whispered and scandalous—when he sees you. He freezes, jaw half-open. Nami’s eyes snap up to follow his gaze, and everything stills.

You don’t say a word as you glide past them toward the stove, bare feet soft against the tiled floor. The only sound is the clink of the kettle being set to boil and the rattle of teacups. Their silence trails you like a pair of shadows.

Then, finally—

“Wait,” Nami says, blinking like she’s trying to reset her vision. “Is that—?”

You glance down at yourself like you’d forgotten what you were wearing. Feigning surprise, you laugh under your breath and tug the jacket tighter around your body. “Oh, this? Found it in the laundry pile. Might be Zoro’s. Not sure.”

You catch the shift in Sanji’s face like a storm rolling in—he chokes on his own cigarette smoke, coughing once, twice, eyes already watering with disbelief and disgust.

“That thing?” He sputters, voice rising half an octave. “That filthy, ragged—seaweed-coloured disgrace? You—you—should be wrapped in silk, in crushed velvet! Not whatever that moss-headed neanderthal sheds after a workout!”

You raise your eyebrows, unbothered. “Mm. But it’s warm.”

Nami’s staring now, more than looking—like she’s trying to do the math on something that shouldn’t be adding up.

You pick up your mug, now full and steaming, and cradle it in your hands. The ceramic is hot against your palms, grounding. You take a long sip, letting the moment stretch.

Then, casually, over the rim of your mug, you grin. “You’re right, Sanji. His girlfriend would probably hate me wearing it. Don’t you think?”

That lands like a firework.

Nami’s hand shoots out and grabs Sanji’s arm, her eyes going wide, like she’s just been handed the final piece of a puzzle she didn’t even realize she was solving. Sanji, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to faint.

You say nothing else.

The silence breaks only as you turn and make your way to the door. You don’t look back, but you can feel their stares trailing after you, sharp and electric.

As the door swings shut behind you, the muffled explosion of whispers begins instantly. Names. Theories. Wild speculation.

You let yourself smile into your tea.

—

"I'm on the list," You say, nudging your shoulder into Zoro’s as you wander past the last row of closed market stalls.

The town’s emptying, the sun bleeding its way down between leaning rooftops and flickering lanterns. There’s a stillness to this street, a hush that comes only after a good day of noise, food, and crew-wide mischief. For once, it’s quiet—just the two of you, tucked into the rarest sliver of privacy the world ever offers.

Zoro doesn't look at you, just grunts, a familiar sound rumbling in his chest. “What list?”

“Nami’s.”

That earns a slight turn of his head, a single eye narrowing in suspicion. “What’s she doing now?”

“Compiling suspects.” You smirk. “Of who you’re allegedly dating.”

He slows a step, not quite stopping. Another grunt—this one closer to a sigh. “You serious?”

“She’s up to five pages,” You continue, voice casual like this is normal. “I’m top three. Could be number one by tonight if I play my cards right.”

“That bad, huh?”

“She’s even got Franky on there.”

Zoro barks out a low laugh, the sound brief and amused. “What, because he complimented my swords once?”

“Probably,” You hum. “She said he gave you a suspicious thumbs-up the other morning.”

“That’s just Franky’s default setting.”

You shrug. “Try telling her that.”

He snorts, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying not to smile. The silence between you stretches, easy and familiar, filled only by the sound of your boots on stone and the rustle of wind through paper lanterns.

“She’s also started giving me these looks,” You add after a beat, waving a hand in the air and twirling your finger vaguely around your face. “Real invasive ones. Like she’s waiting for me to confess to murder or something.”

Before your spin can complete its full, dramatic arc, Zoro grabs your hand—steady and sudden. It isn’t forceful, just deliberate. Grounding.

He pulls you closer, not enough for anyone to see from a distance, but enough that your knuckles brush the fabric of his trousers, enough that your hand is suspended in the space between your bodies. Your pulse jumps.

“So what,” He says, voice quieter now. “You scared?”

You scoff, not bothering to hide the small huff of a laugh. “Of Nami?”

He shrugs, but there’s something in the way he watches you now—something more focused than usual. Like he's waiting. Like he’s asking a question without actually saying it.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “I’m not scared. Just…” You trail off, letting the truth settle before saying it aloud. “Not ready to be the Sunny’s new soap opera.”

He raises a brow, skeptical.

You nudge his hand with your pinky. “You know how they are. One clue and suddenly there’s a betting pool, matching outfits, crew-wide interventions…”

“They’ll move on in a week,” He says, like it’s obvious.

You arch a brow. “You really think that?”

He doesn’t answer, but his grip on your hand lingers.

A breeze slips between the buildings, catching the hem of your shirt and the edge of Zoro’s sash. The moment holds, quiet and strange, like the calm before something shifts.

Then you glance up at him, smirking. “For the record, I am honoured to be on the list.”

Zoro exhales through his nose, amused again. “Be funnier if she put Luffy on it.”

“She might. Give her time.”

He finally lets go of your hand, but only so his pinky can loop around yours instead—barely touching, almost nothing.

But you feel it anyway.

—

Back on the ship, you’re curled up on the bench seat in the lounge, one of Sanji’s lemon cakes half-eaten beside you and your book lying facedown on your lap. It’s supposed to be a relaxing afternoon—the kind with quiet waves, distant seagulls, and maybe even a nap—but of course, peace never lasts long on the Sunny.

Not when Nami’s around.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the cutlery in the adjacent kitchen. Nami storms in like she’s coming back from war—journal clutched in her hand, hair wind-whipped, eyes gleaming with the kind of chaos only someone with a vengeance (and a highlighter) can conjure.

“I’ve got it!" She exclaims, eyes wide with excitement.

Robin, seated at the small corner table with a cup of spiced tea and the latest historical epic, doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes slide lazily to the side, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve got what?”

“The proof.” Nami tosses her journal onto the table with a flourish. “I know who Zoro’s seeing.”

Your stomach flips, fast and stupid, like a switchblade. You sit up a little too quickly, the book slipping from your lap and thumping against the bench. Your hands tighten around the cushion.

Robin closes her book with exaggerated slowness. “Who is it then?”

Nami slams her palm flat against the open page. In massive, block-lettered fury—underlined, circled, and highlighted in two shades of orange and one aggressive yellow—it reads:

Zoro’s Secret Girlfriend (ongoing investigation – DO NOT TOUCH)

Below it is a bulleted list—no, an attack plan—of dates, observations, and “suspicious interactions.” You recognize some of them. A late dinner. A training session at dusk. The time Zoro walked into the lounge with wet hair and didn’t immediately complain about how tired he was.

Then, the kicker.

“It has to be Vivi,” Nami says, voice deadly serious.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

She jabs her finger at the journal like she’s unveiling classified intel. “Zoro was acting weird the day we got the letter from Alabasta. All twitchy. And he left dinner early.”

“Because Luffy threw a banana at his face,” You mutter. This is the first time you've looked at her list in detail, and it's impressive. You're shocked at the level of dedication she's applied to the topic of Zoro's love life.

She ignores you. “And Vivi always smiled at him weirdly. You remember that, right?” She flips two pages, finding her next piece of so-called evidence. “Right here. Drum Kingdom. They disappeared at the same time for almost twenty minutes.”

“That was two years ago. They were getting firewood,” Robin points out, sipping her tea. She doesn’t sound particularly invested, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. You don’t know if it’s from amusement or malice. Probably both.

Nami waves her off. “So they say. But we can’t trust that.”

You cover your mouth under the pretense of rubbing your nose, just to keep the bubbling laughter at bay. Your cheeks are starting to ache.

“And the jacket?” Robin asks, tilting her head. “Would Vivi have sent it back just to—what—taunt you?”

Nami’s eyes narrow. She considers that.

“That is strange,” She mutters, tapping her pen against her chin. “But maybe it’s part of a long game. A signal. She sent the jacket as a memento—like a silent claim.” She snaps her fingers. “It’s genius, actually. Classic misdirection.”

You stare at her, mouth parted, a strangled noise somewhere in your throat. The very idea of Vivi sending Zoro anything—let alone one of his most disgusting pieces of clothing—is so far removed from reality it circles back to being impressive.

Robin covers a chuckle with her tea.

Nami beams, proud of her conspiracy. “We’ll know for sure when we dock next. If he gets mail from Alabasta, we’ll have confirmation.”

“I think you might be reading into this a little too much,” You offer carefully, voice tight.

Nami throws you a look. “You’re still on the suspect list, you know.”

You lift your brows. “I feel honoured.”

She narrows her eyes at you but doesn’t push. Instead, she closes the notebook with a decisive thud and marches off with purpose.

Once she’s gone, Robin leans toward you, voice low and amused. “You nearly cracked a rib holding that in.”

You drop your head back with a groan. “She thinks it’s Vivi. I can’t—”

“It’s not your fault you’re a better liar than Zoro.”

“I’m not even lying!”

“Not saying something is still a lie,” Robin says, smiling into her cup. “Just a polite one.”

You sigh, covering your face. “This is going to explode eventually.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You lower your hands. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Robin’s smile sharpens. “Of course I am.”

—

That night, you sneak into the crow’s nest with two mugs of tea and a plan to make fun of Nami, only to find Zoro already there, sprawled out across the floor like he owns the place.

He’s shirtless—of course he is—sweat-slick from training and radiating the kind of smugness that should be illegal after sundown. His swords are leaning up in the corner, and the faint scent of steel, wood polish, and the body soap you forced on him lingers in the air.

You pause in the doorway, catching your breath before stepping in like you weren’t just eavesdropping three hours ago on a whispered theory that placed Vivi as his mysterious girlfriend.

Now, Nami's going stir-crazy in the galley. You left her there after watching her frantically pin strings and photos to the wall for an hour. Robin took over watching her so you could come see Zoro.

“She thinks it’s Vivi now,” You announce, sliding the door shut behind you and making your way over.

Zoro cracks one eye open, unimpressed but curious. “Why?”

You hand him one of the mugs, fingers brushing as you pass it off. “She made a crime board.”

He sits up just enough to take the tea from you, tilting it toward his mouth. “A what?”

“A full conspiracy setup. Pins. Strings. Timeline. She’s gone full investigator. Sanji’s involved, too. Robin’s watching it like it’s live theatre.”

Zoro takes a long, slow sip of his drink. “That’s some serious delusion.”

“She circled Vivi’s name in red ink.” You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you. “Twice.”

He grunts like he might actually be impressed.

You rest your mug on your knee and glance over at him. “We could clear it up.”

Zoro doesn’t look at you, but his fingers find the edge of your mug, thumb grazing where yours rests near the handle. It’s barely a touch, but it’s familiar now.

You don’t pull away.

“We will,” He says, voice quiet and low.

You raise a brow. “When? After they accuse Chopper?”

He doesn’t answer that. Just turns his head enough to meet your gaze.

“But I like this,” He says instead.

You blink. “Lying?”

“No.” He holds your stare. “Us.”

Your throat tightens, like your body’s bracing for something heavier than the silence.

You could say something honest. Something dumb. Something real.

But then he smirks, that slow, stupid, smug thing he does when he knows he’s rattled you, and adds, “Besides. Watching them unravel is better than those trash romance comics you read.”

You blink once. Twice.

Then you punch his arm, full force.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Those comics are educational,” You say, deadpan.

Zoro sips his tea like he didn’t just get assaulted.

“Sure they are.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. The warmth of the tea seeps into your fingers. The warmth of him is worse—closer, heavier, unspoken.

And maybe you’ll tell them.

Eventually.

But for now, you sit side by side in the quiet, sipping tea under the stars like there’s nothing to hide at all.

—

It happens, of course, when you least expect it.

The Sunny is anchored just off the coast of a quiet island, one of those sleepy little towns with sun-faded paint and overripe fruit stands. The crew is gathered on deck, full from lunch and dozing in patches of sun. There’s laughter, easy and echoing, and for once, everything feels still.

Which is exactly why it can’t last.

“Alright,” Nami announces, slamming her journal on the deck beside the lounge chair with the weight of divine judgment. “I’ve narrowed it down to two people.”

You, unfortunately, are within earshot.

Across the deck, Zoro is lying flat against the grass-green towel Sanji passive-aggressively laid out for him. He’s pretending to nap. He’s also terrible at pretending.

“Two?” Robin asks, mild and amused. She doesn’t even look up from her book.

“Yes.” Nami taps her pen like a war drum. “It’s either Vivi—”

“Oh my god,” You murmur, inhaling sharply.

“—or you.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You look up from your drink. Slowly.

Sanji chokes. “What?!”

Brook drops his violin. Usopp sits up like he’s been shocked. Chopper squeaks. Luffy blinks twice, then points at you. “Wait. You?”

You sigh. “Define you.”

“You’ve been wearing his jacket,” Nami says, like she’s unveiling a murder weapon. “You made tea for him. You blushed when I said he was seeing someone.”

“She blushed,” Sanji echoes, horror-struck. “This betrayal… cuts deeper than Zoro’s ugly fashion choices.”

You glance at Robin. She’s smiling into her book. Traitor.

Zoro, still flat on his towel, opens one eye. “Are we done?”

“We are not done,” Nami snaps. “I demand an answer.”

The crew is looking at you now. Seven pairs of eyes, wide and waiting.

And honestly? You’re tired.

Of ducking glances and dodging questions. Of pretending Zoro doesn’t sneak into the galley at night to make you his weird version of tea. Of acting like your pulse doesn’t skip every time his hand brushes yours—even now, even here, in front of them.

So, you take a breath.

And then—without fanfare, without ceremony—you walk across the deck, past the gawking stares and dropped jaws, and drop to a crouch beside Zoro.

He looks up at you, calm. Familiar. A tiny, knowing smirk playing on his mouth.

You roll your eyes.

Then you lean down and press a kiss to his cheek. "I liked it better when they didn’t know.”

There’s a pause.

Then chaos.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

“Zoro?! You—?!”

“MY HEART—!”

“Why not me?!” Sanji sobs.

Luffy is clapping. Chopper is spinning in circles. Usopp is screaming about betrayal. Brook is composing a heartbreak ballad in real time.

Robin closes her book with a content sigh. “Finally.”

Zoro just closes his eyes again, smug and unbothered.

You sit beside him, arms loosely wrapped around your knees, letting the noise roll over you.

And despite everything—despite the shouting and the flailing and the fact that Sanji might never recover—you smile.

#this has been in the drafts for 6 months #one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro imagine #roronoa zoro imagine #zoro roronoa x you #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro x fem!reader #zoro roronoa #one piece imagine

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adelliet · 3 days ago

Text

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DREAMY VACATION

Summary: You've been sent on vacation to take a break from saving the world, but there's no hiding from your emotions that will eventually take over.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, body insecurity, Sentry awakening (just for a second), erection, breast play, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hickeys

A/n: Hii! So uhm this is LONG AS FUCK, like a literal novel so I am warning you. Anyways I wanted to thank you for 1k followers?! How?! You have no idea how much this means to me. I am grateful for each and every one of you and I will try my best to improve my writing. Hopefully you will like my future projects as much as you've liked the ones I have done so far. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts had been deployed to Spain on what was supposed to be a critical mission. The briefing was vague but urgent, something about a potential global threat developing near the coast.

On the plane to Alicante, you sat down next to Bob. He looked tense. Really tense. He was gripping the armrest like it might fly off on its own. His face was pale, and his shoulders stiff as stone.

“Hey,” you said gently, nudging him with your elbow as you got settled. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He blinked, clearly trying not to throw up, and then murmured, “Um… do you maybe wanna sit by the window instead?” He didn’t look at you, just stared straight ahead like a man facing death.

Without missing a beat, you nodded. “Sure. Come on.”

You stood up and let him shuffle over into your seat. The second he sat down, he let out a deep belch, followed by a hoarse, “Oh God…”

You were already leaning closer, scanning his face with concern. “You good?”

Your hand found his knee, giving it a comforting rub. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands now gripping the tray table for dear life.

He nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “I’m okay. Just… hate flying.”

You offered a soft smile and stayed close. “I’ll be right here the whole time, okay? Just breathe.”

He nodded again, and despite how miserable he looked, his posture softened slightly, just enough to tell you that your presence was doing what your words couldn’t.

“I’ll go get some water and a bag, just in case,” you told him gently, already sliding out of your seat. Bob gave a tiny nod, eyes still shut, lips tight as if even opening them would invite disaster. You made your way down the aisle, stopping a flight attendant with a polite smile and a quick explanation.

She gave you a knowing look. “Nervous flyer?”

“Something like that,” you chuckled.

A minute later, you returned to your row, holding a small bottle of water and one of those crinkly, shame-colored paper bags. Bob looked slightly less pale than before—his hands weren’t as white-knuckled on the armrests, and his breathing had calmed a little. But he still had that I-might-hurl-any-second look going on.

“Here,” you said, sitting back down and offering both the water and the bag. “Just in case. Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours.”

The moment the word “hours” left your mouth, Bob visibly tensed. He choked on his own spit and shot you a wide-eyed stare like you’d just told him he’d have to wrestle an alligator.

You raised your hands defensively. “Okay, wrong choice of words—ignore me.”

Before either of you could say more, the engines began to roar and the plane started rolling forward. Bob immediately slumped into his seat like a melting popsicle, shut his mouth and eyes, and gripped the tray table as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this dimension.

You couldn’t help a soft smile. He looked a bit ridiculous and miserable at the same time.

“This is the worst part,” you said soothingly, glancing out the window as the runway sped beneath you. “It gets better after takeoff.”

As the plane began to lift from the ground, your heart fluttered with excitement. A new mission in Europe. A whole new landscape, new memories. Even if you weren’t saving the world, part of you loved the thrill of the unknown.

You inhaled deeply, a soft smile on your lips… until you felt a touch.

You turned your head just in time to see Bob—eyes still closed, jaw clenched—reach out blindly and grab your hand in his. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at you. He just held on. Tightly.

You looked down at your interlaced fingers. He was basically crushing your hand, but you didn’t pull away. If this helped him even a little, you weren’t going anywhere.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in quiet reassurance. You didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But something in the weight of his grip, the vulnerability of that small action, felt more genuine than a thousand words.

Sure, your hand might be useless for the next few hours, but somehow that didn’t matter. It was Bob. That’s what made it okay.

The flight dragged on peacefully, and at some point, exhaustion won.

By the time the pilot announced the descent, both you and Bob were fast asleep. The flight attendant’s gentle voice over the intercom was what stirred you.

“Excuse me—we’ll be landing shortly.”

You blinked groggily, and as your senses slowly returned, you realized that you and Bob were still holding hands. The entire flight. Neither of you had let go, not even in your sleep.

You turned your head at the same time he did, both of you blinking at each other in a dazed, half-dream state. Then you both released your grips at once, slowly, carefully.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. Bob straightened his seat and adjusted his hoodie like he could hide in it.

“…Feeling better?” you asked softly, keeping your voice low enough so only he could hear. He nodded, and for the first time that day, smiled at you—not the nervous, half-broken kind, but something real.

“Y-Yeah. Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but sincere.

You smiled back before you even realized it, heart tugging in that dangerous, stupid way it did whenever he looked at you like that.

Sometimes you wondered if Bob Reynolds was even real. Maybe he was a highly advanced hologram, or worse, a social experiment where you were the test subject. Because if he was a trap, a trick, or an illusion… well, you’d already fallen in pretty deep.

The moment you landed at the airport in a sunny seaside city called Alicante, your adrenaline was high, ready to face whatever was waiting for you.

But instead of military vehicles or local agents waiting on the tarmac, there was a giant banner reading “SURPRISE!” flapping in the Mediterranean breeze. An agent, smiling way too much for someone who usually briefed on extinction-level events, greeted you all with the bombshell: “There is no mission. You’re here on vacation for one full week. Fully paid. Mandatory.”

Everyone had a different reaction. Some of the team burst out laughing. A few gave each other looks of disbelief. Alexei screamed, “HELL YES, BEACH TIME!” and fist-pumped the air. Yelena already had sunglasses on. But not everyone was thrilled.

Bucky Barnes, for one, looked like someone had just kicked his dog. Twice. He crossed his arms and muttered, “This is ridiculous. I don’t do beaches.”

“Well, now you do,” said Ava with a smirk. “Welcome to bonding camp, grumpy.”

You were all told this wasn’t just a vacation, it was a “team-building retreat.” You were going to be forced to relax together, apparently to grow stronger as a unit. And no one was allowed to bail.

Despite the chaos of your missions and all the tension in the beginning, over the past few months of cohabitating in Stark Tower, you’d all grown… closer. There were still arguments, sure—someone was always stealing snacks, using someone else’s mug, or playing music too loud at 3AM—but you knew each other now. Knew who liked what, who needed quiet mornings, who hogged the bathroom, and who cried during certain movie scenes (spoiler: it’s more of them than you expected).

But the bond between you and Bob Reynolds stood out most.

Everyone saw it. From the moment you helped rescue him, you’d never left his side. You were the first to check if he was injured, the first to speak to him like a human being and not a walking nuclear reactor. You made sure he was okay. Like some stray dog the world had tossed aside—and you just quietly decided he was yours now.

And the team followed your lead. Despite what he’d done, despite nearly destroying the world and ripping open old wounds in everyone’s psyche, they welcomed him with open arms. Because you did.

“Vacation?” Bob raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused.

“Yup,” John said with a grin, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s when you don’t do anything and it’s totally fine. You should try it sometime.”

Bob didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked suspicious of the concept. His whole life had been built around duty, damage control, and trying not to explode. The idea of just… existing with no expectations felt foreign. Maybe even dangerous.

“Alright folks, let’s move out,” Yelena called, hoisting her bag over her shoulder with that bossy tone everyone obeyed without question. She might’ve shared the leadership role with Bucky, but she had the charisma of someone who got things done.

Like a herd of reluctant high schoolers on a mandatory field trip, the team followed—grumbling, joking, dragging their feet, but moving.

The drive wasn’t long.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to your destination within the hour. A row of elegant, private beach cottages spread out before you, nestled in a secluded cove just outside Alicante.

The sand was pale gold, soft as powdered sugar, stretching out toward the turquoise horizon. The sea shimmered beneath the sunlight, waves gentle and lazy. Palm trees lined the perimeter, their leaves rustling with every breeze, casting just enough shade to make the heat feel like a pleasant hug instead of a punishment.

The place felt untouched. Quiet.

Not exactly deserted—but exclusive. You could see why no ordinary tourists were lounging here. It wasn’t just the off-hour, it was the price. This was the kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and billionaires. For people who’d seen too much, done too much, and needed the world to shut up for five minutes.

For the first time, you felt the weight of silence around the team. Not the awkward kind—just a collective breath being held, like everyone was realizing at once how damn beautiful it was here.

The agent who’d escorted you out of the airport handed over two keycards with a charming smile. “One cabin for four men, and one for three ladies,” he said, giving them to Bucky and Yelena respectively.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, he was gone, limousine and all, leaving you standing under the cloudless sky, surrounded by the scent of salt and coconut sunscreen.

You glanced around, soaking it all in. Then your gaze shifted to Bob. He was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he flinched and immediately turned his head, pretending to be very interested in a nearby bush.

You snorted quietly to yourself, lips twitching with amusement.

“This one’s ours, I guess,” Yelena said, pointing toward the cottage just a few steps away. Even from a distance, the place looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Creamy-white walls, light wooden trim, huge windows, and a little porch with hanging hammocks swaying lazily in the breeze. A dream come true.

You, Yelena and Ava made your way over with your bags. Yelena slid the keycard, and the door clicked open. The inside was even more stunning.

It was like stepping into a Pinterest board. The walls were painted in soft seafoam greens and sun-washed whites. Rattan furniture, pastel cushions, and airy curtains gave the space a coastal, boho vibe. There was a faint scent of lavender and driftwood in the air—relaxing, expensive, comforting.

Sunlight poured through the huge windows, illuminating a common area with plush couches, a breakfast bar stocked with fruits and snacks, and wide glass doors that opened directly onto the beach. You could hear the waves as if the ocean was whispering, You’re safe here.

“Holy shit,” Ava breathed out, spinning in a slow circle like she couldn’t believe this wasn’t CGI. “This is nicer than my actual apartment.”

Yelena dropped her bag on the nearest bed with a satisfied smirk. “This is acceptable.”

You couldn’t help but smile. A real, easy smile, the kind that felt rare lately. Everything about this place felt… right and peaceful.

And as you peeked out the back window and saw the boys dragging their bags toward their own cottage, you knew this week was going to be something different. Maybe even healing.

A few hours had passed since you arrived. You’d unpacked, showered, explored the fridge, which was magically stocked with mouthwatering, chef-level food, and finally settled into that post-travel stillness.

The late afternoon sun blanketed everything in golden light as you lounged on the front veranda of your cottage. Yelena had claimed the hammock and was swinging gently, sunglasses on, arms behind her head, looking like a war-hardened goddess pretending to be chill.

You and Ava had claimed two of the hanging lounge chairs, gently swaying as you soaked in the sun. Both of you had sunglasses perched on your noses, and the soft breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming.

“What are we even supposed to do here?” Ava asked, not bothering to open her eyes. Her voice was lazy, relaxed, a perfect match for the quiet waves in the distance.

It was a simple question. One you should’ve been able to answer. But you paused. Because… you honestly didn’t know.

Before you could respond with something vague, Yelena chimed in with a deadpan comment that made both you and Ava snort with laughter. It was something about team bonding meaning “not-murdering each other in close quarters,” and that this counted.

Then you added, perfectly flat, “I didn’t even bring a swimsuit.”

Ava blinked, then looked over at you. “Wait, me neither.”

“Didn’t expect this,” you muttered. “Was packing for death, not tanning.”

Yelena groaned. “Okay great. Let’s go buy swimsuits now. Or we’ll end up stuck here melting like idiots on a porch for the rest of the week.”

She was right, so without much debate, the three of you grabbed your canvas totes, wallets, and phones. None of you were wearing anything particularly beach-shopping-appropriate, but it didn’t matter. The streets near the coast would be casual, laid-back—just like the air already felt.

Of course, this wasn’t just a swimsuit run.

You were three women, unsupervised, in a beach town, surrounded by potential sales racks, accessory stands, cafés, and tourist traps. There was no way you were only coming back with swimwear.

As you walked past the guys’ cabin, Yelena suddenly veered off toward the door.

“I’m gonna see if any of the boys want to come with us,” she said casually.

You and Ava paused, hanging back by the path and watching her disappear into the house. After a beat of silence, Ava tilted her head toward you, voice sly behind her shades.

“So… are you two dating?”

You frowned, confused. “What?”

She shifted her sunglasses down her nose just enough to raise her brows. “You and Bob.”

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth dropped into a dramatic, perfect “O.”

“What— no, pffft, no! We’re just… friends. Like you and me.”

Ava laughed softly, but her gaze stayed locked on you, way too perceptive for your comfort.

“Then why don’t you look at me the way you look at him?”

The question hit harder than expected. You froze. Your heart did that thing where it picked up speed, like it was trying to run away before your brain could even catch up.

You opened your mouth to respond—but didn’t get the chance. Yelena reappeared, walking toward you like she owned the world, flanked by Johnny and Alexei, who looked far too amused to be joining a swimsuit shopping trip.

“They’re coming,” she said with a smirk. “Apparently the boys need suits too. And they want to pick out something ridiculous for Bucky.” That got a laugh out of all of you.

You glanced past them, half-hoping Bob would be in the group.

He wasn’t.

A tiny sting settled in your chest—nothing sharp, just that quiet flicker of disappointment. Maybe he needed rest. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out. Maybe… you were overthinking again.

You shook the thought away and caught up with the group, quickly weaving yourself into the casual chatter about the town, the ocean, and just how absurdly gorgeous these beach houses were.

Still… you couldn’t help but glance back, just once, at the boys’ cabin. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he wasn’t. But part of you hoped he’d noticed you were gone.

The shop you found wasn’t some cheap tourist trap. It was small, chic, and clearly catered to high-end beachgoers with taste. White walls, light wood floors, soft acoustic music playing in the background, and racks of curated swimsuits arranged by style, not size. It even smelled nice, like sunscreen and coconuts and fresh linen.

You, Yelena, and Ava wandered through the racks like hunters in the wild, each with your own goal. Ava leaned toward white or black prints. Yelena made a beeline for anything tactical-looking or black. You? You didn’t know what you were looking for, until you saw it.

A white two-piece bikini, delicate but bold.

The top had thin, adjustable straps and a soft triangle cut that showed just enough while still keeping you comfortable. The fabric was smooth, almost pearly under the light, and hugged your shape in a way that felt way too flattering. The bottoms were high-cut at the hips, elongating your legs, and dipped just enough in the front to make you feel sexy.

You held it up, biting your lip.

The fitting rooms were individual little cabins with thick curtains and full mirrors, and for a moment, you just stood inside yours, staring at yourself.

The bikini really did fit, almost suspiciously well. The white stood out against your skin like it was made for you. It hugged your waist, shaped your chest, gave just enough curve to make you hesitate. You adjusted the straps, turned sideways, checked again.

You weren’t sure if you felt powerful or exposed.

Still undecided, you pulled the curtain back and stepped out barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. Yelena was standing just outside, holding a one-piece camo-pattern swimsuit that looked like it belonged in some military-themed Sports Illustrated shoot.

When she turned to look at you, her face froze for a second. And then she blinked. Twice.

“Oh my god,” she said loudly. “Bob’s going to get an erection so hard he’s gonna pass out.”

You stared at her, completely stunned. “Yelena!”

She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s true. That bikini is illegal. You look like someone who knows how hot she is.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. That loud, shocked kind of laugh that felt like it echoed off your ribs.

“I’m not getting it just because of Bob!” you protested.

“Sure. Of course,” Yelena said, already turning to hang her swimsuit back on a rack. “You’re getting it because of you. Which happens to be the same you that wants Bob to think about you every time he blinks.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because maybe she wasn’t totally wrong.

You looked back at yourself in the big mirror. Your fingers lightly touched the strap on your hip. Yeah, part of you wanted Bob to notice. And part of you was absolutely terrified he would.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

The walk back from town was filled with laughter and light teasing. John and Alexei were leading the way, both proudly swinging shopping bags, one of which contained a ridiculous pair of swim trunks Alexei had picked for Bucky, covered in pineapples and flamingos, while Bob’s were thankfully simple and classic.

You held a bag in one hand and kept your eyes on your feet, but no matter what, you couldn’t stop your thoughts from drifting.

What’s Bob gonna do when he sees you in this bikini?

You hadn’t meant to obsess over it. The idea had just settled in your mind. Naturally. Like it belonged there. And now it was stuck. Even as Ava was telling a story about how she accidentally bought three identical sarongs, your mind wandered right back to Bob.

The moment you and Ava set the bags down on the porch with a thud, Yelena clapped her hands like a general calling her troops.

“Alright, troops! Try on your swimsuits, we’re playing beach volleyball in ten!”

You exchanged an amused glance with Ava. You were all tired, even Yelena was complaining on the way back how well she'll be sleeping. Guess that thought was gone now.

Still, the energy in the air was contagious and none of you had the heart to say no, so Yelena texted the guys while the rest of you headed to change.

When you stepped outside, the sun was warm on your skin and the sound of the ocean made everything feel like a dream. Bucky and Alexei were already out there, stretching and tying up the net between two poles. John stood nearby, casually tossing the volleyball between his hands.

But Bob wasn’t there.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could spiral, Ava appeared behind you and gave you a sharp slap on the butt.

“Relax, your loverboy probably just got distracted picking the perfect outfit,” she teased.

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but your heart was beating just a little faster. You walked over to the group, the sand soft under your feet.

Bucky noticed you first. His eyes lingered for a second longer than they probably should have, but he kept his expression locked down – soldier mode. Alexei, on the other hand, had zero filters.

“WOW, GIRL, LOOK AT YOU!” he shouted across the beach. “YOU LOOK LIKE A GODDESS! AND YOU TOO! AND YOU TOO!!”

He even stumbled into the net and collapsed dramatically, like your beauty had physically floored him. All of you burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, but sweet.

Walker stood back, saying nothing, just calmly observing like always, the ball still rotating between his palms.

“Let me help you with this,” you offered, moving to Bucky’s side and helping him secure the net to the post. You worked silently for a moment until he glanced at you and said, in his typical stern voice: “You look good.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

Then, behind you, you heard the soft click of the cabin door opening. Your head instantly turned.

Bob stepped out. He wore a plain green T-shirt and simple black swim shorts. His hair was a little tousled from the wind, and the second his eyes landed on you, he froze.

You gave him a small, friendly wave.

He just stood there. His brows twitched. His jaw tensed. Then, as if his legs had remembered how to move, he took a step forward and tripped a little in the sand. Your heart did a backflip.

“See?” Yelena appeared beside you, slapping your shoulder. “Told you he’d be wrecked when he saw you.”

You laughed, half in embarrassment, half in disbelief, and shook your head. “Shut up.”

“Alright, LET’S GOOO!” Alexei yelled, clapping loudly before peeling off his shirt in one dramatic motion. The dude was built like a Greek statue.

Then Bucky followed suit, revealing defined abs and a torso clearly sculpted through years of combat training. All of you fell into stunned silence for a moment.

Even Walker, who hadn’t said a word, took off his shirt and casually joined the group. His body was lean, defined, quiet strength. Bob arrived near the group, awkwardly raising a hand.

“Hey,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. All eyes slowly turned to him waiting. Expectant.

He looked around nervously. “What? Did I—?”

And then he realized. He looked down at his own shirt, then back up at the group.

“Oh! Uh… I think I’ll keep the shirt on. I’m kinda cold,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blinked. Cold? You didn’t believe him for a second, and you were pretty sure no one else did either. Still, no one pushed him. It was Bob. If he needed to keep his shirt on, he could.

Yelena turned to split the teams. “Alright, someone from the guys can join us, but anyone except Ale—”

“GOING WITH MY GORGEOUS LADIES!” Alexei yelled, cutting her off and dashing over to your side like a golden retriever on espresso.

Yelena let out the longest, most defeated sigh and rubbed her temples.

Teams were decided, and as fate would have it, you and Bob ended up on opposing sides. The game was lighthearted at first, filled with laughter and playful banter. But then John raised the stakes.

“How about this? Winning team gets treated to a round of rum by the losers!”

A collective cheer erupted, and the game intensified. The air buzzed with laughter, the sounds of sneakers shuffling and palms slapping against the volleyball echoing across the beach.

You were focused, at least, you were trying to be. But every time your eyes met Bob’s across the court, something fluttered in your chest. It wasn’t just the look he gave you, it was everything about him.

The way his green shirt clung to his chest, damp from sweat, outlining the gentle definition of his torso; the way his dark hair was slightly tousled, sticking to his forehead; the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And he was looking.

Almost every single time you looked over at him, his eyes were already on you. And every single time, without fail, he’d catch himself and look away. Fast. Like a startled animal. His Adam’s apple would bob slightly as he swallowed hard, clearly rattled by something—by you, maybe.

But then came the moment he didn’t look away.

You looked across the net, searching for Bob again, and there he was, watching you. He didn’t flinch this time. He didn’t look down or pretend to scratch his face. He stared. And you, feeling just a little bold, gave him a playful wink.

That did it.

Even from across the sand, you saw the way his face lit up red. Not just a hint of blush, but full-on, ear-to-ear crimson. His lips curved upward in a tiny, embarrassed smile—so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching for it.

And of course you were watching. The next serve came. Fast. Too fast. You turned just a moment too late, the ball whizzing past your shoulder and hitting the sand behind you.

Point lost.

Your teammates groaned in playful frustration, and you raised your hand apologetically. “My bad,” you laughed, even though inside, your stomach was doing backflips. Bob was still watching. Except now, he looked like he was having a different kind of crisis.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt nervously. His jaw clenched. His chest was visibly rising and falling faster than it should. His arms were tense. His fingers curled into fist, his knuckles white. His eyes were definitely not on the ball.

They were on you.

Suddenly, he took a deep breath and bent slightly forward. “Uh—sorry! I just need a… quick break!” he blurted out, turning so fast he almost tripped on his own foot. Without another word, he jogged off the court and toward the cabins, his shirt bunched up slightly at the back and clinging tighter at the front than before.

Everyone kind of paused.

“Everything alright?” John called after him, spinning the ball on his finger.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good!” Bob replied quickly, too quickly, his voice cracking slightly as he disappeared around the corner.

The group exchanged glances, some shrugged, some laughed. Yelena rolled her eyes. “He probably has bad stamina.”

But your heart dropped just a bit. Something felt off. You didn’t even think, you tossed the ball aside, murmured a quick, “I’ll go check on him,” and broke into a quick jog, sand kicking up around your ankles as you made your way toward the cabins.

Bob barely made it into the room before slamming the door shut behind him, chest heaving, face flushed and mind spinning. He pressed his back to the wood as if trying to barricade himself from the outside world, from you. His breathing was erratic. He glanced down.

“Oh no no no…”

The situation in his swim trunks was unignorable. His erection was pushing painfully against the fabric, a direct result of the way you looked—sweaty, flushed from the game, laughing with your hair a mess, skin kissed by sunlight. The way your bikini hugged your curves. The way your chest rose and fell when you ran. The way you winked at him.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. This was not supposed to happen.

He tried to steady his breath and think about anything else, but it was useless. All he could think about was you. How close you’d gotten. How dangerous it felt to even have you in the same game, let alone within touching distance.

Then came the knock.

“Bob?” Your voice was gentle, concerned. “Are you okay?”

He froze. Your voice was the last thing he needed right now. It sent a fresh wave of heat through him. His hands curled into fists.

“Yeah! I’m—uh—I’m fine. Just a headache,” he called out quickly, praying you’d leave.

But you didn’t.

“I can come in, I’ll bring you water or—”

“NO!” he shouted. Too loud, too harsh. The silence that followed was gutting. You stood on the other side of the door, frozen in place. “…Bob?”

He could hear it. The confusion in your voice. The hesitation. He hated himself instantly.

“I just—I need to be alone, okay?” His voice was muffled now, pressed into the crook of his elbow as he paced the room. He could feel his heart pounding, his frustration mounting—not just with the situation, but with himself. “Just leave. Please.”

You didn’t speak. He imagined your face, how hurt you probably looked, how your brows might have creased, how your mouth might’ve opened to argue before you stopped yourself.

Then… footsteps. Soft. Fading. Gone.

He felt the loss immediately. Like something had been torn out of him. He let out a heavy breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, too late. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell.”

No answer.

“Please don’t be mad… I just—I didn’t know what to do, okay? You—you do things to me, and I panicked. Please, come back.” But the hallway was empty and the only response was silence.

As you stepped out of the cabin, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand, forcing a shaky breath through your nose.

“Hey, is Bob okay?” Ava asked, glancing toward the cabin you’d just exited.

You hesitated for a second, then nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “He just said he had a headache,” you replied, your voice carefully even.

You walked toward the volleyball net and joined the opposite team—the one now short a player with Bob gone. “Let’s keep playing,” you added cheerfully, hoping no one would question it further.

To your surprise, the game was good. Fast-paced. Fun.

Even with the ache in your chest, you gave it your all. Maybe even because of it. Every hit, every run across the sand, every cheer was your way of forcing yourself to focus on something else—anything else.

And in the end, your team won.

Yelena, Ava, and Alexei groaned in dramatic defeat while you, John, and Bucky raised your arms in victory. “Winners get the drinks!” Walker grinned.

“Fine,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “But we’re picking the place.”

The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting a soft golden glow over the beach. The heat lingered though, a warm comfort against your skin. Everyone decided to freshen up a bit before heading out, and you slipped into something light—a black fishnet-style dress over your swimsuit, barely-there but airy enough to keep cool.

The girls whistled playfully at you as you walked out, and you returned their teasing with a twirl and a wink. But your heart still felt heavy.

The bar you ended up in was cozy, loud with laughter, music humming low in the background. The lights were warm and soft, casting shadows across everyone’s faces. You weren’t drunk—just a little lightheaded from the rum, the kind that made your thoughts buzz and your limbs a bit too loose.

Yelena stuck by your side most of the evening. She laughed with you, poked fun at Walker, and even made a show of challenging Alexei to a drinking contest. But at one point, she leaned in, her gaze a little too knowing.

“You’re smiling,” she said gently, “but your eyes are somewhere else.” You blinked and looked away, sipping from your drink.

“I’m fine,” you murmured.

Yelena sighed and gave you a long look. “I’m gonna go talk to Ava for a bit, okay? You good here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I need some time alone anyway.” She gave your hand a light squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd.

You sat in silence for a while, swirling your drink, the taste of sugar and burn lingering on your tongue. Your gaze drifted around the room, but you weren’t really seeing anyone. The voices blended together. The laughter felt far away. Until one voice didn’t.

“Hey…”

You froze. Slowly, your eyes shifted to the side.

Bob.

He stood just beside you, looking awkward, guilty, and entirely out of place. His hair was a little messy, his green shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d been sitting in one place too long before deciding to come. His voice was soft. Tentative.

“…Can I sit?”

You just nodded faintly and let out a small, wordless hum of agreement.

He took the seat next to you, cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he really had the right to be there. You could feel his nervous energy radiating off him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. His leg bounced subtly beneath the bar. It was obvious he’d been overthinking every second since earlier.

There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice strained but sincere. “About before. I didn’t mean to—” He hesitated, sighed. “I panicked. That’s all. I didn’t want to shout at you like that. I don’t even know why I did. I just… freaked out.”

You were still leaning against the bar, your head tilted slightly sideways, cheek resting on your folded arm. With your other hand, you absently played with the rim of your empty glass, turning it slowly between your fingers. You didn’t look at him, but your shoulders rose in a small shrug. It wasn’t cold—it just said I hear you. But I’m still processing.

He bit the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated with himself, then tried again.

“I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Can I… can I buy you another drink? Something strong, maybe? Vodka?”

That finally got a soft sound out of you—a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. You sat up properly, brushing your hair back and meeting his eyes, just briefly.

“No thanks,” you murmured. “I don’t wanna get drunk.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

The quiet between you stretched again, but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now. Just… tentative. Cautious. Slowly, your expression softened, even though the sadness still lingered. You could see how hard he was trying—how guilty he looked, how much he regretted that brief flash of temper. And even if it still hurt, you knew it hadn’t come from a place of cruelty. Just fear.

You sighed gently, then gave him a tiny nod. “It’s okay,” you said at last. “I get it.”

His eyes flicked up to you in relief, and he nodded eagerly. A beat passed before you tilted your head slightly. “Are you having anything?”

He blinked. “Uh… no. Acohol— I don’t really— It doesn’t go well with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a little shyly. “I’m not exactly the fun drunk type. More like the ‘embarrass myself and then cry about it later’ type.”

That finally earned a genuine smile from you. A small, honest one. “Alright,” you said.

“What if we uh…drink something sweet? Like juice?” Bob suggested cautiously and you nodded with a hum.

Bob grinned sheepishly and waved at the bartender, ordering two fruity, alcohol-free drinks. When he slid yours toward you and caught the way you looked at him, smile soft, eyes warm, his ears turned a little pink. You raised your glass and clinked it gently against his.

As the conversation carried on, whatever tension had existed between the two of you earlier slowly dissolved, like mist in the morning sun. You laughed together, genuine, unguarded laughter, and it felt easy again. Comfortable.

Before long, you completely forgot why you’d been upset in the first place. Bob was being his awkward, charming self, and it was disarming in the best way. He made a silly comment about the drink being too fruity for a “manly guy like him,” and you rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh. You teased him back, and time began to slip by, unnoticed and unchecked.

Eventually, Bucky appeared at the entrance of the bar, a little sweaty, clearly ready to call it a night. “We’re heading out,” he called over the soft hum of music and clinking glasses. “You two coming?”

You glanced at Bob and then shook your head with a smile. “We’ll stay a little longer.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow knowingly, gave a short wave, and disappeared with the rest of the group. That “little longer” quickly became several hours. The sky outside deepened into full night, the noise of the bar gradually quieted as the crowd thinned out, and you and Bob were still there, talking and laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the moment, gentle but firm. The bartender leaned over and said something in Spanish, “Cerramos.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out a soft gasp. “Oh! They're closing.” You jumped off the barstool with a flurry of movement, grabbing your things quickly and tossing an apologetic smile toward the bartender. You replied: “Lo siento!” then turned to Bob.

He was still sitting there, watching you with a puzzled look on his face. Then he glanced at the bartender, and back to you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You speak Spanish?” he asked, a bit of awe in his voice.

You laughed and shook your head. “Nooo,” you admitted, grinning. “But it’s not that hard to guess what he said.”

Bob smiled as the realization hit him. “Right… yeah. That makes sense.” He stood up, stretching a little, and pulled a few bills from his wallet to leave on the counter for the drinks. Together, the two of you stepped out into the warm night.

Outside, the air was rich with the scent of saltwater and distant blossoms. The sky was a canvas of stars, crisp and clear, glittering like tiny diamonds. The moon hung low, casting a soft silver glow over the beach. The waves rolled in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, their gentle crash against the shore creating a peaceful, natural soundtrack that filled the quiet spaces between your laughter.

You walked side by side along the sand, your bare feet leaving prints behind you that the tide would soon claim. Every so often you’d bump shoulders slightly, accidentally-on-purpose, and Bob would smile that sweet, crooked smile of his. Conversation flowed as effortlessly as the breeze around you.

Then, your tone shifted—just a little softer, more curious. “Can I ask you something?”

Bob glanced over at you and gave a small nod, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“Why didn’t you take off your shirt?” you asked gently. “Back when we played volleyball?”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, then scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. His fingers tugged slightly at the fabric of his shirt. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice, and he avoided your gaze.

“I guess I’m just… not that confident. About my body, I mean.”

He let out a soft, nervous snort through his lips, something between a sigh and the sound horses make when they’re annoyed, and looked down at the sand as if it had the answers.

He paused, then looked up at you, his eyes full of something vulnerable, raw, and honest. “But I’ll get there. One day.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Just… not yet.”

You nodded slowly, not saying anything at first. You looked down, watching the way your feet pressed into the sand, how your steps left soft imprints that trailed behind. You understood. Completely. And more importantly, you respected it.

Your silence wasn’t judgment, it was empathy. And as the two of you walked on, bathed in moonlight and ocean air, it was clear that even unspoken things had a way of being heard between you.

Bob walked you back to your cabin, the two of you moving a little slower than before, as if neither of you truly wanted the night to end. When you reached the steps, there was that moment, an awkward little giggle shared between you as your eyes both dropped to the ground, trying to avoid the tension hanging in the air. But it was there, unspoken and electric. You felt it in your chest, and judging by the way Bob was fiddling with his fingers and nervously rocking on his heels, he did too.

Maybe it was the rum still lingering in your system, or maybe it was the feeling of confidence bubbling up from the hours of honest conversation and gentle laughter. Either way, you found yourself standing a little taller, just bold enough to speak your mind.

“I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” you said, your voice soft but sure, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him. Bob lifted his gaze, eyes wide with something between surprise and fragile hope, like a puppy waiting to be told it’s a good boy.

“I think you have a beautiful body,” you added gently.

The moment the words landed, his eyes locked with yours, and the connection was intense. Warm. Heavy. It hung in the air between you like a string pulled tight.

You could see it in his face that he felt it too. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then his nervousness took over again. He let out a small, breathy laugh, looked to the side, and scratched the back of his head. His cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red, and his voice came out unsure and stammered.

“You too… you have a nice body. Not like—in a creepy way or anything! Just, uh… like, you know…”

He was tangling himself in his own compliment, flailing to land it gracefully, and it made your heart melt just a little more. Smiling softly, you lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture, giving a single nod with a calming expression.

“I get it,” you assured him gently. “Thank you.”

Relief washed over his face, and both of you started to laugh again, this time more naturally, more connected. The night felt sweet, even a little magical. You didn’t want to go inside. You didn’t want this to be the part where he left, where things faded into goodnights and what-ifs.

Something in you, maybe the remnants of courage, maybe the warmth still blooming from that last drink, refused to let him go. So, you decided to take a risk. A brave one.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words came out direct, sincere, without apology or hesitation. They hit Bob like a thunderclap. His eyes went wide and fractured with shock. You could see his heart stop and start again just by the way his chest moved. Goosebumps appeared along his arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his entire face flushed deeper than ever before.

“I-I… I mean—I… um,” he stumbled, blinking rapidly, completely overwhelmed.

You didn’t push, but you did move closer, stepping into the space between you, your hands slowly, carefully, rising to his chest. You placed them there gently, barely a touch, more of a whisper than a grip, and you could feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath your fingertips, pounding like a wild drum. The moment you touched him, he froze. His whole body stiffened, eyes locked on you, his lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

You tilted your head up, catching his gaze with a bold, flirtatious glint in your eye. Then you bit your lip, slowly and deliberately, giving him that look—the kind that stripped away all doubt.

“May I?” you whispered again, your voice lower, breathier, your fingertips brushing against his shirt as your palms moved slightly over his chest.

He inhaled sharply, the sound trembling through his lips, and after a second that felt like forever, he nodded—quickly, wordlessly, his entire body trembling with anticipation.

A sly, satisfied smile crept onto your face at his permission. You rose onto your toes as he instinctively leaned down to meet you halfway. And when your lips finally met his, it was as though the world simply fell away.

The background noise, the wind, the waves, the sound of cicadas, melted into silence. There was only warmth, only him.

His lips were soft, tinged with sweetness from the drinks you’d shared, and you felt a wave of heat roll through your body.

At first, he kissed you carefully, cautiously, almost as if he wasn’t sure if this was real. But the moment you leaned in hungrily for another kiss, something shifted in him, he melted into you completely.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him in closer, anchoring him to you. He responded instinctively, his hands finding your waist with gentle hesitance, holding you like you were delicate and precious, like the wrong touch might break the spell. His fingers traced small circles against your back, sliding slightly higher as he began to kiss you deeper, more surely.

And then you started to sigh—soft, involuntary little sounds escaping your lips, muffled between kisses. That was it. That was all it took to make Bob shudder slightly against you, his grip tightening just a little as he buried himself more completely in the moment.

For a man so shy, so careful with his words, his body was now telling you everything you needed to know. Your lips danced together under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies.

The kiss between you and Bob deepened quickly, the heat building with every brush of lips, every inhale that seemed too sharp, too needy.

Bob began to let out these quiet, helpless little moans—soft, desperate sounds that made your heart stutter and your core clench with hunger. His breath was hot, uneven, as if he couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling.

But then, just when things began to slip into something hotter, more dangerous, you pulled away.

Your lips left his with a quiet, breathy pop, and Bob’s eyes fluttered open in confusion, his brows furrowing as you took a small step back. You reached into your bag, rummaging clumsily, fingers searching for your keys. His expression was adorably baffled—eyes wide, lips parted, his chest still rising and falling too fast.

He didn’t even get the chance to ask what you were doing. Before he could speak, you found the keys, turned, and unlocked the door with a soft grunt of effort. The handle resisted for a moment—just long enough to make you curse under your breath. But then it gave way, and without a word, you grabbed a handful of Bob’s shirt and yanked him inside with you.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And then you were on him again.

You pushed him up against the wall before he could even blink, your lips crashing onto his like you’d been starved of him for hours instead of minutes. He let out a muffled gasp, taken completely off guard, but your mouth, your touch, the fire burning through you, it overwhelmed him. It shut off whatever part of his brain had been trying to stay grounded.

He melted into you, hands clinging to your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. But you weren’t slowing down.

You pressed your body hard against his, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart, pinning him to the wall with a surprising strength, despite your smaller frame. Your kiss was ravenous, unrelenting. Every time his breath hitched, it only drove you more.

But Bob still had some part of him trying to be responsible.

“Wait—wait, what about the others?” he asked, panting between kisses, his voice shaky, his lips still brushing yours. His hands remained at your hips, uncertain but not resisting.

“They’re asleep,” you breathed without hesitation, already leaning in again.

You kissed him hard, and he let out a startled noise in the back of his throat, half protest, half surrender. But just as your hands started trailing lower down his sides, he gently pulled back again, his eyes wide, his whole body trembling like he was barely holding on.

“I-I mean, I—” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed, caught in the tug-of-war between nerves and need.

But you were on fire. Every pulse in your body throbbed with want, and the heat between your thighs was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. You leaned in closer, placing a hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. Your eyes locked on his and your voice dropped into something sultry, something that made his breath hitch.

“Do you want me?” you whispered, your words low, teasing, soaked in longing.

Bob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He was frozen, wide-eyed, staring at you like you were made of fire and he couldn’t decide whether to run or let himself burn.

So you stepped in closer. Your bodies were touching now, pressed chest to chest, and your mouth hovered barely a breath from his. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering half-shut, your voice dipping into a softer, flirtier murmur.

“Do you want me, Bob?”

This time he nodded. Hard. His breath caught in his throat, and a deep, shaky sound escaped him. His hands clutched tighter at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish.

Then you gave him the final push—the one that made everything else fall away.

“Do you want me… right now?”

His answer wasn’t words. It was a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest and another frantic nod, his eyes burning with need. That was all the answer you needed. All the answer he could give.

And then your lips were on his again, fiercer this time, hungry and hot, and whatever doubts had been in his head melted away with each breathless kiss.

But the kisses between you and Bob grew messier, deeper, more desperate. There was no longer any hesitation, only raw, breathless need. Soft, pleading moans slipped from both your lips between every frantic brush of your mouths, and each sound only made the other crave more.

Bob’s hands fumbled at your waist, your neck, your hips, trying to be everywhere at once but still so careful. His swim trunks were starting to grow tight again, and the heat in your own body was unbearable. Your swimsuit clung to you, soaked through with arousal, even tho all you had done was kiss.

Stumbling into your room was chaotic, clumsy. Bob bumped into the wall, you tripped on your own feet, giggles and gasps filling the space between frantic kisses. But somehow, with limbs tangled and hearts racing, you made it to your room. You barely managed to shut the door behind you before dragging both of you toward the bed.

With one firm but gentle push, you toppled Bob onto the mattress and let yourself fall with him. You landed on his chest with a bounce, both of you breathless and grinning, and then, before he could even process it, you rolled off and stood quickly. You turned back toward the door, locking it with a soft click. Then, you turned around again and froze for a beat.

Bob was sitting at the edge of your bed, completely still, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. His hair was messy from your fingers, his lips red and swollen from your kisses and his eyes were glassy with lust, with longing. His pupils were huge. His face was flushed. And lower down, his erection was unmistakably visible.

You had never felt like this about any man before. Not like this.

You let your purse fall to the floor without a second thought, fingers slipping under the hem of your fishnet dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, you pulled it up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.

Now, standing there in only your swimsuit, you began to approach him. Slowly, like a predator circling prey. The hunger in your eyes was impossible to miss.

Bob didn’t move. He couldn’t. He watched you the entire time, mouth slightly open, hands resting on the bed like he needed the mattress to ground himself.

You stopped in front of him and brought your hands up to cup his face, leaning in to kiss him again—but this time it was slower. Gentler. A soft, intimate prelude.

His hands found your cheeks too, fingers stroking your skin, and he tried to pull you back down onto him. But you resisted. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Can we… get rid of this?” you asked with a playful smile, tapping a finger against the center of his chest.

His eyes dropped to your finger, then flicked back up to your face. He swallowed hard, clearly nervous.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered, your tone low and teasing. “But how about a deal?”

You licked your lips slowly, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before lifting it back to his eyes.

“If we take this off,” you said, finger still resting on his chest, “then we also take this off…” Your hand drifted up, motioning briefly toward the top of your swimsuit.

That was all it took.

Whatever fear had still lingered in him melted away instantly. His fingers gripped the hem of his shirt and, without a single pause, he pulled it over his head in one swift, fluid movement and tossed it aside. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He wanted this. He wanted you. Badly enough to show you a part of himself he’d just admitted he was ashamed of.

But the moment your eyes dropped to his now bare torso… your jaw practically hit the floor.

He was stunning. Broad chest, strong shoulders, abs like something sculpted by a god, toned arms with just the right amount of muscle, exactly how you liked it. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. Not from someone as shy and self-conscious as him.

You looked back up at him, wide-eyed with a mix of disbelief and awe. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Bob sat there, half-nervous, half-burning, unsure how you’d react—until he saw your expression. And even though your reaction was silent, it told him everything. The look on your face said it all.

You knelt down slowly, your eyes still locked onto his body as if mesmerized, and began showering him with a cascade of kisses. They rained down over his skin, his chest, his stomach, his sides, each kiss playful, some lingering, others accompanied by soft, teasing licks or the occasional gentle bite.

It tickled him a little, making him laugh under his breath, his abs tightening instinctively. He wanted to reach out, to touch your hair, cradle your face, pull you close—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to break the moment or push too far. So he kept his hands behind him, gripping the mattress like an anchor.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured in between kisses, your lips brushing against his skin with every word. Your hands rested firmly on his thighs, fingers splayed out, grounding yourself as you explored him with both touch and mouth.

“So beautiful,” you repeated, almost breathless with admiration. You couldn’t get enough of him. You kissed every inch of skin you could reach, tasting the warmth of his sun-kissed body, losing yourself in the way he squirmed slightly beneath your lips.

Eventually, the hunger in you built beyond just kisses.

You looked up at Bob, meeting his eyes. He looked dazed, utterly blissed out, but beneath the surface, there was something else. He was waiting. For your part of the deal.

A mischievous smile curled on your lips.

Still on your knees, you slowly straightened up and reached behind your back, fingers deftly untying the knot of your bikini top. With a small motion, you let it slip off your shoulders, revealing your bare breasts to him.

Bob’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes widened and locked on you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands dug into the mattress, and through his swim trunks, you could see the very visible twitch of his hard-on as it reacted to the sight.

He wanted to touch you so badly. You could see it. The craving in his eyes. But he still held back, being a gentleman, respecting your pace, refusing to make a move without permission.

“Wanna touch?” you asked, tilting your head and giving him a knowing smirk.

His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. He nodded eagerly, licking his lips, his hands already twitching to move. He slowly reached out but paused again, eyes flicking to yours, searching for that last bit of reassurance.

You gave him a small nod.

And then he touched you.

Gently, reverently, like you were something sacred. His hands cupped your breasts with a mixture of awe and need, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. His touch was warm, tender—curious yet careful.

He didn’t grope. He explored. Played. Worshipped. One hand cradled the underside while the other traced slow circles around your nipple, sending delicious shivers down your spine. He was in heaven, and judging by the way his breath caught every time you so much as sighed, he wanted you to feel that same bliss too.

Bob looked up at you, his hands still cradling your breasts as if he were holding something fragile and precious. Then his gaze flicked to your face, a bit hesitant.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, voice low and tender.

You smiled, nodding, and that smile alone seemed to ease something in him. You weren’t just okay—you were glowing. It felt good, the way his fingers explored you with such care, and the look in his eyes made it all the more intense.

And it definitely did something to him. You could tell from the way his chest rose with every breath, how his eyes occasionally fluttered shut like he was overwhelmed. Still, after a moment, he pulled his hands away, clearly not wanting to get too carried away without your lead.

You leaned in again and kissed him.

It was slower, deeper. Your hands roamed his body, savoring the shape of him, the tension in his muscles, the way he melted under your touch. His hands were verywhere. Moving over your back, your hips, your sides, as if trying to memorize every inch of your body.

But you remained on your knees, just slightly lower than him, even as the kiss grew hotter.

Then one of your hands started to travel—leaving his neck, gliding down over his chest, his stomach, until it reached the waistband of his swim trunks. You paused there. Not moving or rushing. You stopped kissing him and looked up at his face.

Bob’s eyes followed your hand, then quickly returned to yours. There was a storm behind those eyes—desire, definitely, but also uncertainty.

You gave him a slow, sultry smile, tilting your head ever so slightly as if to say, It’s okay. I want this too. He exhaled shakily, his lips parting, and after a moment, he nodded.

With the same care he’d shown you earlier, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and began to pull them down. Painfully slow. Your eyes never left his face, watching his expression shift—excitement, nervousness, and that unmistakable tension of anticipation.

As the fabric slid down his thighs and hit the ground, your breath caught audibly. You gasped so loud that even Bob flinched a little, startled. You hadn’t expected… that.

There it was—thick, veined, heavy, and already so hard it twitched in the cool air. The way it stood against his toned stomach, pulsing gently, made your pulse echo right along with it.

You couldn’t help but whisper in disbelief, “And you’ve been hiding this the whole time?”

Bob let out an awkward little laugh, clearly flustered. His cheeks flushed deep red, not just from arousal, but from your stunned compliment. He looked away for a second, bashful, and mumbled something incoherent.

Carefully, you reached out and brushed your fingers against him. The moment your skin made contact, his body jolted, just a little, and he let out the softest whimper, almost a sigh.

You looked up again, eyes wide and a little wicked, and bit your bottom lip.

Slowly, your hand began to move, gentle at first, as though you were still getting to know this part of him. He trembled beneath your touch, trying to stay quiet, but his hips shifted involuntarily, betraying how sensitive he was.

His hand gripped the sheets tightly, knuckles pale. He was trying so hard not to make a sound—to keep still so he wouldn’t wake the girls in the next room—but you weren’t making that easy.

The pressure, the rhythm… it was enough to undo him. But then, before he could fully process what was happening, you leaned forward and kissed the tip. Bob let out a strangled sound and tensed, as if his whole body was about to short-circuit.

You looked up at him, holding eye contact the entire time. At first, you were teasing—pressing soft kisses to the sensitive head, letting your tongue glide around it lazily, deliberately. His thighs trembled. He bit down on his lip so hard it turned white.

Then you got more serious.

You took him in slowly, still holding his gaze. Bob’s lips parted, his eyes fluttering half-shut, and a shaky breath escaped him like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. His entire body tensed as if overwhelmed by the sensation.

He tried to stay quiet, tried to keep his hips still, but sometimes his body moved on its own, bucking up just slightly, and he immediately muttered a breathless apology every time it happened.

You didn’t rush. You let the anticipation burn slowly, letting him feel everything.

“God—” he whispered under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and then—“I’m sorry,” he added instantly, as if ashamed of reacting too strongly. You didn’t mind. In fact, it made your heart race.

The way he melted for you, how his body surrendered so easily, he wasn’t trying to be dominant or in control. He wasn’t trying to hide how much it affected him. And that vulnerability? It was intoxicating.

You could hear how much it meant to him in every breathy sound, every shaky exhale, every stifled moan. He whimpered again, high and desperate, and the sound echoed in your mind like a reward.

His fingers were digging into the mattress, every muscle tight with restraint. He whimpered again, soft and broken, and your innocent gaze stayed locked on his, only intensifying everything he felt.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached up and took his hand—guiding it to your head. He hesitated at first, breath shaky, eyes wide with uncertainty. But you gave him a sweet calm look that said it’s okay. That you trusted him. That he could touch.

His hand accidentally tangled in your hair, gripping a bit too tight, and when he realized, he gasped and immediately loosened his fingers.

“Shit—I’m sorry—are you okay?” he stammered, guilt flashing in his eyes.

You looked up at him again, lips still wrapped around him, and gave the tiniest nod, reassuring him you were fine. More than fine. You loved seeing him like this. Raw, undone, his tough exterior peeling away one soft moan at a time.

And it hit you, too. That fluttering heat in your chest. That ache between your legs. The feeling of being wanted this much. Of making someone feel this good. His reactions lit a fire inside you. Every twitch of his thighs, every tremor in his voice—it all made you feel powerful and delicate at the same time.

Bob’s hands were restless now. One gripped the sheets, the other hovered near your head again, as if unsure whether he was allowed to touch. You leaned into it, and he gently threaded his fingers through your hair, this time softer, more reverent. But his voice was breaking. Little, helpless gasps.

Whispers of your name.

And once or twice—a shaky, choked-off moan that sounded like he might cry if you kept going. But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

Because the way he trembled under you, the way his stomach clenched and his legs shifted, the way he sounded like he was falling apart, that was everything.

Bob was right on the edge, his whole body was trembling, his hands clenching the sheets like he was holding on for dear life. And when he finally came, gasping your name like a whispered prayer, you didn’t pull away.

You stayed with him. Took everything he gave you.

He let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan, overwhelmed beyond words, his hips twitching from overstimulation as you gently helped him through the last waves. You even cleaned the rest of him up with soft, careful kisses, and that alone nearly made him whimper again.

“Jesus…” he breathed out, barely able to speak, a hand running through his tousled hair as he looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. “I– I’m sorry.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised. “What for?”

His voice was small. Fragile. “For… everything? For that being too fast? For—” he swallowed, looking embarrassed, “—for not lasting longer. I didn’t mean to be so…”

You climbed up to him and silenced him with a kiss. Not hurried, not demanding, just soft. Tender. Full of comfort.

Your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs stroking his flushed skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling good,” you whispered against his lips. “That was perfect.”

His eyes closed, his breath catching. He looked like he might cry for a whole different reason now.

You gently straddled his waist, not quite there yet, but close enough that the shift in energy was obvious. Your thighs pressing lightly against his sides, his hands flew instinctively to your hips. Not in a needy grip, but gentle, hesitant. Your body was warm and ready, and you were preparing to fully connect, but before you could guide him further, Bob stopped you.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

You paused, blinking down at him, your brows gently furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes met yours, and something was different. The nervousness that had clouded his gaze earlier was gone. What replaced it was soft but firm, confidence built not from ego, but devotion.

“I want to take care of you now,” he said.

A small smile curved your lips, your heart skipping a beat at how genuine he sounded. “You don’t have to, really—”

But Bob shook his head. “No. I want to. I need to.”

There was something so deeply sincere in his voice it made your chest ache.

You gave him a soft nod, and he smiled, one of those rare, crooked, bashful smiles that melted you inside. Then, with gentle hands, he shifted you. Slowly, carefully, he rolled your body so you lay on your back in the center of the bed, like he was positioning you at the heart of a sacred space. His arms hovered around you, cradling your movement so you never felt dropped, never out of control.

He knelt between your legs, just watching you for a moment. You were laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling, hair fanned out across the pillow. He looked awestruck.

His hand came to your side. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, lips parted, your voice caught somewhere between breath and heartbeat. “Yes.”

His hand slid up along your ribcage, following the natural shape of you with reverence. He wasn’t just touching—he was memorizing. Like every inch of your skin mattered. Like you were art.

He kissed you again, slow, coaxing, warm. And as the kiss deepened, he murmured against your lips: “Can I take these off?”

His fingers were resting lightly at the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms.

You nodded. “Please.”

Bob peeled the fabric down slowly, as if every inch was a treasure to be revealed, not a secret to be rushed. His eyes never left your body, and his hands trembled just a little.

Once the swimsuit was off, he let his fingers trace lightly along your inner thighs, but never without looking up at you first.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his breath brushing over your bare skin.

You nodded again, heart pounding. “Yes.”

And then he lowered his mouth to you.

The moment his lips met your most sensitive spot, your whole body arched. But it wasn’t just the touch—it was the tenderness, the intention. Bob wasn’t careless or clumsy. He listened. He adjusted every motion based on how you sighed, how your breath caught, how your fingers curled in the sheets.

His movements were soft, exploring. He let his tongue move in long, unhurried strokes, drawing out your reactions—your sighs, your tiny gasps, the way your fingers curled into the sheets. You felt your body start to unravel under the attention, your hips shifting instinctively, needing more.

His hands held your thighs, steadying you but never trapping you. He let you move against him. Let you guide him with nothing more than the sound of your breath. His tongue moved slow, experimental, reverent. And as he began to read your body, he grew more confident.

Every flick, every gentle suck, was delivered with the knowledge that he was giving you pleasure, not taking it. He wasn’t doing this to prove something. He was doing it because he wanted to worship you.

“God, Bob…” you whispered, voice cracking as your fingers found his hair.

He hummed at the sound, and the vibration sent another shiver racing through you.

He learned quickly. How you liked it slower, how a certain flick of his tongue made your whole body twitch. How your voice caught every time he sucked softly at just the right spot.

“Yes… yes—so good,” you breathed, your hips moving almost without permission.

The way he reacted to your pleasure, how eager he was to see you fall apart, made everything more intense. He was moaning softly too, like just tasting you made him dizzy with need. He liked knowing you wanted him there. That you trusted him there. He never once looked away from you, not even when he grew bolder, more confident.

He explored every inch of you with his mouth like you were something to be adored, not conquered. And every sound you made, every shiver in your body, only spurred him on.

Your breath started to catch, your thighs tightening around his shoulders as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. He felt it. Saw it. Knew it.

And he didn’t let up.

His hands squeezed your hips gently, anchoring you as he focused entirely on giving you what you needed. He stayed right there, lips and tongue working with delicious rhythm, sending shockwaves through you with every stroke.

You were close. So close it scared you.

“Bob,” you gasped, voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He wanted this for you.

The wave crashed over you so suddenly, so completely, it stole the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you came—shaking, pulsing, everything unraveling under his touch.

Bob held you through it. Never pulling away, never letting you feel alone. Even as you trembled and gasped and whimpered his name, he stayed with you, riding the waves with the same quiet patience he always gave you.

And only when your body finally relaxed, chest heaving and limbs limp, did he slowly lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and shining. And when he saw you looking at him, completely undone and breathless, he smiled the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing along your thigh. You nodded, dazed and glowing, trying to catch your breath.

Bob slowly crawled back up your body, leaving a warm trail of kisses across your skin. He moved as if afraid to disturb the peace settling over you, like he was returning to you from a place of worship. When his face hovered above yours, he looked into your eyes for a long, quiet moment.

Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

His hand came up to your hair, brushing it back with slow fingers, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Your heart squeezed.

You reached up to cup his face and pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss—sweet at first, but quickly deepening. The electricity between you hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger now that there was nothing between you but skin and trust.

Still breathless, you moved, shifting your hips just enough to push him onto his back. He let out a surprised little laugh as you rolled with him, your bodies twisting together until you were on top of him, straddling his hips. The heat between you flared instantly.

He looked up at you with wide, reverent eyes, his hands resting gently on your waist as if asking silently for permission to hold you there.

You leaned down and kissed him again—slow, deep, melting into each other with every heartbeat. Your fingers ran along his chest, down his sides, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his body. You could feel him against you, hard and throbbing, and it sent shivers down your spine.

This was it. The moment you’d both been tiptoeing toward.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Are you ready?” you whispered.

Bob nodded, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Only if you are.”

“I am,” you said softly, and meant every word.

Your hand found him again, guiding him with care, your breath hitching as the tip pressed against you. You moved slowly, lowering yourself with a careful rhythm, taking him in inch by inch. Both of you gasped—Bob’s hands gripped your hips tightly, trying not to buck up into you.

The stretch made your whole body burn, but it was a sweet, full ache, one that had been building from the first time he looked at you like you were the sun.

Once he was fully inside, you stilled, letting your body adjust, both of you panting softly. Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his jaw clenched, as if overwhelmed by how deep it all felt—emotionally and physically.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your hands braced against his chest, your body trembling slightly. “You feel… amazing.”

A shaky laugh left his throat. “So do you. God, so do you.”

You started to move—slow, steady, your bodies learning each other. Every thrust, every sigh, every soft gasp between kisses told its own story. It wasn’t just sex. It was connection. It was trust. It was two people baring everything, souls and skin, just to be close.

You moved together in perfect rhythm, hips rising and falling in sync, his hands mapping your body like he never wanted to forget a single inch. And with every moan, every whispered name, every breath you shared, love wrapped tighter and tighter around you both.

Your rhythm picked up—slow and deep giving way to something needier, hungrier. The friction between your bodies grew more intense, breaths turning to gasps, gasps to moans. The sounds of skin against skin, the creaking of the mattress beneath you, the soft rustle of sheets, it all blended into a symphony of desire that filled the space around you like firelight.

Bob’s hands roamed your back, your hips, your thighs—desperate to hold you, ground you, memorize you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were glowing. You were everything.

And then he sat up, his arms wrapping around you as you stayed straddled on his lap. Your chest pressed tightly against his, your lips meeting his in a fevered kiss. He held you there, anchored you to him like he was terrified of letting you go.

You clung to him just as tightly.

Your mouths moved together like you were breathing the same air. His tongue tangled with yours, his hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you even closer. But then his grip on your waist tightened.

Hard.

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips pausing. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead still resting against his, trying to catch your breath. And that’s when you saw it.

For a split second, just a flash, his eyes glowed. Golden. Not metaphorically, a actually glowing. And then it was gone. Blink, and you might’ve thought you imagined it. But you didn’t.

Bob froze. His arms loosened immediately, and panic flooded his face. “Shit—did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Hey,” you said gently, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He was breathing fast, his brows drawn tight, clearly shaken by the moment. “I felt something… I didn’t mean to grip you that hard.”

You nodded slowly. “It's okay.”

He winced. “I- I'm sorry, I don’t want to scare you, or—God—I don’t want to lose control around you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his again. “You didn’t scare me, Bob. You trusting me with that… it means more than I can say.”

His breath hitched and before he could say anything else, you kissed him again, before guiding his hands back to your waist. This time, his grip was steady. Gentle. Confident.

And then you moved again.

The pleasure hit like a wave crashing into shore, harder than before, deeper. His hands gripped you tighter, not in fear this time, but in raw need, in love, in reverence.

You kissed his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, whispering his name like a prayer.

You rocked against him, and he met every motion, your bodies tangled in something that went beyond skin and muscle, it was soul-deep. The sounds coming from him, breathy moans, quiet whimpers, your name, drove you wild.

And then it happened. You felt your climax building again, hot and fast and unstoppable.

“Bob,” you gasped, nails digging gently into his back.

He was right there with you, sweat beading at his brow, jaw tight, voice strained. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you breathed.

You crashed into release together—messy, overwhelming. You held each other through it, limbs trembling, lips finding each other again and again, clinging to the moment like it was all you’d ever need.

You collapsed against his chest, your limbs heavy and warm, your cheek pressing into the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder. Both of you were still catching your breath, chests rising and falling rapidly in sync. His arms wrapped around you protectively, and you let yourself sink into him, feeling completely safe and full.

There was a moment of perfect silence, just the sound of breathing, soft and human and real.

Then you shifted slightly, curling up beside him and resting your head against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, still racing, but slowly calming beneath your ear.

You smiled lazily. “Okay… serious question.”

Bob tilted his head to look at you, already smiling like a complete goof. “Shoot.”

You looked up at him with narrowed, mock-suspicious eyes. “Where did you learn to do that with your tongue?”

Immediately, Bob’s face flushed. He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked. “I—uh—I watched a couple things.”

You squinted. “What kind of ‘things,’ Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “Just like—like, y’know. Tutorials.”

You pulled back, eyebrows rising. “You watched porn?!”

Bob’s entire face turned bright red. “No! I mean—it was educational! There were diagrams!”

You blinked. “There were diagrams in your porn?”

He let out a strangled sound and covered his face with his hands. “Okay, I regret everything.”

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet room. “Bob Reynolds, you little nerd.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, totally mortified but smiling. “I just wanted to be good at it. For you.”

You leaned in and kissed him sweetly. “You were.”

A comfortable silence settled over you again, warm and soft like a blanket. You traced idle shapes on his chest with your fingertips, still smiling, still glowing.

Then Bob’s voice broke the quiet, a little more cautious this time. “Hey… do you… remember the volleyball game? When I kinda bailed and told you not to come?”

You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “Well… I sorta… had a situation. In my swim trunks.” He exhaled, long and painful.

Your mouth fell open slightly. “You got a boner?!”

Bob winced, covering his face again. “I’m sorry! It just—happened! You were in that swimsuit and laughing and I don’t know, my brain just… betrayed me!”

You were quiet for a moment. Not judging. Not laughing. Just watching him squirm. Then you reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Bob.”

He looked at you through his fingers again, completely sheepish.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s totally normal.”

His eyes widened a little. “It is?”

You nodded. “Yeah…and honestly, kind of sweet.“ You smiled teasingly. He laughed, relieved, and pulled you close again, resting his chin on top of your head. “God, I like you so much.”

You nestled into him, your fingers laced together on his chest. “Good. Because I really, really like you back.”

The two of you lay there for a long time, tangled together, breathing slower now, hearts lighter. The night was quiet, soft, and full of something that felt a lot like the start of forever.

The golden morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, dancing lazily over tangled limbs and a rumpled blanket. You and Bob were still wrapped around each other—bare skin against bare skin, your head on his chest, his arm draped protectively over you. Your legs tangled, breaths slow, hearts steady.

A knock. Sharp. Three times.

“Hey, you coming to breakfast or are you dead?” Yelena’s voice chirped from behind the door.

Your eyes snapped open in panic. You bolted upright under the blanket, your heart immediately in your throat. Bob groaned quietly, still groggy, eyes not fully open yet.

You whispered, “What time is it?!” your voice barely audible and full of dread.

Bob blinked, looked around helplessly, and shrugged. “I—uh… no clue.”

You covered your face with both hands. “We’re dead. We’re actually dead.”

Yelena knocked again, softer this time. “We're going now, just letting you know.”

You scrambled to respond, “Yeah! I’ll be there! In a sec!”

Bob turned to you, now slowly realizing the situation. The blanket slid down his chest, revealing faint marks from your mouth the night before.

You stared at him. “We need to get dressed. Now.”

It was mayhem. You both jumped out of bed, frantically looking for clothes. You grabbed your swimsuit top, which had ended up halfway across the room, and pulled on a hoodie over it. Bob, on the other hand, was still stumbling, holding only his swim trunks in one hand, his shirt nowhere to be found.

“You can’t go out the door!” you hissed. “Someone could see you!”

“Then what do I do?!”

You gestured to the window. “Jump out.”

“Are you serious?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. You’re a superhero. I think you can survive this.”

He groaned dramatically, pulled on his swim trunks and shirt, then paused before the window. You rushed over, stood on your tiptoes, and gave him a rushed, smiling kiss. “Go. Before someone sees you.”

He opened the window, one leg already out, then looked back with a crooked grin. “You’re chaos.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

With that, he slipped out and disappeared into the early morning light.

Later that morning, everyone gathered at a nearby rustic café for breakfast. You sat at a corner table, sipping coffee, trying not to look suspicious. Yelena sat beside you. Bob was diagonally across, seated next to John. The chatter around the table was casual—about the lake, someone’s forgotten towel, who burned marshmallows last night.

You and Bob exchanged occasional, brief glances. Not long. Just enough to pass a message between you. A silent, thrilling electricity. You could still feel the echo of last night under your skin, and judging by the way Bob nervously rubbed the back of his neck, so could he.

“Dude…” John leaned closer to Bob, squinting. “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve got like, bruises or something. All over here.” He pointed.

Bob’s brows furrowed and instinctively reached for the spot. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, clearly unaware. Your fork froze mid-air. You looked straight down at your plate. Yelena turned to you. Her eyes widened slowly. Then, lips barely moving, she mouthed with a dramatic grin:

“You. Fucked. Bob.”

You nearly inhaled your scrambled eggs. Your face heated like wildfire. You avoided everyone’s eyes, especially Bob’s. Meanwhile, Bob was trying to deflect. “Maybe I slept weird or—uh—bug bites?”

“Mmhmm,” John muttered, unconvinced.

You dared a glance at Bob. And that was it—your eyes met, and he knew. His brows lifted just slightly. His lips parted. You both quickly looked away.

Yelena leaned into closer to you and whispered, “I knew it. I heard really weird noises last night.” “Yelena, shut up.” She just chuckled into her cup of tea.

As the conversation drifted elsewhere, your face still radiated heat. Across the table, Bob leaned his elbow against the table and rested his cheek on his hand, sneaking one last look at you. You caught it—and gave him the tiniest smile.

This week was going to be… very interesting.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE📙🦋

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nanamisbbygirl · 3 days ago

Text

uv index

type: nsfw minors dni

includes: pervy best friend gojo + geto x afab!reader

summary: it was a big mistake to ask for help applying lotion at the beach, especially when you’re with geto suguru and gojo satoru.

cw: threesome, fingering, unprotected p in v, oral sex (m!reciving), cream pies, lots of fondling, public indecency and gooner behaviour lol

a/n: come get your dinner y’all i put my whole pussy into cooking it up.. enjoy!

the beach was perfect this time of year, especially with the way your skin felt as it soaked up the summer sun. you laid on your belly, as you shared the abnormally large towel with your friends, suguru and satoru.

suguru was sitting to your side, staring out at the ocean as satoru reemerged from the water, droplets dripping down his body. he met you both with a pout on his lips.

“are you guys coming in or what?” he was disappointed in the fake he seemed to be the only one enjoying the beach for what it was.

“soon,” you hummed, “let me tan a little longer.” you reached for your beach bag, pulling out some tanning lotion.

“you know that stuff isn’t good for you,” suguru grumbled.

“yeah neither is smoking” you remind him, causing him to scoff a little. although your next question appears to snap them out of their grumpy moods. “can one of you rub this on my back— i can’t reach it myself.”

both boys perked up, fighting over who would go first. suguru held the bottle in his hand, squirting the lotion along your back. they looked down at how suggestive it seemed to be, gulping, he reached forward to touch your skin.

his large hands caressed your back, massaging the tenderness of your flesh. you let out a relaxed sigh, as suguru’s hands made their way down your body.

you felt him stop at your mid back, teasing the hem of your cheeky bikini bottoms, wondering how far he should go. that’s when you felt a second pair of hands— satoru had joined in, apparently itching to have a turn.

he had lathered his hands with the tanning lotion, creeping his way up your legs, his fingers faintly lining your inner thighs.

suguru took initiative, lowering his grasp, making sure to coat every inch of you with the lotion. his fingers slipped under the thin straps that were holding your bathing suit in place, tempted to untie them.

before satoru got the chance to, his friend had claimed his spot hovering over your butt, palms pressing into your perky cheeks. his hands moved carefully in circular motions, being sure to pull at them, allowing him little peeks at your lips — you wanted to tan everywhere, right?

the black haired boy was drooling over you, once again leaving satoru to feel left out. although; he didn’t whine this time, instead leaning towards your ear while his free hand met the spot where your top tied together.

“you might want to take this off— wouldn’t want to get tan lines.” he whispered delicately, as though he wasn’t fulfilling his devious desires. you didn’t have the chance to protest as he undid your top in a blink of an eye. you hugged your breasts, hoping that nothing would slip out.

“we’re in public guys!” you squealed, as both their hands temporarily stopped. suguru and satoru looked around them.

“no one’s around, don’t worry and don’t fuss.” suguru declared, but it still put you on edge. it was hard to think straight with the stimulation they were providing you with.

satoru begins to reach for your breast, hoping that you’ll easily comply with him.

“cmon don’t you want your front side to tan a little, too?” just like that he was able to flip you effortlessly, leaving you to cling to your now ill fitted top.

you get a look at both of them, how they’re glowing in the sunlight, their swim trunks becoming extra tight. you can trace the outlines of their dicks with your eyes, holding your breath at the situation you managed to get yourself into. they both stare back at you, an animalistic urge in their eyes.

suguru splashes the lotion against your stomach then placing some into satoru’s greedy hands. it’s almost too much to take in all at once, you feel yourself wiggling around trying to pick who to focus your attention on first.

satoru rubs his hands together, making the most of the lotion suguru provided him with.

“move your arms, peach.” he laughs with the pet name. he nudges your arms and judging by the look on his face he wasn’t gonna let anything stop him from having his way.

so, you complied with satoru’s demand. you removed your arms, placing them to the side of your head, causing the bikini top to begin to slide up, revealing more of your tits. this made satoru grin.

while all this was happening, suguru was still working away, making sure every part of your body was oiled up, reflecting the sun. his hands carved out your body as if he was a sculpter, rubbing his thumbs against your hips before pressing down on your lower stomach. he continued down, outlining your cunt, carelessly running his hands under your bottoms and groping your soft butt.

he pulled you into him, forcing you to straddle his waist as he rests you on his thighs. you can feel his bulge against your pussy, it’s driving you crazy how close you are but how distant your pleasure seems to be.

you can no longer pay attention to suguru, as you feel your nipples being gently rolled around in satoru’s fingers. he gives them cheeky little pinches before kneading your breast, squishing them with his huge hands.

“fuck you’re so hot,” suguru mutters, grinding up and drown, chasing the friction between the two of you. you whimper as satoru fondles your breasts, flashing his friend a mischievous look.

“she seems pretty desperate doesn’t she?” satoru asks suguru. “as if this wasn’t her plan the whole time. do you think we should give her the attention she wants?” he says this without missing a motion, taking as much of your boobs into his hands as possible. you can tell by the way he licks his lips he wants to put them in his mouth, but he’s holding back, as if to get suguru’s opinion on the matter.

“depends,” he huffs, holding onto your hips, “how bad does she want it?” they talk about you like you’re not even there, as though you’re not already in such a vulnerable state for them.

“whaddya think, peach? what should we do?” satoru looks down as you, holding your left breast tightly as he anticipates your response.

“i.. i want more,” you say, but it’s not the response he’s looking for as he pinches your nipple.

“gotta try harder than that: be specific.”

you take a shaky breath, looking back at suguru to see if there’s any sympathy and maybe he would be kinder without having you embarrass yourself more in front of your friends.

“you heard what he said, peach, tell us what you want.”

throwing your head back, you gulp: “please fuck me.” you start, “use me however you want.” you say it quietly the first time, which again, was not to their liking.

suguru leaned forwards, slapping your one breast, “say it loud and clear, or else you get nothing.” his stern tone make a chill roll down your hot back.

“i want you to use me,” you say, choking back a whimper, “to fuck me— both of you. please?” your lip quivered, making satoru let out a deep chuckle.

“well how can we say no? considering you asked so nicely.”

with that, suguru pushed your bottoms to the side, starting out with a single finger. he started at your hole, making his way up to your clit and then back down again.

“shit satoru, she’s so fucking wet.” he circles your open, making you twitch. he sinks the first finger into you, feeling just how your cunt clung to him, gushing all over his wrist.

“greedy girl,” he mumbled under his breath, adding a second finger. his hand flicked up, pumping in and out while satoru finally locked his lips against your breasts.

pecking them with kisses, his groans vibrated onto your skin, as he licked his way towards your nipple.

“feels so good,” you moan, feeling how your walls pulse around suguru. it was pure bliss, basking in the pleasure that was crashing over you like a wave.

“m close” you informed them as that familiar knot began forming in your stomach. just as you prepared for the best, suguru’s rhythm stopped.

“not yet, you haven’t even felt my cock yet.” you let out an embarrasing whine. suguru takes one of the fingers that was just inside you and glides his tongue across it, humming about how good you taste. “try it satoru.”

the white haired boy listened, detaching his hungry lips from your nipples and reattached them to suguru’s finger.

“mm—you’re right, so sweet!” he began a palming at his swim shorts, tired of the built up tension. suguru feels the same, and you hold your breath as they reveal what they’d been hiding all along.

both of them having their bathing suits pulled down just enough to expose their dripping cocks. both of them are long, although suguru’s seems to be a little bit thicker. their tips are flushing, sticky with precum, anticipating just how roughly they’re gonna use you.

suguru flips you on your stomach again, and you’re face to watch with satoru’s cock. his angry head stares down at you, making your mouth water with the way he strokes it.

from behind you, suguru drags his dick against your pussy, rubbing a circle into you swollen clit.

“please fuck me su, please” you beg, and they both laugh at how needy you’ve become for your friends.

“looks like she’s already learning how to be a good slut,” suguru exclaims, lining himself up with your tight cunt.

he slams his hips into you, grabbing your waist and driving you deeper and deeper on his cock. your eyes feel like they’re rolling behind your head, and your mouth falls open only for it to be filled by satoru.

he starts with his thumb, like he’s checking just how wet your mouth is. you swirl his digit on your tongue, fluttering your eyes open in order to look up at him. he can sense your hungry eyes and only juts his hips forward, giving you unfiltered access to his dick.

kissing his tip, you hear how much he’s enjoying it. saying your name softly under his breath, like he’s ready to crumble already. you stroke his cock carefully until he orders you to open wide, and you follow directions to a tee.

he paused for a moment, watching his friends steady pace, trying to match it. while suguru has pulled back a bit from your sloppy pussy, satoru fills your mouth. his dick as a slight upturn, hitting against the top of your throat.

both litter the air with their curses, praising how sexy you were, a cheeky little peach, a slut just for them. their thrusts soon become synchronized and while satoru is pushing your head closer to the base of his shaft, suguru reaches around you, stimulating your clit.

“her pussy’s so tight right now,” suguru tells his counterpart.

“trying to make me jealous?” satoru grunts.

“maybe,” suguru snickers.

they both intensify the speed at which they fuck you. geto slaps your ass as if bounces, swallowing his cock with every backwards motion. being in the position that he’s in, he can feel how you’re tensing up, your insides are tingling— you’re close. he can feel his own release building up, but he can’t finish before the two of you.

“are you gonna cum around my cock?” he asks, placing kisses along your back.

satoru groans; still not wanting to be left out of all the fun. he continues from where suguru left off: “are you gonna cum with my dick in your mouth?” he lets out a breath, “are you ready to have two holes filled with cum at the same time? wouldn’t that be fun?”

at that moment your toes curl, your back arching, tearing rolling down your face. as you unravel, the boys follow behind you. when they ask you about it later, you can’t remember who finished first, as every thought in your mind had vanished, all you could think of was how stuffed you felt.

cum gushed from your pussy and your mouth, swallowing as much of it as you possibly could.

satoru’s hand pet the back of your head, watching in delight as he cleaned up the last drop from the corner of your lips.

suguru let his cock rest inside you for an extra moment, groaning as you removed himself, eyeing the trail of semen that was slipping down towards your slit. he brought your swim bottoms back to their original positions, giving your cunt a pretty little tap.

“maybe we should come to the beach more often.” suguru laughs, seeing how you lay against the towel, surrendering yourself to them.

a/n: don’t forget to like and reblog if you liked it!

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ruinix · 3 days ago

Note

The think fast I'm a random girl tik tok with Will Smith or Quinn Hughes?

Hello, lovely. With Quinn, yes, yes. (Sorry, I don't write for Will 😞 he's my child). I doomscrolled for this and another challenge in my inbox. I tried, of course. I always do. I hope you’ll like this. My bad for taking so long! You asked this back in April. I hope you’re still there. We thank @mrshelenhoran for sending me the picture on the left (of the banner). It visually screams QUINN—the facial hair, the nose, the plump lower lip.

Outfits & Evasions

TW/CW: 18+, Fluff, lots of kisses, Tiktok Challenge: Think fast, I'm a random girl. Slight suggestive tones.

Count: 1907 words | Masterlist

You are blasting songs in your shared walk-in closet. Hearing you sing along in some verses perfectly eases Quinn while he prepares for your date.

He combs through his hair with his fingers. When his hair keeps poking out by his ears in an uncomfortable way, he puts the tiniest bit of hair wax to tame his waves, tucking them behind his ears. After doing his hair, he washes his hand, drying them soon after.

He stares at himself, examining his beard. He runs his hand over it, tilting his head from side to side, his fingers feeling its length along his jaw, his chin. He squints at his moustache which is the same length as his beard. It is more than a stubble now but still tamed in his opinion. He wonders if he should’ve shaved it earlier.

You did tell him that you liked his beard, but that was two days ago. What if you don’t like his beard for your date? What if you prefer him to be clean shaven? Or maybe a shorter beard? Maybe he should trim it. Will you hate him for his facial hair? Why the fuck is he getting antsy right now?

He should stop.

So he does.

Sighing, he exits the bathroom, still hearing you rummage through your things behind the slightly ajar door beyond music. He wants to peek in and ask about his beard, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing. He knows that you take your preparations seriously, especially for dates.

However, he is curious if he is matching you. He likes it when his outfit matches yours, or at least, compliments it. He holds himself back because he also wants to be surprised if you are, so he doesn’t peek. Besides, despite being so proud of his fit—a safe combination of white linen-shirt with sleeves rolled up and khaki colored dress pants—he is open to change when he finally sees you. He doesn’t want you to change because of his clothes. He can do it himself. It will take him less than a minute to put on a new outfit. It will be easy. Well, he hopes it will be.

After he put on his dress shoes, ignoring the call of his sneakers, he sits down on the couch, throwing a slight glance to where he hid a bouquet of flowers he got delivered an hour ago. He lets the minutes pass, patiently waiting for you.

He scrolls through the messages from his family and replying to them while ignoring the “important” mails from Canucks management. At some point, he is humming a tune of one of your songs as he goes to Instagram. He instantly goes to your profile, staring hard into your posts like it’s his first time seeing them. He undoes the second button of his shirt after his body heats at the simple sight of your beauty. What can he do? You’re marvelous. While he is a simple man who easily gets turned on by you.

He hears your footsteps, halting his horny thoughts. He looks up, his jaw dropping instantly. You’re wearing a cream-colored dress with light brown ribbons crisscrossing down your sides, cinching the waist before it comes down to a flowy skirt that ends just a couple inches from your knees. Your neckline is low enough to hint your cleavage, giving ample space for your well-coordinated necklaces—some he had gifted you throughout the length of your relationship. You wear a particular flower-shaped earring with tiny diamonds on their centers and a few bracelets. . You looked amazing, so comfortable and pretty.

The shoulder bag that is perfectly the same shade as his pants is brimming with keychain trinkets, loudly blinking against each other. Quinn bets those trinkets weigh heavier than your bag and its contents. He will, for sure, carry it by the end of the night and he won't mind that. He’ll be delighted to carry your stuff for you.

You are matching him. The colors of your outfits fit and compliment one another. It makes him feel giddy, a slight blush coloring the tops of his cheeks the more he looks at you. He wants to say that you’re beautiful, but his words keep getting stuck on his throat as he stares while you set up your phone against the window. He’s utterly mesmerized by the way your skirt moved with your steps. You look ethereal.

"Quinny. Come." You grin, beckoning him with your hand and especially with your sweet smile.

That smile distracts him. He doesn't notice that you have this devious look in your eyes. That your phone is already recording, red circle blinking as time increases. That you are giggling, not just because of him following you without protest, but also because you are clearly concocting something. Quinn usually can see when you are planning something, but not now.

All he can think about is that you are calling him, so he needs to come to you.

He’s so lost in your smile, in the sparkle in your eyes, in you.

"You look handsome," you praise him the moment his hand touches yours.

Now, Quinn is full-on blushing. Your compliments truly hit him down to his core. There was something about compliments when they came from you. They mean so much more, because he knows that you mean your words. You are pure like that. The light of his life.

"You're beautiful," he throws back, grabbing your waist, pulling you flush against him, sighing when you wrap your arms around his nape. It emphasizes how perfectly you fit against him, in his arms. “We match., my Love.”

“Yes,” you murmur.

Quinn gazes at your lips that shine with your tinted lip gloss. He’s getting too focused on them, his mouth watering. His need to kiss you grows by the second, so he does. Just a soft peck. Then another, his tongue darting out to lick your glossed lips, groaning at its taste mixed with you. Again, another, slipping his tongue past your pretty lips, meeting your tongue. Perfect. You taste perfect.

He cups the back of your head. He feels absolutely greedy as he kisses your lip gloss off your lips, as he keeps on deepening the kiss when you want to take pictures with him. He can’t help it. He needs to kiss you. All the time.

"Quinn," you murmur, smiling into the kiss.

You giggle when he groans a whimper, because you’re torturing him now. You pull away just enough to not allow him to slip his tongue into your lips again, to make him be at ease with small desperate kisses. He needs to kiss you as deep, so he tries to beg his way with those kisses, panting as you reciprocate some kisses but not all. His brows furrow together as confusion settles in his gut.

Your hand presses on his chest, pushing him away, so he backs off. Hesitantly. Tears almost burn their way out of his tear ducts. He finally notes the evil glint in your eyes. What the fuck is happening—

"Think fast, I’m a random girl,” you say in a raspy tone that almost draws him in.

No, it does draw him in. He almost kisses you again, your words not sinking into his hazed mind until they do. They sink in a snap. The hair at the back of his nape stands. Sharp shivers ran down his spine as you lean in, luring him in like a siren singing to lure weak-willed men who don’t know they are walking to their deaths.

He instantly recoils from you, instantly six feet away. Maybe even more. Especially when you try to chase after him.

“No,” he grits out.

The word almost doesn’t come out because he never likes saying no to you, but he has to right now, because you’re a…random girl? Honestly, he’s confused as fuck. He only wants to kiss you and you’re not you? This is fucked. He doesn’t like this. Is this a test? He doesn’t like this test.

“Come on, let’s kiss, Quinn.” You manage to grip his arm. Your nails graze his skin. “Just one kiss.”

Quinn nearly folds. How can he not? You are looking at him with such wide eyes. Your touch electrifies his whole body down to his soul. You’re telling him to kiss you, the one thing he wants to do right now. Your tongue licks your lip before you bite down on it. You blink up at him, your hand running up and down his arm. He’s so close to doing what you ask.

Instead, he grips your hand, firmly pushing it away, then he turns away. His heart pounds in his chest from the adrenaline, from the sting of the mere act of putting his back on you. His body tenses. His whole being is protesting. He hates this.

When you try to touch him, he moves away, refusing to look at you directly. He side-eyes you, but even then, he is only looking at your hands to avoid them. He can’t look at your face. He knows he’ll lose it. He tries to be mad at you for trying this test on him, but he can’t. He is only upset that he wants your hands to touch him again. The sound of your giggle is making him cave.

“So this is what you’ll do when you have a persistent girl on you?” You ask, stepping back, holding your hands behind you. “Saying no and not letting them touch you?”

Quinn finally looks at your face. He’s refusing to speak, his lips pursing together. He’s getting annoyed by the distance between you two more than he should be annoyed that you are laughing at him doing his best because this is literally unfair. You are never going to be a random girl. Not when you’re you. He will easily just walk away if there is an actual random girl trying to kiss him. Fuck, he might even just call security, wherever he is. He should say that, but he is really upset that you’re too fucking far.

He knows you can see him being upset, because your laughter dies down, your lips pouting. “It’s a TikTok challenge, you know.”

He grunts, his hands twitching from the need to pull you in his arms.

“Aww, come on, Quinny.” You spread your arms for him to which he squints at. “I’m no longer a random—”

He rushes to you, hugging you tightly.

“Kiss me,” he demands. He melts when you kiss him, appeasing him. Your proximity pushes his upset out of his system. “If you’re going to test me, don’t do it when I’m desperate for you. Is that clear?”

“Okay.” You shiver, nodding, gripping and crumpling his shirt.

Quinn doesn’t care about his fucking shirt. He only cares that he gets his point across. It’s clear that it is. So, he punishes you with a deeper kiss, holding you to him with a hand on your lower back and on your nape.

He doesn’t stop.

He kisses and tastes you for minutes, until he feels you rubbing your legs together, until he hears your tiny whines and moans.

It's his turn to tease you. Not with a challenge. Just with a promise of more.

He stops kissing you, grinning when you groan.

“Time for our date, my Love.”

#sorry for the wrong grammars #no BETA yet #quinn hughes #qh43 #qhughes #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes drabble #quinn hughes fluff #ruinix answers #ruinix drabbles #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #sweet #sweet quinn

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pitlanepeach · 17 hours ago

Text

The Long Way Home I Chapter Nine

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Guys…. I was watching young!Oscar edits before writing this chapter and it’s made me so emotional omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It was colder than it looked.

The wind off the track cut straight through Harper's jumper, even with Mark's spare team jacket draped over her shoulders. It smelled faintly like petrol and stale coffee, but it was warm, and she wasn't about to complain.

Oscar was somewhere past the pit lane, already strapped into the car. The livery was nice — mostly black, matte, with just a splash of deep blue on the sides. The team was new, too. Small. Scrappy. Privately funded and all nerves and duct tape. But Oscar looked right in the car.

He looked like he belonged there.

Harper shifted on the folding chair outside the tent, hands tucked under her thighs to keep them warm. Five and a half months pregnant meant back pain and always being hungry — and maternity tights that itched like hell.

A few mechanics from other teams kept sneaking glances her way.

She couldn't hear them whispering, but she could imagine what they were saying.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Christ, they're only fifteen."

"Looks like she's gonna pop any minute..."

Mark handed her a paper cup of tea and sat down beside her without a word. He didn't look at the men. Didn't say anything about the whispers either. He just passed her a packet of Jaffa Cakes and kicked his feet up on the crate beside them like they were sitting at a beach instead of a professional racetrack.

"You alright, kid?" He asked eventually, his voice low and gruff in that Aussie way that sounded more like gravel than concern.

She nodded. "Just a bit tired. And uncomfortable."

He let out a soft grunt of sympathy. "Yeah. I bet."

Harper blinked. "You really never wanted kids?"

"Nah. Not yet. Still got time."

Harper sipped her tea. "Is it mad I'm more nervous than Oscar about today?"

Mark shook his head. "Not mad. Just means you give a shit. Which is nice."

From the garage, the radio crackled to life. Oscar's voice, tinny but steady. "Copy. Track feels good. Brake balance is stable."

Harper let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

One of the press photographers drifted too close, camera already raised. Mark turned his head just slightly, and that was enough. A look — one part ex-racer, one part protector — and the guy scuttled off like he'd nearly stepped on a landmine.

"Thanks," Harper murmured.

"You're with me," Mark said simply, like that explained everything. "They don't get to treat you like a bloody spectacle."

Across the paddock, Oscar's car wheeled into view, engine snarling, tyres twitching with that jumpy, pre-race tension. The pit crew moved in a flurry. Helmet on. Visor down. And then he was gone — off into the formation lap with that twitchy, fast grace he always had when he wasn't thinking too hard.

Harper watched the car disappear around the corner. Her hands curled around her bump.

"I hate this part," she whispered.

"The waiting?" Mark asked.

"The knowing he might crash," she admitted.

Mark nodded like he knew that fear well. "He's good," he said. "Bloody talented. But more than that, he's got the head for it. That's rare."

Harper blinked down at her belly. "Yeah," she said. "He'll be a good dad too."

Mark looked at her — not with pity, not with surprise — but with something older. Like respect.

"I think you're braver than he is," he said after a pause.

"Doubt it," she said quickly.

"Don't," he said. "You're a bloody teenager. But you're here. And you're not hiding."

She didn't answer, but she didn't look away either.

Then a shout went up from the track. The lights went out. The race had begun.

Harper's breath caught.

Oscar's car — P6 on the grid — slotted into the pack like it belonged there. And it wasn't even two laps before he was chasing the front runners, tyres biting, throttle feathered like a pro.

Mark leaned back, arms crossed.

"Told you," he said.

And Harper, despite the murmurs, despite the cold, despite the weight of everything pressing down on her chest — smiled.

Because yeah.

Oscar was flying.

—

The paddock was still buzzing — cars being wheeled off, radios crackling, tyres cooling, mechanics shouting over each other with the wild relief of a clean finish. Somewhere in the distance, someone was setting off an airhorn. Mark was yelling into a phone about tyres.

Oscar ducked under the awning, helmet tucked under his arm, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His race suit was half-unzipped, tied around his waist, black fireproof undershirt soaked through at the collar.

Harper was already there, perched on a crate by the spare front wing. Her hands were clenched in her lap, face flushed. When she saw him, she stood too fast, steadied herself, and exhaled.

"You finished fifth," she said breathlessly. "Fifth, Osc. Your single seater debut and you finished fifth!"

"I know." He was grinning so hard it barely fit on his face. "I overtook on Copse. Did you see it?"

"Did I—" She gave a strangled laugh. "Yes, I saw it! You nearly gave me a fucking aneurysm."

Oscar dropped his helmet and practically launched himself at her. His arms went around her, careful but tight, like he couldn't decide whether to hold her or just collapse.

Harper melted into the hug, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

"You smell awful," she muttered.

"Victory sweat," he said into her hair. "Don't disrespect it."

She made a noise halfway between a snort and a sob. Her hands clung to the back of his fireproofs, fingers knotting the fabric.

"People were staring," she said quietly. "It'll be all over the forums, soon. Twitter. Instagram. The fifteen year old F4 driver with a pregnant girlfriend."

"I know."

"I don't want us to have a negative impact on your career."

Oscar's face softened. He glanced around — there were still people watching. Journalists, team members, other drivers. Some looking curiously. Some not bothering to hide their judgment.

He ducked his head, touched his forehead gently to hers. "Let them stare," he murmured. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't get to decide anything."

She blinked fast. "I cried during the final lap."

"Mark probably cried too. He's emotionally repressed — that man leaks feelings through his jaw tension."

Harper giggled in spite of herself. "I'm really proud of you, Osc."

Oscar smiled — not the flashy, race-day grin, but the soft, private one he only really gave to her. "Thanks for being here," he said.

"Thanks for not crashing." She whispered.

Oscar looked at her belly. Rested a hand there, carefully, then glanced around awkwardly to make sure nobody was around.

"She kicked right after you overtook that kid in the green car," Harper said softly.

His head turned back to her and his eyes widened. "Wait, really?"

"Swear to God. She's already got road rage."

Oscar laughed.

Then Mark shouted across the garage, "Oi, golden boy — debrief in ten, and put on a bloody shirt before someone files a harassment complaint!"

Oscar winced. "Sorry." He muttered.

Harper shook her head. "Go on. Go be told how amazing and fast and talented you are."

"You staying?"

"Obviously." She said. "I'm going to get a 99 from the ice cream van. Then I'll come back here and wait for you."

Oscar kissed her cheek and jogged off, still bouncing on adrenaline, slipping slightly on a rogue bit of tyre rubber.

Harper sat back down on the crate. Someone was still staring. She stared right back.

Because yeah — she was pregnant. And fifteen.

But her boyfriend had just placed fifth in his first-ever F4 race.

And that was worth staring at.

—

The TV was on but muted — something about rugby. Oscar was lying on his stomach on the hotel bed in a pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone. Harper sat against the headboard in one of his hoodies, her knees pulled up to her chest, laptop open, trying not to cry over a piece of geometry homework.

She wasn't looking at her maths anymore.

She was looking at Twitter.

And Twitter was, as always, a shitshow.

Great drive but this kid's clearly distracted. Pregnant girlfriend in the paddock at 15? Insane.

Piastri could be a serious talent. Shame he's going to have a kid to think about soon.

Imagine choosing fatherhood over your chance to get into Formula 1. Bet he'll be gone in two years.

She swallowed. Her stomach felt hollow.

Oscar hadn't noticed yet. He was watching some replay clips. Laughing occasionally.

She didn't want to ruin it. But her hand was gripping her laptop so hard her knuckles had gone white.

"...Harp?"

She didn't answer. Just tilted the screen so he could see.

His expression changed in slow motion. First confused, then wary, then flat.

He sat up. Took the laptop. Scrolled. Frowned. Clicked on a few replies.

"...Wow," he said finally. "Bit harsh."

Harper laughed — but it was brittle, bitter. "They think you've ruined your life."

"They're all middle-ages arseholes."

"They think I've ruined your life." She said again.

Oscar shut the laptop.

"Alright. First of all," he said, voice tight but trying for calm, "no more Twitter for you. Second, you have not, and will not, ruin anything."

As if summoned, Mark knocked on the adjoining door, then walked in without waiting for a response. He had a protein bar in one hand and a face like thunder.

"Piastri," he said, tossing his phone on the bed. "You seen this?"

"Yeah," Oscar said. "We were just looking."

Mark ran a hand through his hair. "Some knobhead ex-club driver started a whole thread about you being 'a warning to others'. Like you're a fucking cautionary tale."

Harper blinked. "Jesus."

"I know," Mark snapped. "I did ten years in F1. You want scandal? That sport invented it. Teen pregnancy is far from the craziest thing this sport has seen."

Oscar shrugged. "They'll forget in a week."

"They won't," Mark said bluntly. "They'll keep watching. Keep waiting for you to mess it up. But you're not going to."

Harper stayed quiet. Her throat felt tight.

Mark glanced at her, then back at Oscar.

"You know what they hate more than a scandal?" he said. "A happy ending."

Oscar looked confused. Harper blinked.

"They want the downfall," Mark said. "They want tears, breakups, chaos. Give them stability? A kid who knows what matters and still wins races?" He smiled grimly. "Boring as hell. That's when they'll move on."

Oscar leaned back against Harper. "Should be easy enough."

"Damn right," Mark muttered. "Now. Shut the laptop. Eat something. And get some sleep. We've got a long drive back to Haileybury in the morning."

Harper smiled weakly. Oscar reached over and twined their fingers together.

—

The media room was too warm. That annoying kind of hotel conference room warmth — recirculated air and instant coffee and the stink of fresh lanyards. Oscar sat in a folding chair between two cheap potted plants, fingers locked under his thigh to stop himself fidgeting.

The interviewer's name was Cal. Maybe Calum. He had a half-rolled sleeve and expensive trainers and a voice that sounded like it practiced banter in a mirror.

Oscar already hated him.

"So!" Cal beamed. "Oscar Piastri. Big weekend. Huge season ahead for you. People are saying you're the next big thing in motorsport."

Oscar blinked. "Okay."

Cal laughed. "Modest, huh? That an Aussie thing? You're a bit of an enigma to people. Quiet on socials. Not much media before now. First proper post-karts season. And now—" He leaned forward. "You've got a baby on the way?"

Oscar's jaw twitched. "Yep."

"That's... big, man. Most lads your age are just getting their first girlfriends, and you're going to be a dad. How does that feel?"

Oscar stared at him for a beat too long.

"I dunno," he said finally. "Feels like what it is. A big deal. Exciting."

"Right. And is that affecting how you train? I mean, balancing a championship with—"

"No."

Cal's eyebrows lifted.

"Right, right," he said. "But I mean — come on, be honest. There's gotta be some pressure. You've got the fans, the sponsors, and now you're about to start your own family. That's not a normal situation for a fifteen-year-old. Does it ever feel like... too much?"

Oscar shrugged. "I don't really think about it like that."

"Do you feel like people judge you for it?"

Oscar gave a small, unpleasant smile. "They judge me for everything. Winning. Not winning. What I wear. How I speak."

There was a brief silence. Cal glanced down at his notes, then back up again, brightening.

"And Harper — your girlfriend — is she here with you today?"

Oscar blinked once. "No. She's got an exam today."

"Ah. Fair enough. Does she follow your racing, though? Come to most of your events?"

"Yeah," Oscar said shortly. "When she can. She enjoys it."

"Was she with you after your debut this weekend?"

Oscar's voice was flat now. "Don't think that's your business, mate."

Cal laughed again — nervous this time. "Fair, fair. Just trying to paint the picture, y'know? Let fans in. They love a story. You two are young, expecting a baby — kind of a motorsport fairytale."

Oscar shifted in his seat. "It's not a fairytale."

"Okay. What is it, then?"

Oscar looked him dead in the eye. "It's just our life," he said.

Cal nodded. "Right. Okay, moving on—"

Mark was waiting outside the interview room with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.

Oscar walked straight past him. "Didn't say anything stupid," he muttered.

Mark raised a brow. "No, but you scared the life out of that guy. He looked like he was about to piss himself."

Oscar shrugged. "He was trying to get a headline out of me. Didn't want to let that happen."

Mark gave a short, approving nod. "Good lad."

⸻

It went live that night.

Harper sat cross-legged on Jane's bed, flicking through it with a familiar sinking feeling in her chest.

Prodigy Piastri — How The Karting Star Made It To F4 at Fifteen

He might be young, but he's not here for the headlines. In an exclusive with Race Circuit Magazine, the 15-year-old rising star gave his first ever interview since being promoted — and made it clear that while his driving's for the public, his private life stays off-track.

"It's not a fairytale," Piastri said when asked about his highly publicised relationship with girlfriend Harper Whiatt and their pregnancy. "It's just our life."

Harper exhaled. Somewhere between proud and rattled and hungry (always hungry).

Jane peeked over her shoulder. "He's a bit scary, isn't he? In interviews."

"Yeah," Harper said softly. "He just — he doesn't like the drama of it all. He just wants to drive fast and win races."

Jane snorted. "Well. He's definitely not a media darling."

"No," Harper murmured. "He's not. But he's mine."

—

The email came through just after prep. She hadn't even opened it straight away — just stared at the subject line, stomach knotting.

GCSE Maths Mock Results - Personal Performance Review Requested

She knew.

Didn't need to read the rest.

Now she was sitting at the end of Oscar's bed with her knees pulled up and her hands under her thighs like she was holding herself together. Her phone lay face-down on the blanket beside her. The others were filtering in slowly, already clocking the atmosphere.

"Harper?" Oscar asked, closing the door behind him, gently.

She didn't look up.

"Failed it," she said, voice flat. "The maths mock."

Sam paused halfway through opening a bag of Frazzles. Jane, already cross-legged on the rug, stopped fiddling with her pens. Matt and Alfie came to a sort of unspoken halt in the doorway like they'd stepped into bad weather.

Oscar moved to sit beside her, quiet. "By how much?"

"Twenty-three percent." She gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't even make it past halfway. Even with the extra time."

No one said anything.

She hated the silence. Hated what she imagined they were all thinking — that it had been obvious, that it was coming, that she wasn't cut out for this. For school. For exams. For any of it.

"I'm just —" She rubbed her eyes hard. "I'm trying. I'm really fucking trying."

Oscar didn't say anything. He just leaned in and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

"We know you are," he said quietly.

Jane dragged her bag over and pulled out a Tesco meal deal she'd been saving. Wordlessly handed Harper the chocolate bar.

"I don't want pity snacks," Harper muttered.

"Tough. It's not pity. It's a twirl."

Sam flopped onto his bed with a dramatic groan. "Do you seriously think any of us are going to actually pass that exam? I sat next to a guy who drew a dick on his calculator and still scored higher than me."

Alfie shrugged. "I once wrote the word 'MATHS' in block capitals and then panicked and cried into the desk for fifteen minutes. Still got a D."

Matt snorted. "I actually studied and still failed. So clearly, revision's a scam."

Harper huffed a little through her nose. "You're all idiots."

"Exactly," Jane said. "And we still believe in you more than we believe in ourselves, so."

Oscar nudged her leg. "We'll keep revising. There's still two months until the real thing."

She knew. Couldn't forget it, could she? Not when her due-date was two weeks after the last scheduled exam.

"I know," she said quietly.

For a moment, they just sat like that. Six teenagers in one too-small room, surrounded by piles of clothes and textbooks and that weird leftover smell of the chicken super noodles that Sam had brought back from the common room.

It was stuffy and crowded and stupidly warm from the broken radiator that now refused to ever stop emitting heat, but no one moved.

No one told her it was all going to be okay. No one made big promises. No one tried to fix it.

They just sat with her. Like a net beneath a tightrope.

Harper curled slightly into Oscar's side. Let herself breathe.

"Just a shit day," she murmured.

"Yeah," Sam said, mouth full of Frazzles. "We have those a lot. That's why we have each other."

—

Harper sat on the crinkly white paper lining the little bed, legs swinging nervously. The room was too bright. Oscar sat beside her in one of the plastic chairs, biting at the skin on his thumb.

"You alright?" She asked, glancing at him.

"I'm not the one about to get poked and prodded," he muttered.

She frowned at him. "Osc. You look more nervous than me."

"Not nervous. Just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Wish I could do something useful."

She snorted. "You brought me a Lucozade and remembered the stupid NHS letter."

Before he could reply, the door opened and the midwife breezed in — smiling, clipboard in hand, no-nonsense blonde bob.

"Hi, Harper. Hi, Oscar. Lovely to see you both again."

Oscar nodded awkwardly. Harper gave a small smile. "Hi, Rebecca."

"Alright then," Rebecca said, snapping on gloves. "We're just doing a very basic check-up today — nothing too scary. You're about twenty-three weeks, yeah?"

"Twenty-three and a half," Harper said, proud of how quickly it came out. "We had the anomaly scan — everything was good."

"Brilliant." Rebecca beamed. "Are you two finding out the sex, or keeping it a surprise?"

Oscar immediately busied himself with the bottle of hand sanitiser. Harper smirked. "We found out. It's a girl. Oscar told everyone."

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Ooh, exciting. Have you picked a name yet?"

"We're in committee with our friends," Harper said dryly. "It's not going well."

Oscar snorted. "Someone suggested 'Peach'."

Harper elbowed him.

"Alright," Rebecca laughed. "Well, let's have a little listen to baby's heartbeat today, yeah? Lie back for me."

Harper lay down carefully, tugging up her top and folding it beneath her chest. Her belly button had started to flatten out, which she hated. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes trained on her stomach.

Rebecca warmed the Doppler gel in her hands, then pressed the wand to Harper's skin.

Static. Then a swoosh. Then— there. A rapid, rhythmic gallop.

"I like this part," Oscar said. Quietly. "Hearing her."

Harper smiled without looking at him. "Me too."

Rebecca nodded. "Strong as anything. Around 145 bpm — that's a very happy, very wiggly baby."

Oscar was still smiling. "She's always moving."

"That's a very good sign," Rebecca said, wiping off the gel. "You two are doing just fine."

Harper tugged her shirt back down over the little swell of her belly, the cool jelly from the Doppler still tacky on her skin. She wiped her hand on a tissue and glanced at Oscar, who was perched rigidly on the chair next to the midwife's desk, like he was afraid to breathe wrong in case he broke something.

"She has a personality already," Harper said, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

Rebecca, the midwife, raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh yeah?"

Harper nodded, smoothing her hand down her stomach like she was trying to pat the baby through layers of uniform and nerves. "She's quiet in the mornings. Proper grumpy. But always awake at night. Fidgety. She kicks the second I lie down. And she loves watching Oscar race," Harper added, casting him a look. "Goes absolutely bonkers every time the engines start."

Oscar smiled faintly. "My girl."

"And she was obsessed with blackcurrant squash for two straight weeks," Harper continued. "But now she turns her nose up at it. Hates orange squash. Like... violently. I had some last week and she full-on elbowed my kidney."

Rebecca chuckled, tapping notes into the screen. "Sounds like she's already a bit of a drama queen."

Oscar grinned. "She's also a big fan of chocolate-flavoured anything — mousse, milkshake, pudding — but actual chocolate gives Harper brutal heartburn. So that's fun."

"I had a KitKat and had to lie down for an hour," Harper muttered. "It's really annoying, honestly."

Rebecca smiled warmly, clearly used to this particular kind of hormonal chaos. "She's certainly making herself known."

She clicked through a few tabs on the computer, then stood and crossed to the counter. "Alright, let's do a quick blood draw, Harper. Just to check your vitamin levels and keep an eye on blood pressure and iron. And we'll check your markers for pre-eclampsia."

Oscar immediately went still, eyes flicking up from Harper's belly to Rebecca.

"Wait — what's that?" he asked, voice a little too loud. "That sounds scary."

Harper gave him a look like please chill, but he ignored it, leaning forward in his chair.

Rebecca turned back with a gentle calm only midwives seemed to have. "It's a condition where blood pressure can spike during pregnancy. It can be serious, yes, but that's why we monitor for it so closely. Headaches, blurred vision, swelling — if anything feels off, you just tell us, okay?"

Harper nodded, but Oscar still looked vaguely stricken.

"She's fine," Harper said under her breath, nudging him. "We're just checking. It's just a check-up. That's what they do. Check things."

Oscar cleared his throat and nodded quickly, slumping back into the chair like someone had punched all the air out of his lungs. "Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Rebecca offered a reassuring smile. "You're being a really good, supportive partner, Oscar. It's good that you ask. And it's normal to worry."

That shut him up completely. His ears went red.

Harper tried not to giggle as Rebecca swabbed her arm and slid the needle in. Oscar looked like he wanted to throw himself between her and the needle but was too polite to actually move.

"It's just blood," Harper said.

"It's still your blood," Oscar muttered. "Which is, like... my second-favourite part of you."

She blinked. "What's your first-favourite part of me?"

He hesitated. Then, after a beat, said, "All the parts that grows small humans."

Rebecca laughed.

—

The engines were thunder.

Harper stood just behind the pit wall, oversized headset clamped over her ears, Mark Webber on one side of her and a row of engineers yelling data into radios on the other. The wind off the circuit was brutal — whipping her hair into her eyes, tugging at her coat. But she barely felt it.

Her heart was somewhere in her throat.

It was the final lap. Final corner. And Oscar was in second position.

She could see the shape of him — black-and-white race suit, helmet tucked low, the car twitching under pressure as he took the inside line — sharp, aggressive, clean.

And then he passed him.

"Oh my God," she sucked in a breath, gripping Mark's arm without thinking.

The car in front — the RedSpeed junior — went wide. Oscar ducked under, tyres screeching, engine screaming as he pulled into the lead like it belonged to him.

And then it was the straight.

The chequered flag waved and entire pit lane exploded — Mark swearing gleefully, the engineers howling into radios, one of the mechanics pounding his hands together.

Oscar had won.

He'd actually bloody won.

Harper was grinning like an idiot before she could even process it. Adrenaline and pride and disbelief hit her in a wave so huge she had to step back from the wall, laughing in that dazed, stunned way people only do when something brilliant happens and they have no idea how to react to it.

Mark turned to her, his voice muffled through both their headsets. "He just fucking did that."

"I know!" she shouted back, heart pounding.

"Christ, he's a machine. That move at the hairpin—" He clapped her shoulder like they were both drunk on the win. "Your bloke's got ice in his veins."

The camera crews were already swarming toward the parc fermé, where Oscar was climbing out of the car, helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, blinking like he'd just woken up from a long nap. He barely cracked a smile — just nodded once to the engineers, quiet, controlled. He always did this. Too stunned to celebrate properly. It was just how he was.

But when he saw her, standing behind the barrier, he smiled.

Not a grin. Not the shy little twitch of his mouth he gave to the cameras.

A real one. Like everything in him relaxed for just a second.

And then Harper did the very uncool thing of waving. Mark snorted beside her.

Oscar didn't wave back — too many people, too many eyes — but he dipped his head a fraction. Just enough.

She understood what it meant.

He'd won. And she'd been there to see it.

Someone near the press pen muttered, loud in ppl enough for her to hear. "Isn't that the girl? The pregnant one?"

Another voice. "Can you believe it? Fifteen."

But then the cameras and the attention turned again, as Oscar climbed up onto the podium, head down, hands behind his back, cheeks flushed with cold and quiet pride.

He didn't look at the cameras. Didn't wave. Didn't even really smile.

But when the national anthem started — just before the champagne — he looked across the track, through the fence, right at her.

And she'd never forget that smile.

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