#step y babi

[winepresswrath]

also i'm still so curious about what reintegrations looks like for people who are at odds with their other selves we have the obvious candidate (helly can go to heaven but can hellyna? also they want each other dead) but even something like irv v. irving is so wild. can irving look at irv's naïveté with affection and respect? can dylan g. empathize with outie dylan's failure to make the most out of his embarrassment of riches? despising yourself being appalled and confused by your own choices hating your own weakness alienation of the self let's gooooo.

[sun-e-chips]

Per waterpark au, you mentioned that they were able to retain water in their frame to add to their weight. Do they have any other useful skills built in?

You've yet to mention any human employees, and we already know they double as Life Guards, so I'm curious if they're able to imitate breath for CPR as necessary or if there's a proper nurse of sorts on-site for these cases. I'm curious about all of it actually. The whole AU. Like every square inch of it in fact (<<< withholding 742 more questions, visibly frothing at the mouth)

Oh ho ho!!!! I see you caught onto that lil detail hehe

Yes they have that feature built in for heavy duty labor and emergency purposes only. One of those purpose being minor construction. As of currently there are no human employees so when the park needs maintenance the sun and moon are the brawn to get the job done! Lil fun fact the park did have human employees during the first two years of the park being opened, but not in the sense you might be thinking. The waterpark is a branch of the Fazz Company but it was a very experimental one. Having animatronics mixed with water, the chair heads weren’t entirely confident in its popularity so they didn’t focus much of their attention on it during it’s construction so a small team came together to build it as a sort of passion project that could function on its own without much leadership. Hence on opening 3 types of animatronics were designed to run and maintain the waterpark. The only human employees were designers, marketers, financial advisors and other outside overseers of the park.

After the two years Sun and Moon gained ownership of the waterpark under some minor agreements. The park still has an attachment with Fazzco and all of the shares that aren’t going towards the waterpark directly go to them, other than that they released all the other responsibilities to our two animatronics. It’s not the greatest deal but Fazco doesn’t stick their nose into their business and the boys are free to do as they please with how they want to run their waterpark!

(And yes the boys are able to perform CPR haha, they can blow up a tube within 6 seconds! They also can fool around and blow the hats off of guest, it didn’t take poor y/n long to find out about that)

[active-mind-15]

Accidental Siblings AU Headcanon #5

[Ramblings related to my fic, Accidental Siblings.]

This is riding off of headcanon 3 and 4, but because Bokushi has been reborn in the body of a 5 y/o, on top of losing some of his coordination and overall control of his motor skills, he also now has the body clock of a 5 y/o, too.

He finds himself getting tired earlier and sleeping for longer, and at first, he thinks something's wrong with him. But then he is informed by the staff in the house that 10-13 hours is the average time that children his age sleep for and Bokushi is floored.

Now, most days, it takes everything he has to stay up anytime past 8:30pm, and he's kinda pissed about it because back in his heydays he could pull an all-nighter like it was nothing. Sometimes, he falls into denial about his new sleeping patterns and outright refuses to go to bed when he's supposed to, even if he's tired, because he wants to prove that he can stay up.

In these instances, if Seijuro is around, he'd be the one to try and reason with Bokushi to get him into bed, and Bokushi would always get catty with him because he doesn't want nor need to be lulled to sleep like a baby. When this happens, Seijuro never gets mad. Instead, he invites Bokushi to his own room to sit with him or to do something like play a round of shogi or even read a book. And when Bokushi starts to inevitably nod off after a short time, Seijuro pretends like he doesn't notice and waits til he falls asleep completely before rolling his eyes and carrying Bokushi back to bed.

[transbeamrooikat]

(wip) Party and Ghoul doodle that might turn in a scene in the comic I'm making but who knows

originally kinda made this for the cringetober prompt 'niche interest' but I liked the scene enough that I wanted to spend more than a day on it lmao

[arminslovurrr]

satoru "fake backshots" gojo who likes to sneak up on u when ur doing the most mundane tasks around the house and give you fake backshots.

yes, fake backshots.

washing dishes? the man is trying his hardest not to make any noise as he slips into the kitchen, watching u from behind, licking his lips at the sight of u in pajama shorts n' a lousy excuse for a tank top, tapping ur foot n' humming to a song playing in your earbuds. completely and blissfully unaware of the mischievous man lurking behind u. until u feel him, his hands sly n quick, his left getting a hold of ur hips while, his right pushes ur back into a arch. barely having time to react, all you could do was gasp, n try to push him away.

to no avail, satoru presses his pelvis into ur butt, before pulling back n thrusting his hips back n forth. satoru grinned eliciting small sighs and gasps from the same lips that complained "pervert! i can't even do the dishes in peace anymore!" . the man behind u leaned down to obnoxiously moan in ur ear in response "yea? yea? you like that, huh? like it when i take you like this?" u rolled ur eyes in annoyance, pushing his head away from your ear as he continued to thrust his bulge into ur ass. "satoru, ur so weird!"

"ohhh you love it, huh? feel good? yea? you gonna cum for me, baby? don't worry im right here with y-you- fuckkkkk!! nghhhhhh !!!!" satoru threw his head back n' at this point you couldn't tell if he was being serious or overly obnoxious like he always is. that is until he slows his movements and you look back at him. ready to scold him, but then ur eyes shift to his navy blue sweatpants, an obvious darker hue over his bulge.

"whoops" he shrugged stepping closer to u

the weirdo came in his pants

ur fully facing him as he towers over u, caging u in with the sink behind u,

"wanna do it for real now?" he lazily grinned at ur perplexed expression.

a/n: here damn 🙄.

© arminslovurr 2023-25 , do not copy, translate, make ai chat bots or alter my work in any way.

[yurizq]

ෆ You didn’t think much of it at first.

A pair missing here. A soft, cotton thong you swore you wore last week suddenly gone from your drawer. But you’re messy sometimes. Maybe you left it at your dorm, or in the wash, or— No. Now there’s five missing. And the only person who’s been in your room?

Yuji.

Your sweet, doting, flustered boyfriend who goes red anytime you even kiss his neck too long. Yuji, who insists on folding your laundry for you. Yuji, who always smells like your fabric softener.

You decide to test him. Just once.

So before you leave, you intentionally leave your favorite baby-pink pair draped across your bed.

You come back earlier than expected. The apartment’s quiet. Too quiet. Until you hear it—

Whining. Moaning.

You tiptoe forward—and nearly choke on your breath.

Yuji.

Half-naked on your bed, thick cock in one hand, your pink cotton panties crushed against his face with the other, hips jerking, thighs shaking.

"Fucking hell—smells so sweet,” he gasps into the fabric, tongue sliding over the spot that was pressed against your pussy all day. “Wore these to class, didn’t you? Bet you were wet the whole time…”

His cock twitches, leaking all over his abs, and he moans again—your name, filthy and broken.

"God, I’d eat you out through these—fucking suck your pussy through the fabric, I swear—”

You step into the room. His eyes snap open.

“...Baby—fuck—!”

You raise a brow, heart pounding. “What are you doing with my underwear?”

He scrambles to sit up, flushed and still hard.

"I—I wasn’t gonna cum with them! I just—fuck, you smelled so good—I missed you and—and I needed something—!”

You walk over, pluck the panties from his hand, and slide them down your skirt—right between your legs. Press them into your dripping pussy, grind the soft cotton into your folds until they’re soaked.

Yuji moans like he’s dying.

You hold them out. “You want them? You want the real thing?”

He grabs them, groans, then drops to his knees.

He spreads your legs, eyes glassy.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he breathes, watching your slick glisten. “All this for me?”

You nod, breath hitching.

Yuji growls—and dives in.

He eats you like it’s his last meal—sloppy, filthy, tongue fucking into your pussy while his nose grinds against your clit. Loud slurping sounds fill the room as his moans vibrate through your core.

“You taste like fucking candy—” “Wanna drown in your pussy—shit—” “Can’t stop—fuck, I won’t stop—”

You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t care. He grabs your ass, pulls you tighter against his mouth, and devours you.

You cum hard, screaming his name, but he just keeps going—tongue lapping at your clit, overstimulating you until you’re shaking.

“Yuji—Y-Yuji please—”

He pulls back, breathless, chin soaked. “Get on the bed.”

You blink, dazed. “What—?”

“Now, baby. Need to fuck you. Now.”

You’re on your back before you can think—legs spread, panties tossed aside, Yuji’s cock thick and pulsing as he lines up and slides in.

"Fuck—fuck, you’re tight—"

He fills you in one hard thrust, bottoming out, your pussy fluttering around him like it missed him.

He moans, loud and ruined. "You’re gonna let me cum inside this sweet fucking pussy, right?"

You nod desperately, gripping his shoulders.

"Say it," he growls, fucking into you harder, slamming your g-spot.

“Please—cum in me—need it—Yuji—!”

He loses it.

"F-fuck, I’m gonna fill you up—gonna fucking ruin you—"

He buries his cock deep, grinding into your cervix as hot cum spills inside you, deep, thick, so much it leaks out around his dick. He stays buried, breathing heavy, fucking it in with slow, deep thrusts.

"Now you’ll smell like me,” he pants, licking your neck. “Next time you go out in those cute panties, everyone will know who you fucking belong to.”

After?

He falls asleep between your legs, head on your belly, arms wrapped around your waist… and your panties in his fist.

Like a pervy little blanket.

[shawtuzi]

currently thinking about plug!geto beating your pussy up after a hotbox….

“oh suguruuu,” your eyes rolled back in pleasure, freshly manicured nails (paid for by yours truly) digging into his biceps as he fucked you like he hated your guts. he had your seat reclined back, knees pushed to your ears as he gave the you meanest strokes known to man.

you peered at him through your lashes, mewling when you saw he was already staring back down at you. his eyes were low n red, the tiniest smirk on his face bc he knew as long as he had you like this you couldn’t run from him. sure it was cramped as hell but shit he wasn’t complaining—especially with the way your pussy was gripping his dick.

“you look—s-shit! look so pretty like this y/n. pussy feels so fuckin’ good. . . so fuckin’ soft. am i making you feel good y/n? speak up,” he got no response in return, your attention solely focused on his the view of his dick pounding into you. the sight was very erotic. . . one could even say it was pretty. you were broken out of your thoughts by a quick slap to the face, followed by geto gripping your jaw, squishing your cheeks together.

“i said am *thrust* i *thrust* making *thrust* you fucking feel *really hard thrust* good?” you nodded frantically, tears now filling your lash line because baby he was fucking you that good. “yes—yes sugu you’re making me feel so good thank you,” you sniffled, making the sick man laugh.

“you’re so cute,” he hummed, pressing his lips to your forehead before pulling his dick nearly all the way out just to slam back inside you. he stayed in place, now choosing to grind his hips into you, his hard stomach rubbing against your clit in a way that had you seeing stars. your hands slapped against his chest, whining something along the lines of him being to deep—but right now in this moment?? there was no such thing as too deep.

in fact he recalled you telling him not too long ago you wanted to feel him in your tummy again, so he was actually doing you a favor if you think about it—but who am i kidding your not doing anyyyy thinking right now.

“m’gonna cum sugu c-can you—fuckkk-uh!” suguru was already one step ahead of you, the rough pads of his ring and middle fingers now rubbing vicious circles on your clit. your body tensed, thighs shaking as you came on his dick for what felt like the umpteenth time. geto fucked you through your orgasm, his own trailing behind as he came in you with one last stroke.

*sighs dreamily* hotboxes with geto were always the best

˚ʚ♡ɞ

[kthologue]

then and now — gojo satoru

synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, mentions of pregnancy, time travel inaccuracies probably, not proofread :x

you’re not quite sure how you ended up here.

one minute, you were curled up in bed, fighting a wave of nausea courtesy of the growing child of the strongest inside of you. the next, you were wandering toward the kitchen, wondering what was taking your husband so long to bring you the damn breakfast he promised — only to find him standing rigid in front of the stove, staring down…

himself.

you blink.

twice.

“satoru, what’s taking so long—”

your voice dies in your throat the second your eyes land on him. no — not him, but a younger, wide-eyed, hopelessly awe-struck version of him. standing in your kitchen, mouth parted, face pale, and gaze locked entirely on you.

you freeze.

he stares.

you stare back.

and then—oh no—he starts to smile. bright. dopey. disbelieving. there might actually be drool.

the younger gojo looks at you like you’re made of stars and everything he’s ever wanted in life, and you’re only in your husband’s oversized tee shirt. 

he looks like he’s about to fall in love with you on the spot.

then comes your gojo.

he appears behind you like summoned by jealousy itself, pressing flush against your back, arms encircling you. his chin hooks over your shoulder as he narrows his eyes at his teenage self with all the warning.

“oi,” your husband growls low, “eyes off my wife, you brat.”

the trance breaks instantly.

“what the hell—she’s my wife too!” younger gojo snaps, voice cracking in disbelief.

“like hell she is,” your husband shoots back, his hand sliding possessively down to cradle the swell of your belly. “i put a baby in her.”

you choke on air.

teen gojo’s eyes drop down—

—and bug out.the younger gojo is practically gaping, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he stares between you and your husband. "y-you let this man impregnate you?!" he blurts out, the crudeness making you flush with heat.

you feel the immediate rush of embarrassment. “i—how— satoru, explain.”

both of them whip their heads around at the mention of his name, as if they were no more than dogs waiting for a command.

your husband rubs your back, “i guess my younger self must have managed to travel to the future.”

you’re gaping at the two men.

the younger version of him is practically wagging his tail, a wide grin tugging at his lips like he’s just won first place in something that actually mattered. he looks completely lost in his own world to understand his future self’s subtle jab, and you could swear you hear him whispering under his breath, breathless and giddy—“i did it, i did it, i did it.”

“ah,” you slowly try to rationalize. “satoru, i know this might seem strange, but—”

“no, no,” your husband cuts you off with a tight squeeze around your waist, leaning slightly into you. “i’m satoru. he’s just gojo.” his tone makes it clear who he thinks should have the honor of the name, but his attention never leaves his younger self, and the muscles in his jaw are flexing.

the younger gojo squints, confused, then his face contorts with a mix of irritation and amusement. “since when did i become so uptight?”

your husband snorts. "yeah, well, you have a lot of growing up to do."

the younger gojo mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back, his posture almost defensive. "i get it. you put on the blindfold and suddenly you're mr. 'i've got it all figured out.'"

the tension in the room thickens, palpable between the two men.

"yeah," the older gojo retorts, voice steady but tinged with a bit of pride. "and i also got the girl of my dreams."

the younger gojo’s eyes narrow, his voice rising, "she’s my dream girl too!"

the older gojo shifts, locking his gaze on his younger self. his expression hardens, becoming a little sharper. "she’s my wife. not yours."

you sigh, exasperated, stepping between them. “oh, for heaven’s sake. you’re both the same person. you’re arguing with yourself.”

younger gojo leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on you. “i could love you just as much as he does, you know.”

your husband scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “please. you don’t even know what to do with her yet.”

“try me.”

“enough!” you snap, your glare cutting through the air like a blade. there’s no mistaking the warning in your eyes, a silent promise that things are about to escalate if they don’t stop.

both satorus fall silent in an instant as they both straighten at your words.

“me and the baby are starving,” you declare, your tone laced with a hint of challenge. “and if neither of you plans on helping, i guess i’ll have to do it myself.”

the younger satoru’s eyes flicker to your growing belly, then back to you.

in an instant, they’re both at your side, moving in synchrony like two halves of a whole, each hand hovering near you, as if they could protect you from something, but you know the truth. it’s not about protection. it’s about proximity—about the excuse to touch you.

“you know,” the younger satoru murmurs, a playful glint in his eyes, “you’re even more beautiful now. who would've thought you could get hotter?”

your breath catches at the unexpected compliment, and before you can stop it, your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the heat of the room. “t-thank you,” you mutter, not quite looking at him, trying to hide the effect his words have on you.

your husband, who’s been standing just behind you, makes no attempt to hide his irritation. his gaze sharpens, but his voice remains smooth, controlled—too controlled. “it’s no surprise, of course,” he says, his hand sliding around your waist in a possessive gesture, pulling you a little closer, a subtle but undeniable claim. “you’ve always been breathtaking. she’s glowing, don’t you think?”

you feel his lips brush against your temple as he says it, and though his words are directed at the younger satoru, they’re meant for you—just the two of you, wrapped in this small, intimate moment. his grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent declaration of ownership that you can feel in your bones.

“thank you, dear,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s a flicker in your chest that betrays you—something more than just appreciation for the compliment.

as you open the fridge, you don’t notice the younger gojo’s subtle frown at the pet name, nor the way your husband’s chest puffs just a little, satisfaction practically radiating off him. but you do feel it. the electricity. the unspoken challenge. and you can’t help but wonder which of them will break first.

the clink of chopsticks and the sound of your satisfied hums fill the room as the three of you eat breakfast, the tension at the table simmering beneath the surface. the younger gojo eyes the older version of himself from across the table, suspicion flickering behind his sharp gaze.

he sets his bowl down slowly.

“so tell me,” he says finally, chopsticks tapping against ceramic. “how’d you do it?”

the older gojo raises a brow. “do what?”

younger gojo tilts his head pointedly in your direction. “get her. my [name] doesn’t want to do anything with me.”

your husband doesn’t miss a beat. he smirks, annoyingly smug, and drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like a trophy. “i charmed the living daylights out of her. obviously.”

you give him a flat look. 

your husband ignores you. “she thought i was endearing.”

“i thought you were desperate,” you add with a sly smile.

he turns toward you, hand over his heart like he’s been shot. “desperation? is that what we’re calling devotion now?”

“you were on both knees when you proposed,” you point out, smug.

“i really wanted you to say yes,” he mutters, now clearly sulking. he stabs at his food like it personally offended him.

across the table, the younger gojo leans in, chin propped in one hand as he watches the two of you. there's something soft in his eyes now, envy tempered with awe. 

“don’t listen to him,” you say with a playful smile, your gaze softening as you turn to your husband. “i only gave you a chance when i realized how big your heart is. how much you really care. your dedication to reshaping jujutsu society—that’s what made me see you weren’t just a nuisance.”

both gojo's eyes widen in shock, clearly not expecting that.

your husband, though, pouts, his usual smugness replaced with playful mock hurt.

“aww~” he whines, a teasing lilt to his voice. “i think you’ve got a little crush on me!”

you narrow your eyes, a warning simmering beneath your words. “satoru, i’m about to bite your head off.”

he grins, leaning in with that signature mischief. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

the younger gojo’s eyes dart between the two of you. perhaps his future wasn’t too bad.

[sttoru]

pls pls pls 🥹 older bf! gojo fucking the attitude out of his gf

 𝝑𝑒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. satoru picks you up after your lecture to spend quality time with you, only to realise you got an attitude that needs some fixing.

tags. dom older bf!gojo x female reader. smut, pwp but also with plot. age gap (reader early 20’s, satoru early 30’s). rough. hints of degradation. p in v -> unprotected. standing doggy. semi-public. spanking. hair pulling. name calling. creampīe. nicknames ‘princess, baby’. wc: 3.2k

“mind telling me who that was, baby?” satoru asks while he fixes his sunglasses. he pushes his hair back a little, walking beside you through campus. you had just finished your study session with a boy who’s in your statistics class. your lovely boyfriend offered to pick you up and take you back home after that.

though, despite the kind gesture, you’re still visibly stressed after revising the material. your mind is occupied with all sorts of stuff you need to know before your exam on thursday.

“just a classmate,” you respond curtly, not even looking at satoru. you’re speeding ahead of him, wanting to rush home already. you nibble on your bottom lip and your brows are furrowed due to the distress, “why do you care?”

that sentence came out harsher than you had expected it to. you don’t mean to be bitchy, but you’re under too much stress at the moment. your body reacts before you can withstand it.

satoru is silent for a few seconds. he’s surprised by the tone of voice you used. he keeps on following you, however, not letting your little comment ruin the conversation. he’s there to help you, not to make you even more upset.

which is why he tries to lighten the mood.

“oh?” satoru chuckles, his dimples showing. he easily keeps up with you, his long legs carrying him around quite fast. the white haired man pushes a strand of your hair behind your ear ever so gently, “did someone upset my little princess today?”

you don’t answer him. you’re focused on your phone, hurriedly texting your friend back while speeding past all the other students. you don’t even notice how the girls are gawking at your man—whispering about how handsome he is and who he might be.

satoru doesn’t pay them any mind. his sole goal is to gain your attention back. he frowns after his question is met with silence. the clicking of his dress shoes increases as he tries to get you to stop and face him.

“c’mon,” your boyfriend sighs and stands in front of you, stopping you to an abrupt halt. he holds your wrist tenderly yet firmly, letting you know that he wants to properly communicate with you, “y’ can’t ignore me.”

you yank your hand back, your irritated attitude visible in your actions. you look up at satoru, not caring about what he thinks or wants at the moment. you just want to go home and relax. everything is overstimulating you.

“i can and i will,” you huff before stepping aside to continue your journey out of the university’s terrain. your boyfriend’s frown only deepens. you’re not the only one who’s currently getting agitated. you push past a group of students who stood in your way, “let’s just go home.”

satoru’s eyes narrow. he doesn’t get upset fast—he rarely feels any kind of anger—but right now he can feel something itching inside of his chest. he’s tried not to let the jealousy get the best of him at first, but now with all the other emotions coming into play, it’s nearly impossible to hold himself back.

satoru considers himself a fairly mature man. he’s always been one, yet when it comes to you he can’t help but feel like he doesn’t have any control over his emotions. his body and mind act on their own.

“aht aht. not so fast, little lady.”

you suddenly feel yourself being dragged to the side. satoru’s grip around your arm isn’t harsh, but it sure is enough to make you stumble along with him. you click your teeth in slight annoyance after the initial shock settles in. you know there’s no fighting it; you don’t want others to witness your little squabble.

“hey, where are we going?” you ask, a slight whine leaving your throat. you simply want to go lay in your bed and avoid everything and everyone else. your eyes are focused on the back of satoru’s head as he guides you along. he doesn’t bother to face nor answer you.

you sigh and simply allow yourself to be dragged away. if you’re going to get a scolding, you don’t mind. you’re just going to hear him out and nod along so you can go back home faster.

you raise an eyebrow when satoru arrives at the bathroom on the second floor. “what the—” you’re confused as to what your boyfriend is trying to achieve. you quickly look around to see if anyone has seen you.

no one seems to be close. this part of the building has always been empty around this time frame anyway.

you’re pulled into the men’s bathroom after satoru made sure that the coast was clear. he gently pushes you into an empty stall and locks the door. “satoru, what’s up with you?” you sigh as you stumble back against the bathroom wall. it’s a hypocritical comment considering your own nasty attitude.

you try to push him aside, only for your boyfriend to force your arms around his neck, pulling you flush against him. your eyes lock into his and that’s when you notice how . . dark they are. the usual playful look is nowhere to be found.

“i’m just thinkin’ that y’r attitude needs some fixing, hm?” satoru whispers. a ghost of a smirk appears on his face—it’s a twisted one. wicked, with the thoughts of what he’ll do to punish you for your actions. he rarely has that expression when he’s with you.

he tips your chin up with quite some force, “i can help with that.”

everything else happens at a blink of an eye. one of satoru’s large hands slithers up your back to tangle in your hair and yank it back, exposing the column of your throat for his hickeys to take shape on. his other hand swiftly makes work of your pants and undergarments.

his jaw is clenched—the usual hint of gentle love in his eyes is replaced by lust fuelled by jealousy and frustration. satoru is not playing around either. instead of taking his time like he usually does when it comes to intimacy, he’s quick to discard both your clothing.

“fuckin’ tease,” the white-haired man mutters under his breath, panting with desire. he zips down his pants and frees his big cock from his boxers. “always pushing my buttons. isn’t that right, baby?”

satoru lets out a breathy, mocking chuckle. he fists the shaft slowly while his blue eyes roam over your body caged against him and the wall, “but i guess tha’s part of the reason why i love you—hah.”

you’re basically in shock at the sudden switch. your jaw is slack and your eyes are wide, but there’s an undeniable feeling in your chest that tells you you’re loving this change. you can’t deny the fact that you’re turned on. extremely turned on.

“‘toru, i don’t think it’s smart to do this here,” you murmur in a small voice. you’re trying to have some dignity, even now, when your panties are soaked and the scent of your obvious arousal is driving your man crazy.

“don’t care,” satoru shakes his head with a smug grin. his long fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear before flimsily tugging them down to your ankles. his eyes darken the second he sees the webs of sticky, translucent slick clinging from your panties to your puffy folds.

he grunts, his cock twitching painfully in his hand. he’s thinking of simply jerking off to the sight of you in front of him, but he decided otherwise. satoru smacks your clit with his fat tip, “should’ve thought about that before catchin’ an attitude with me.”

suddenly, he turns you around so you’re facing the wall. your nails dig into the flat surface of the tiles, catching onto nothing. you’re hoping that no one will walk into the bathroom. last thing you need is everyone knowing that you were getting your back blown out by your boyfriend on campus.

not that satoru would mind those rumors. it’d only fuel his (already) huge ego.

“oh, yeah— shit. you need this ‘s much as i do,” satoru groans as sinks his cock into your pussy, agonisingly slow, inch by inch. you shudder and hold in your moans as your velvety walls make part for him.

his hands spread your pert asscheeks, smacking the full globes before kneading them to soothe the pain. he continues in a low, dangerous voice, “you wouldn’t be so stuck up if y’ didn’t need this fuckin’ dick to shut you up.”

satoru doesn’t stop pushing in until his heavy balls are resting snugly against your bottom, warming his sack full of cum that’s aching to be released in your dripping cunt.

“ngh, ‘toru,” you bite your lip and try not to orgasm just from the feeling of being full— so full of cock that it makes you see stars, “just like that.”

the white-haired man responds with a satisfied grunt, sweat forming on his forehead from how hot and wet it is inside of you.

“oh, there she is,” satoru coos once he hears your whiny voice, that sweet voice he cherishes and loves. it isn’t cold nor avoidant anymore like before and that’s really all he wanted to acquire. he licks a stripe from the tip of your ear to the lobe, voice husky, “there’s the girlfriend i know. moan some more f’ me.”

you shiver as satoru’s lips connect with the back of your neck. after wetting the skin with his saliva, he bites. not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark. you clamp around his dick in response and he curses under his breath.

“please, fuck me,” you breathe. you need more stimulation, need him to absolutely ruin you. the shallow and slow thrusts he’s giving are nothing but torturous.

satoru grins and rests his chin on top of your shoulder, large hands rubbing around your hips and lower abdomen, teasing your clit every now and then to get you even more pent up.

“fuck you?” he tilts his head, as if contemplating. he clicks his tongue and gives your ass a firm slap that nearly sends you over the edge. “hah, you should be grateful for what i’m givin’ you.”

but satoru’s weak for you. even if he’s trying to be the ‘mean’ and ‘cold’ dominant guy. his cock is aching to plunge in and out of your wet hole, to see you come undone and feel your juices coat his balls and thighs.

“fine. i’ll fuck you,” satoru relents with a roll of his eyes, acting like he isn’t desperate for you too. he grips your hips in a bruising manner and bites your shoulder, “—fuck you like the brat you are.”

your hands save your face from making contact with the wall as your body suddenly jostles back and forth in a speed you can’t even process.

“satoru!” you nearly scream his name out of pure surprise. the pleasure comes crashing down in waves, your pussy uncontrollably spasming around his girthy cock.

satoru grumbles something incoherent as he pistons his hips, ramming in your sloppy cunt while his eyes are fixated on your bouncing ass. white locks of hair stick to his forehead as he splits you open on his dick.

“so pretty,” the older man sighs. he turns your head sideways so you can look him in the eyes while he fucks you silly. he caresses your cheek gently, a contrast to the mocking grin on his lips and the rough thrusts against your ass, “too bad y’ got such a potty mouth on you.”

satoru pushes his index and middle finger between your lips to muffle your noises, “…but don’t worry, i’ll fix that for you. gladly.”

you eagerly suck on them between quick gasps of air, saliva trickling down his hand. your boyfriend redoubles his efforts, the fat tip of his dick hitting that special spot deep inside you.

his free hand reaches down to circle your clit. the double stimulation sends you into a state of pure bliss. your pupils are dilated as you struggle to find satoru’s gaze, head lolling back and forth with each powerful stroke.

perhaps this really was all you needed to help destress and forget all about your responsibilities. it feels good to not think about anything at all— your head empty except for the feeling of your cunt being filled.

satoru’s cock twitches inside of you with the urge to release a load in your womb. “give me it, please,” your voice is muffled as you plead with him. your hand sneaks downwards, trying to find his balls, “w-want your cum.”

your fingers toy with his sack once you find it. his pre-cum and your own juices now coat your skin as well, your hand enclosing around his balls, massaging them. it’s like you’re trying to coax his potent semen out of them and that alone makes satoru throw his head back in ecstasy.

“little cumslut. . .” satoru growls, brows furrowing as he tries not to shoot his cum inside of your greedy cunt right that second. the hand that was keeping you quiet quickly snatches your wrist and pins it against the bathroom wall.

“are you that desperate to get filled? yeah?” your boyfriend huffs, not stopping to catch his breath at all. his hips pound faster against your ass with renewed passion.

your lips are parted and they move, but not a single answer comes out of your mouth. you’re unable to think or talk because of the pleasure.

satoru takes that as a yes. the erotic sight of you being so lost in sin is enough to fuel his desire to fuck you harder. his hips never falter as he scoffs at your pathetic self, “tch, so addicted to my cock y’ can’t even answer me.”

you shake your head and search for your words. however, you fail, and all that you’re capable of communicating is what you need, “fuuuuck, yes i am—‘toru, need your cock ‘n cum— more.”

satoru lets go of your wrist to grab your jaw. he forces your head back again before he captures your lips in a bruising kiss. his tongue plunders inside your mouth, exploring every inch.

he pulls back to gasp for air and releases your jaw with a slight shove to grab your hips again. “more? hah,” the white-haired man lets out a haughty chuckle. he gives a particular hard thrust against your butt, tip kissing your cervix painfully yet deliciously, “y’ think you deserve more after that shit you pulled?”

satoru yanks your head back by your hair. the stinging sensation makes your scalp itchy, but it also increases your pleasure. he lowers his lips to your ear, his voice dangerously low, “nah, you gotta make this work.”

you could. you can make it work and that’s the truth. he could fuck you with just his tip and you’d be able to cum a couple times in a row.

jolts of pleasure run down your spine as satoru drives into you harder, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. you’re seeing stars and the words roll off your tongue, “please, mhh, almost there!”

satoru groans. he can feel the delicious fluttering of your cunt around his cock, the telltale signs of an orgasm building. he has half a mind to pull out completely and let you writhe and beg him some more.

he contemplates it for a few seconds. the second your eyes start to roll back, signaling your impending climax, his cock slips out of your pussy. you whine and push your hips back in search for his dick- to fill the void he left.

satoru jerks himself off at the pitiful sight. he rubs his veiny shaft between your slick folds before slapping the tip against your cunt, letting it catch onto your entrance for a few times.

“begging like that isn’t going to get you anywhere. y’ can do better,” your boyfriend encourages in a sultry tone. one of his hands rest on your tummy, fingers splaying over your clothed skin. another filthy smack of his tip against your slit makes you shiver, “come on.”

you bite your lip out of frustration. you arch your back each time the fat head of his cock catches onto your gaping hole, hoping to slip it in, but you can't. you tilt your head back and lock eyes with satoru close up behind you.

“please let me cum, 'toru. i'll be good, i promise,” you beg with a lewd pleading expression. one that make satoru's balls tighten with the urge to cum as well.

with a low groan, satoru snaps his hips forward, burying his dick inside of you once more, “there ya go. good girl, knew y’ had it in you.”

the praise and familiar feeling of his dick stretching you open is enough to push you over the edge. you nearly black out as your cunt spasms around him, your juices gushing out to coat his length and balls.

satoru grits his teeth once he feels your tight cunt clench viciously around his throbbing cock. your orgasm has a domino effect on your lover, causing him to hastily chase his own release. “shit! take it, princess. take it all inside this greedy fuckin' cunt,” he hisses and grinds his pelvis against the fat of your ass.

satoru buries himself to the hilt before his cock jerks and pulses, emptying his balls deep inside of you. his fingers dig into the meat of your butt, holding you in place as he grinds against you, making sure every last drop of his seed is nestled into your waiting womb.

“there y’ go, mhm—taking my load so deep,” your lover sighs and lowers his head, resting against your back. he hugs you tightly to his chest while you both catch your breath. he rides out his orgasm slowly, still grinding against you while he leaves lazy kisses on your nape.

a minute passes before you've regained your composure, somewhat. you smile as satoru kisses your temple lovingly, praising you for taking him so well. the switch back to his usual gentleman personality is much needed after such an intense moment.

“thank you, babe. i needed that,” you giggle as you rest back against his chest. thick, pearly globs of cum escape your pussy, dripping around his cock and onto your thighs, but neither of you could care less. the clean up is a problem for later.

satoru chuckles back at you as he leaves another loving kiss against your cheek. “i knew you did,” he murmurs and pets your head, “my poor girl has been working so hard on her assignments, hm? poor, poor baby.”

you playfully roll your eyes at the overexaggerated concern in your lover's voice, however you appreciate it.

satoru doesn't bother to pull out. first things first; he needs to get you all comfortable again and give you the aftercare you deserve. his hands massage your hips as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, acting all lovey-dovey like he hasn't just shown you a more dominant side of him.

“how ‘bout we go home and order some food? we can cuddle and watch a movie together, ‘kay? i’ll take care of you, princess.”

[cumironi]

ACADEMIC MISCONDUCT : PU$$Y SUBMISSION EDITION jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. bold of you to assume that your pu$$y now belongs to you after you fück your professor. and you even have the audacity to go on blind date without telling them? yeah, go on a date, get rearranged’ they said.

wn. non-sorcerer au!, professor-student au, 23 you & 31 them, possessive behavior and aggressive jealousy from a very large, very unhinged professor, power imbalance (professor/student), but you, likes it and he really likes it unprotected sex with zero post-nut clarity, degradation + praise in the same breath, oral fixation, spit kink, desk abuse, pussy worship in the form of punishment, rough $ex featuring emotional damage and breeding threats, heavy marking, territorial growling, and minor furniture damage, aftercare only implied because he’s still pissed off, she’s in love, he’s obsessed, nobody’s normal & he thinks jealousy is a valid teaching method.

GOJO SATORU

the first time satoru hears about it, it’s in the most humiliating way possible. not from you. not from a whisper in the dark where he can pull your legs apart in warning. no—he’s sipping coffee in the staff lounge, sunglasses half-slid down his nose, when utahime walks by and drops it like a nuclear bomb.

“your favorite student’s going on a blind date tonight,” she says with a teasing lilt. “you might lose your little lap bunny.”

the burn in his gut is immediate.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. he just raises the cup to his mouth again, lips curving over the ceramic, smile like a crack in glass.

“you good?” she asks.

“me?” he hums. “always.”

but he’s not. not when he watches the way you walk into lecture fifteen minutes late—bra strap peeking, lip gloss shiny, hair freshly done like you’re trying to fucking kill him.

and you smile at him. that smile. the one that always means trouble. “sorry, professor,” you murmur, breathy and full of fake guilt. “overslept.” his jaw ticks. “overslept or busy texting your mystery date?”

you blink.

you weren’t expecting him to know. that’s cute.

“what?” you laugh, sliding into your seat in the front row like you own him. “someone’s been gossiping, huh?”

“someone’s been sloppy,” he replies, and you freeze for half a second—because there’s a shift in his tone. less playful. more predator.

“i didn’t know you cared.”

he grins, teeth sharp and sweet. “oh, i don’t.”

liar.

he barely makes it through the lecture.

every time you shift in your seat, his mind goes dark. legs spread. knees over his shoulders. your cunt swollen and twitching, leaking down to his tongue while you cry about how full you are. how ruined. how stretched.

but apparently not ruined enough if you’re out there letting strangers buy you dinner. he waits until after class. the hallway clears. he stands by the door, hands in his pockets, sunglasses gone. eyes sharp. you pretend you don’t see him, but your steps slow as you pass, hips swaying like bait.

“office,” he says.

you roll your eyes, playing coy, but your thighs press together. he sees it. you’re wet already. you’ve been wet since he raised his voice during lecture. he shuts the door behind you. doesn’t lock it, but it might as well be. the air tightens around you like a noose.

“you think i don’t know what you’re doing?” he murmurs, stepping close.

“what am i doing, professor?” you ask, head tilted, eyes wide with mock innocence.

“playing games.”

“maybe i am.”

his hand slams on the desk beside your head. you flinch—just a little—and smile up at him like you want to see how far he’ll go. “do you know what that does to me?” he hisses. “hearing someone else is going to get to touch what’s mine?”

you raise a brow. “yours?”

“yeah.” his hand moves to your throat—not tight, not choking, but firm. possessive. his thumb brushes your jaw. “mine. don’t tell me you forgot.”

“you never said i couldn’t.”

he laughs, wild and soft and bitter. “baby, you can’t even cum without me holding your hips down.” your face heats. your lashes flutter. your thighs clench, and he sees it again. he always sees it. “what—gonna fuck the date with my cum still inside you?” he taunts, lips ghosting over yours. “your pussy’s shaped like me, you think he’s gonna know what to do with that? you think he’ll recognize the sound you make when you’re close? the way you tremble?”

“satoru—”

you shouldn’t have said his name.

his mouth is on yours before you finish it. furious, hungry, a kiss like punishment. his tongue slips in and steals every excuse from your mouth.

“strip.”

“someone might come in—”

“then be quick.”

you hop up on the desk, skirt riding high, no panties underneath. his hands are there immediately, fingers spreading your folds, already slick, already begging. “fuck—look at this,” he murmurs, thumb teasing your clit while you squirm. “who got you wet like this, huh? your little blind date?”

“n-no,” you whisper.

“then who?”

“you…”

“say it.”

“you, professor.”

his smirk curls against your thigh. “good girl.”

you gasp when he spits on your cunt, two fingers slipping in, slow and deep. “god, you’re still shaped like me,” he groans, watching the way your walls pulse around his fingers. “i ruin you every time and you still need more. filthy fucking girl.”

“please,” you whimper, hips lifting.

he leans in and bites your thigh, hard enough to mark.

“no begging,” he growls. “you want something? you earn it. tell me you're canceling the date.”

“satoru—”

he slaps your clit, sharp and fast, and you choke on a cry.

“tell me.”

“i'll cancel it! i will—fuck, please—!”

he hums, pleased, dragging your juices across your slit, up your stomach. his fingers curl just right, and you clench down like you never want him to leave.

“that’s better,” he says, kissing your thigh. “my good girl.”

he fucks you with his fingers until you're sobbing his name, clinging to his shirt, and when you cum, he doesn't stop. doesn't let up. he pulls you down to the floor, bends you over the desk, and sinks into you raw.

“look at you,” he moans into your neck. “crying like this cock doesn’t live inside you already. slut.”

“yours—yours—”

“damn right. if i find out you even talked to someone else like this, i’m showing up to your date and fucking you in the bathroom while he waits.”

“satoru—!”

“you like that idea?” he pants, hips pounding. “like the thought of me destroying you where everyone can hear? ruin your reputation like i ruined your body?”

“yes—please—don’t stop—”

he doesn’t. not until he fills you to the brim, holds you tight, whispers against your spine that he loves you too much to let you go. that he’ll make you remember who owns you, every fucking day if he has to.

GETO SUGURU

geto suguru is quieter about it than gojo. where gojo would rage and bark and leave you marked in broad daylight, geto is the kind of man who waits. watches. listens to your excuses like they’re confessions. he’s twenty years your senior, your professor in comparative philosophy, always perfectly pressed in black button-downs and silk ties. calm, unreadable, devastating.

and the moment he finds out from shoko that you’ve got a blind date lined up for friday night, he doesn’t lash out. he doesn’t even frown. he just hums, pours his tea, and murmurs,

“ah. so she wants to be owned by someone else.”

and shoko, who’s always had too good a sense for danger, only raises her brow and says, “you gonna let her?”

“oh, not at all,” he says. “she’ll learn.”

you don’t know he knows. you come to his office hours like you always do, in your oversized hoodie and those dangerous little shorts that barely peek past the hem. knees tucked under you on his leather couch, eyes wide and innocent as you ask for help on your thesis. your thighs are bare. your lip is glossed. and there’s a new tension in the room you don’t recognize until you shut the door.

“lock it,” he says, not looking up from his laptop.

you pause, your stomach twisting. “what?”

“i said lock it. if we’re going to be alone, we ought to have privacy, don’t you think?”

your fingers tremble slightly as they twist the lock. you turn to face him, unsure why he feels different today—why his voice is thicker, why his gaze lingers too long on your thighs.

“something wrong, professor?”

“plenty,” he says, folding his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on you like a hawk. “but let’s start with you. tell me about this little date of yours.”

your mouth dries.

you try to deflect. “who told you that?”

“does it matter?”

you stay quiet.

“you were going to let someone else touch you,” he says, and his voice is soft. unbearably so. “someone else between your legs. someone who doesn’t know how your cunt tightens when you’re scared. someone who’s never had your throat bulging around their cock. tell me—what exactly do you owe this man?”

“i wasn’t gonna sleep with him,” you whisper.

he rises slowly from his chair.

“you think that excuses you?”

his tone is mild, but your thighs clench together on instinct. you feel it immediately—the sharp ache in your core, the phantom throb of memory.

“you think not fucking him is the line?” he continues, walking toward you, each step measured. “so kissing would be fine? letting him buy you food? letting him think you’re available, when you walk around every day stuffed full of my cum?”

your mouth opens to protest, but nothing comes out. he stands over you now, tall and calm and terrifying.

“stand up.”

you do. your legs shake.

“strip.”

you hesitate, but he doesn’t repeat himself. just looks at you like he’s waiting to see whether you’re still worth keeping. your hoodie falls to the floor. your tank top next. your shorts. your bra. you’re bare in seconds, eyes wide and throat dry as his gaze moves over you, slow and thorough.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “at least you remember how to obey.”

he reaches for you. his hands are large and warm and deceptively gentle as they slide down your back, cupping your ass. “this body is mine,” he says, fingers sinking in. “this pussy is mine. and if you ever give so much as a smile to another man again, i will fuck you so thoroughly you’ll limp into lecture with my cum leaking down your legs. do you understand me?”

you nod frantically, breath caught.

“say it.”

“yes, professor—yes, i understand—i’m yours—”

he kisses you then. not sweet, not loving—deep and hot and consuming. his tongue swallows your gasp, his fingers press between your thighs, and you moan when he finds you already wet. “filthy little thing,” he whispers against your lips. “do you even know how you smell? you think he wouldn’t have known the moment he sat next to you that you belong to someone else?”

“i’m sorry—”

“too late.”

he turns you around, pushes you forward over the desk with one hand on your back. the cool wood shocks your skin. his other hand spreads your legs.

“no prep today. you’re going to take me raw and open like the little slut you are.” he unzips his pants. you hear it—the low rustle, the metallic clink, the hiss of breath as his cock slaps against your ass.

and then he pushes in.

“fuck—so tight. you’re always tight,” he groans, sinking inch by inch, slow and brutal. “doesn’t matter how often i fuck you. greedy little cunt always pretends it’s the first time.”

“nghhh—professor—” you cry out, nails clawing at the desk. “too deep—”

“nonsense.” he grips your hips, pulls you back into him until he’s fully seated. “this pussy’s shaped for me. if it hurts, it’s because it’s remembering who it belongs to.” he starts to move. slow, deep thrusts that scrape against your walls, dragging every sound out of your throat. you sob into the wood. he doesn’t stop.

“he would’ve been too soft,” geto murmurs, voice low and cruel. “he wouldn’t have known how to make you scream. wouldn’t have known you need to be taken. broken down. loved in pieces.”

you moan. high and breathless and helpless.

“yours—i’m yours—please—”

“prove it.”

he reaches around and slaps your clit. once. twice. then again, until you’re sobbing with it, hips jerking, cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging. “cum for me,” he says. “right now. show me who this pussy belongs to.”

you scream when it hits. muscles locking, eyes rolling back, your body spasming under him as you cum so hard you nearly collapse. he fucks you through it, relentless.

then he pulls out. flips you over.

“you’re not done.”

he lifts you onto the desk, spreads your legs, and slams back in, face inches from yours. one hand on your throat now. the other cradling your thigh like something precious.

“i’m going to breed you so full of me, you’ll taste it for days.”

“yes—please—need it—”

“fucking slut,” he growls, snapping his hips faster. “do you even know what you’re doing to me? every time you leave, every time you smile at someone else, i want to ruin you.”

his eyes burn into yours—dark, hot, overwhelming.

“mine.”

he cums with a deep groan, pressed tight against you, cock twitching as he empties inside you in thick, hot waves. your name is a curse on his lips, his hips grinding into you even as he spills every drop. he holds you through it, arms firm around your back, forehead pressed to yours.

“you’re not leaving,” he says.

“never,” you whisper.

“you’ll come here every friday instead. knees on the floor. mouth open. or bent over this desk. or tied to the chair. whatever i want.”

“yes—yes, professor—”

he kisses you again, this time slow. reverent.

and when you try to stand, he presses you down with a hand on your belly.

“we’re not finished.”

NANAMI KENTO

nanami kento doesn’t yell. he doesn’t snap, doesn’t lose control. no—he calculates, measures, and when he’s angry, it’s a quiet thing. sharp. surgical. deadly.

he hears about your blind date from a colleague in the economics department. just a harmless comment in the lounge “your favorite little research assistant’s going out friday. hope her date knows what he’s getting into.”

nanami doesn’t react. not then. just adjusts his tie, thanks them for the information, and finishes his coffee.

but something turns in him. something cold.

because you—his girl—were supposed to tell him first.

the rest of the week, he’s painfully polite. unreadable. you don’t even realize he knows.

he still reads over your papers. still offers notes. still lets you curl up in the office armchair while he types, his jacket draped over your legs like always. but he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t kiss you. doesn’t slip his hand under your skirt while murmuring about Kant or market elasticity.

and it’s driving you insane.

friday comes, and you knock on his door before class, expecting the usual. affection. maybe a quiet, breathless fuck before lecture, up against the bookcases while the windows fog.

but when he looks up at you from his papers, you feel it. the distance.

“you look nice,” he says, flatly. “you always get that dressed up for lecture?”

you freeze.

“...you heard.”

“i did.”

you try to explain, but he waves a hand—elegant, firm, final.

“i’m not interested in your excuses,” he says, rising from his seat. he’s taller than you remember when he’s angry. “you knew what we were. what i am to you. and still you thought it acceptable to allow another man the idea of you.”

“kento, it wasn’t like that—”

“then tell me what it was like,” he says, voice low now, eyes dark. “was it innocent? were you simply bored of the way i fuck you so good you cry? was he going to hold your hand while my cum was still dripping out of you?”

your breath stutters.

“get on the desk.”

you blink. “what—now—?”

“i said get on the desk.”

you do, slowly, knees spreading as you sit on the edge. the wood is cold beneath your thighs. your skirt rides up when you move. he watches it happen, expression unreadable.

“take off your panties.”

you slip them off. he catches them in one hand, brings them to his face. inhales.

“still wet,” he murmurs. “but not for him, was it?”

you shake your head. “no, never—just you—”

he steps between your legs, unbuttoning his cuffs. rolling his sleeves up, slow. precise. you know what that means. “put your hands behind your back,” he says. “don’t move them unless i say.”

you obey. trembling.

his fingers trail up your thigh, reach your cunt, already damp and pulsing. he doesn’t praise you. doesn’t tease. just slides two fingers in, curling up until your hips jerk. “you know this body belongs to me,” he says softly. “and still, you wanted to test me. make me jealous.”

“i didn’t—”

“you did,” he cuts in. “and now, you’ll apologize with your body.”

he pulls his fingers out, glistening with slick, and wipes them on your tongue. you suck instinctively, eyes wide and glassy.

“such a good girl when you’re being used,” he says, unbuckling his belt. “i wonder if your date would’ve known what to do with this messy little mouth.” his cock’s hard already—thick, veiny, flushed. he strokes it slowly as he watches you. the room feels hot. too small. full of tension.

“open.”

you do.

he slides in slow, all the way down your throat, until you gag.

“mm. yes. that’s what you’re made for,” he murmurs, one hand in your hair. “that’s what you were always made for.”

he fucks your throat with slow, punishing thrusts, hips rolling forward as you drool down your chin, tears pricking your eyes. “think he’d last this long?” nanami growls, cock hitting the back of your throat over and over. “think he’d know to tap your cheek when you start to panic? think he’d praise you when you take it all like this?”

you choke and sob, eyes locked on his, desperate for forgiveness.

he pulls out suddenly, tilts your chin up, and kisses your spit-slick mouth.

“you don’t get to cum yet,” he says. “lie down.”

he flips you onto your back, presses you flat to the desk. one hand on your sternum to pin you down, the other guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt.

“no prep. no lube. you don’t deserve kindness today.”

he thrusts in rough—deep—full. your back arches, a sob spilling from your lips.

“f-fuck, kento—”

“quiet,” he snaps. “take it.”

he fucks you hard, relentless, his body covering yours, holding you still. your arms are still behind your back. you can’t move. you can’t breathe. all you can do is take it.

“you feel that?” he hisses. “every inch? memorize it. because if you ever dare give someone else your attention again, i will fuck you like this in front of your date. i will make him watch as you cry for my cock.”

“kento—i’m sorry—!”

“you will be.”

he fucks you through your apology, through your cries, until you cum screaming, writhing under him, cunt spasming around his cock.

he doesn’t stop.

he fucks you through it, chasing his own release, and when he cums, it’s deep—hot—thick. he stays inside, hips grinding as if trying to brand you from the inside out.

he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple.

“mine.”

you nod, broken and blissed out.

“say it.”

“yours. only yours. always.”

he pulls out slow. watches his cum leak out of you in a thick white string.

“you’ll clean this desk before you leave.”

“yes, professor.”

he buttons up, straightens his sleeves, and finally—finally—cups your face in both hands. “next time you think about someone else,” he says, soft and serious, “remember how it felt to have me make you forget your own name.” and kiss your forehead like a loving lover he is.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

he hears about the date during a smoke break.

not from you. never from you. nah—you’d rather bat your lashes, wear those tight little skirts to lecture, and play dumb like you don’t leave his sheets soaked every thursday after seminar.

it’s one of your friends, the mouthy one with no sense of self-preservation, who lets it slip. “she’s got a date friday night,” she says, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t just toss a lit match onto gasoline. “some guy her cousin set her up with. cute, apparently. tall.”

toji just stares at her, chewing on his cigarette filter, jaw ticking.

“is that so.”

the friend doesn’t even notice how still he goes. how his eyes stop blinking. how the air around him shifts—sharp, tight, violent. he doesn’t go back to lecture that day. he waits. in his office. door unlocked. lights dim. and when you knock—sweet, innocent, clueless—he’s already leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cigarette smoke curling out the cracked window.

“close the door,” he says.

you do.

you’re smiling when you step in, like always, like you think you’re safe with him.

you’re not.

“heard you’ve got plans friday,” he says, casual.

you blink. “...huh?”

“cute guy. tall. set up by your cousin.”

the smile falters.

“oh. um… how did you—”

“your friend’s got a big fuckin’ mouth,” he says, eyes narrowing. “but i’m glad she does. otherwise i wouldn’t have known my girl’s out here giving other men the idea they got a chance.”

you swallow.

“it’s just dinner, toji—”

“yeah?” he laughs, cruel and quiet. “just dinner? or were you gonna let him take you home after and find out your pussy doesn’t even work for anyone but me?”

you freeze. cheeks flush. thighs clench.

he notices. of course he does.

“strip.”

“we’re in your office—”

“i said strip.”

you do. shaky hands pulling your shirt over your head. skirt sliding down your legs. no bra. no panties.

he raises a brow.

“you were hoping i’d fuck you today, huh?”

you nod.

he stands. walks toward you slow. like a lion. like a man who’s about to ruin something for fun. “on the desk. legs spread.”

you scramble up. lie back. legs trembling as you open them. he grabs your ankles and yanks you forward so hard your back slams into the wood. “look at that,” he murmurs, staring down at your dripping cunt. “already leaking. pathetic.”

“toji—”

“shut up.”

he leans in, mouth dragging over your inner thigh.

“you think he could handle this?” he whispers, lips brushing your pussy lips, breath hot. “you think he’d know what to do when you cry because you need it deep enough to hit your fucking stomach?”

his tongue flicks out. one slow, nasty lick up your slit. you moan.

“nah. he wouldn’t know shit,” he says. “probably cum in his pants just from looking at you.”

he doesn’t eat you like you’re fragile. he devours you like a man starved. spit slick, mouth messy, his tongue bullying your clit while two thick fingers sink in deep and curl—

“nnnhh—fuck—!”

“shut. up.” he growls into your cunt. “this isn’t for you. this is punishment.”

your hands grip the desk so tight your knuckles ache. your moans echo off the walls. his tongue is relentless, fingers fucking you open like he’s carving his name inside you. “gonna remind you,” he pants, licking into you again, “what you belong to. whose cock shaped this pussy.”

you cum once. then twice. your legs tremble. your voice breaks.

he stands. yanks his belt open.

you barely manage to lift your head before he’s already jerking his cock out—hard, heavy, flushed dark and wet at the tip. he doesn’t waste time. just lines up and slams into you in one brutal thrust.

“nghhh—fuck—too much—”

“shut up,” he grits. “take it. you wanted this. dressed like that. fuckin’ around like a dumb little slut. you wanted me mad.” he fucks you hard. brutal. filthy. his hips snapping forward, cock pistoning in and out, wet sounds filling the office louder than your choked sobs. his fingers dig into your hips. he bites your collarbone. he growls into your neck—

“mine. mine. you get that, yeah? this cunt? this body? your moans? mine.”

“yes—yes, toji, yours, only yours—”

he lifts one leg over his shoulder. angle shifting. cock punching so deep you see stars. “you don’t fucking go out with anyone else,” he growls, sweat dripping. “i’ll beat the shit out of him. you hear me? i’ll break his fuckin’ jaw.”

“yes—yes, please—”

you’re close again. so close. sobbing his name, begging him not to stop.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

and in a whisper, soft and broken, he says—

“can’t stand the thought of someone else even looking at you.”

you cum so hard you nearly black out. clenching around him like your body’s apologizing for even thinking about someone else. he cums with a groan, deep and low, spilling inside you with a stuttering thrust, cock buried to the hilt.

he doesn’t move.

just breathes heavy. holds your hips. presses his lips to your cheek like he’s sorry for being so rough—even though you loved it.

you blink up at him, dazed. wrecked. full.

“still think about going on that date?” he murmurs.

you shake your head.

“good girl,” he says, and kisses you again. “now get dressed. i’m driving you home. and you’re staying over.”

“why?”

he smirks. dark. smug. possessive.

“so i can fuck you again every time i remember some other guy thought he had a chance.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“she’s going out friday,” gojo says on lunch break, deadpan, blue eyes hiding behind his blue glasses as he glance at sukuna who’s passing by. “blind date. someone her cousin set up.”

utahime’s jaw drops. “wait—does sukuna know?”

shoko just snorts. “oh, he’s gonna kill someone.”

he does not kill someone. he waits.

and when you walk into his office after class—hair tied up, skirt short, lip gloss shiny—he doesn’t say hello. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t greet you like the spoiled, cum-dumb princess you are. he just says, voice flat, “so. friday.”

you freeze halfway to the desk. “…what about it?”

his gaze doesn’t leave your face. his hands stay folded in his lap. but his jaw ticks, and when he speaks next, it’s soft.

too soft.

“you really gonna go let some stranger sit across from you like he deserves to breathe your air?”

“it’s not serious—”

“no,” he cuts in, calm but sharp. “serious is when i fuck you against this desk so hard you cry into my tie. this is worse. this is betrayal.”

“ryo—”

he stands.

you take a step back. instinct. survival. but he’s already in front of you, hand at your throat—not tight. not yet.

“let me get this straight,” he murmurs, eyes narrow, voice low and dangerous. “i fuck you every week. sometimes every day. i have you creaming around my cock until you can’t say your own name. i’ve trained this pussy to open for me just from my voice—and you think you’ve got the right to sit pretty at a table with some other guy who’s gonna ask you what your favorite fucking color is?”

you gasp as his grip tightens—still not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who the fuck he is.

“was gonna wear that little red dress, weren’t you?” he growls. “the one that clings to your hips like my hands do. gonna smile at him like you didn’t choke on my cock two nights ago.”

“i wasn’t—i’m not—”

“you’re not what? mine?” he leans in, lips grazing your cheek. “don’t lie.”

you whimper.

he presses you back against the wall, one thigh wedging between yours. you’re already trembling. wet. your panties are useless. “thought maybe you forgot,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down to cup your cunt through your skirt. “thought maybe this slutty little pussy needed a refresher.”

“please—”

“mm. beg better than that, sweetheart.”

he drops to his knees.

on his knees.

your terrifying professor. eyes full of menace. tattoos inked down his arms like warning signs. and he’s already pushing your panties aside, tongue licking into your folds like he’s trying to taste the betrayal out of you. “fuck—look at this,” he mutters, mouth messy already. “she’s crying. like she knows she did something wrong.”

“ryo—fuck—”

he groans, slurping wetly, tongue flicking over your clit before diving back in, fucking you with it. his fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you open wider. “you gonna let him see this?” he pants, slick coating his chin. “this greedy, pretty pussy? this pussy that drools just from hearing my voice?”

you shake your head. “no—never—only you—”

“damn right only me.”

he stands. lifts you. throws you over the desk like you weigh nothing. you hear the buckle. the zipper. the low, filthy growl as his cock slaps against your ass. “this pussy’s shaped like me,” he snarls, rubbing the fat tip through your folds. “and now i’m gonna remind it.”

he doesn’t ease in. he slams.

“ah—fuck—!”

“that’s right,” he grits, hips snapping. “take it. take the cock you earned when you signed up for my class just to stare at my hands.” you’re drooling on his papers. the whole desk shakes. he’s balls deep, thick and brutal, fucking you with the rage of a god and the precision of a scholar.

“you think he’d fuck you like this?” sukuna hisses, pulling your hair. “think he’d know how deep you need it? how to hold your hips down when you start running from the stretch?”

“n-no—just you—just you—”

“say it louder.”

“only you—only you, professor—!”

his hand slides down your back. presses between your shoulder blades. pushes you flat. he leans in close, voice in your ear like sin itself. “you even look at another man again, and i’ll fuck you in front of him. bend you over the table and make you apologize with your mouth full.”

“fuck—please—”

“you gonna cum? you think you deserve it?”

“yes—no—fuck, please—”

“beg for it.”

“please—please fill me up—need it, need you—mark me—make it yours—please, professor—” he cums with a snarl, cock twitching deep, hot, thick. so much it spills out as soon as he pulls out, dripping down your thighs, making a fucking mess of your skin and the floor.

and he’s not done.

he flips you over, fingers spreading your legs again.

“we’re doing it again,” he mutters, already getting hard. “i’m gonna fuck you ‘til you forget his name. then i’m gonna make you say mine.”

you’re shaking. breathless. soaked.

but you nod. “yes, professor…”

he smiles, wicked and soft and utterly terrifying.

“good girl. now say goodbye to that date.”

SHIU KONG

he hears it by accident.

he’s leaving the staff meeting early—bored, irritated, fingers twitching from not having his hands on you all week. he cuts through the hallway outside the student café, phone out, when he hears it:

"she’s got that blind date friday," one of your friends says, sipping from a pink thermos. "her cousin set it up. some finance guy—kind of basic, but tall."

the other giggles. "honestly, she needs a break. she’s been acting weird since she started doing research with professor kong. like—head always somewhere else. probably pent-up or something."

he stops walking. dead still.

his thumb taps the side of his phone. once. twice.

then he turns around, expression blank, and walks back to his office with the same precision he uses when writing evaluations that determine entire academic futures. when you arrive at his door, you knock twice, peeking in like nothing’s wrong. like everything’s normal. he’s sitting on the couch. black shirt. collar undone. sleeves rolled. no tie today.

“close it,” he says, voice quiet.

you do.

you turn toward him, already reaching into your bag to pull out notes.

“come here.”

your fingers pause.

“is it about the paper or—”

“here.”

you move to him slowly, sensing it now—that shift. that tightness in the air. the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. he pats the space beside him on the couch. you sit. then he says it. quiet. cruel. calm. “you have a date friday.”

your stomach flips.

“i—i canceled it. i wasn’t even going to go—”

“but you agreed to it.” he turns his head. finally meets your gaze. “you said yes. you planned it. you got dressed in your mirror and thought about someone else seeing you like that. thought about someone else sitting across from you while you were full of me.”

your breath stutters.

“shiu, it didn’t mean anything—”

“you were going to let him think he had a chance,” he says, voice sharper now. “let him smile at you. laugh. maybe offer to walk you home. not knowing this pussy’s been ruined beyond recognition.”

his hand slides up your thigh.

"spread your legs."

you hesitate. “the door—”

he turns to you, and it’s not a look. it’s a warning.

“spread them.”

you do.

he pushes your skirt up. doesn’t remove it. just drags his fingers between your folds, slow and unforgiving. you're already wet.

“you knew i’d find out,” he says. “you fucking knew. and you wanted me to.”

you gasp as he slips two fingers inside you, curling immediately.

“you thought maybe i wouldn’t care? that i’d let you go? let someone else take this tight little cunt and figure out too late it only reacts to my voice?”

“shiu—please—”

“no,” he snaps. “you don’t get to beg yet. i’m not finished talking.”

his fingers fuck you slow, deep, methodical.

your legs shake.

“you think your blind date would know how to hold you like this?” he says, voice softer, almost amused. “how to curl his fingers just right so you’re dripping before you even get his pants off?”

you whimper.

“he wouldn’t know you need to be told you’re a good girl when you’re close. wouldn’t know how much pressure it takes to make you cry.” he pulls his hand away. grabs your chin. forces you to look at him. “get on your knees.”

you drop immediately.

he stands, undoing his belt with steady hands.

his cock is already hard—thick, flushed, leaking.

“open your mouth,” he murmurs. “show me what’s mine.”

you do.

he slides in with a slow, possessive thrust, groaning low when your lips wrap around him.

“fuck, just like that,” he mutters. “this mouth was made for me.”

he fucks your mouth slow at first. then deeper. rougher. holding your head still, eyes dark with something unreadable. “you were gonna let him buy you dinner,” he pants. “while you’re here gagging on me. what the fuck were you thinking, huh?”

you try to respond, and he laughs. breathless. bitter.

“don’t talk. swallow.”

he cums down your throat with a low growl, hips twitching, cock pulsing, his fingers buried in your hair. he doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve taken every drop. even then—he holds you there. breathing hard. and then he says, soft, “friday, you’ll be here. that same time. on your back.”

he cups your cheek.

“you’ll make it up to me properly. because if i ever hear that someone else even looked at you like they could have you—”

his thumb drags across your lips. “—i’ll make sure the next time i fuck you, it’s somewhere they can hear.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he’d heard it during a staff lounge conversation, casual and cutting all at once.

“your favorite’s going on a blind date friday,” one of the adjuncts said with a chuckle, biting into a biscotti. “cousin set it up. cute guy, apparently. she deserves a break—bet she’s been stressed with finals.”

hiromi hadn’t looked up from his espresso. hadn’t said a word.

just stared into the dark liquid like it was reflecting the exact shape of your betrayal.

“a break,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word on his tongue like it was poison.

“yes,” he added, standing, “perhaps i should offer her one myself.”

you step into his office later that day, papers in hand, expecting to go over your thesis on moral relativism and postmodern legal structures.

you don’t expect to find him already seated at his desk like a judge behind a bench—robe replaced with a charcoal suit, tie loosened, gold pen resting on his fingers like a gavel waiting to drop.

“professor?” you say softly.

he doesn’t answer. just gestures to the chair across from him.

“sit.”

you do.

“you’re being tried,” he says.

“tried for what?”

he opens a folder on the desk and flips a page with deliberate care.

“charges,” he says, eyes not leaving the paper, “include deception, abandonment of contract, and attempted trespassing of personal property.”

“personal property—”

“my cock,” he clarifies, calm as ever.

you blink. your mouth opens.

but nothing comes out except, “i canceled the date.”

“after accepting it. after planning it. after entertaining the idea of another man—an outsider, an intruder—touching what’s been shaped by me.”

you cross your arms. “i didn’t sleep with him. nothing happened.”

he finally looks up.

and smiles.

“you think penetration is the only act that counts in my courtroom?”

he stands. paces slowly behind you. voice steady.

“tell me, did you pick an outfit? something tight, something pretty? did you wear perfume? maybe that gloss you like, the one i can taste for hours after i’ve finished with you?”

“i—”

“answer, counselor.”

“…yes,” you whisper.

“good,” he says. “we’re making progress.”

he walks back in front of you, palms flat on the desk, leaning in close.

“defendant, please rise.”

you stand, nervous. throat dry.

“remove your shirt.”

“professor—”

“you want leniency? cooperate.”

you unbutton. let it fall off your shoulders.

“bra.”

you hesitate.

he raises an eyebrow. “i can add obstruction to the list.” you unclasp it. drop it. his eyes drag down your chest with the hunger of a starving man hiding behind courtroom procedure. “now,” he murmurs, circling you again, “state your defense. clearly. and convincingly.”

you clear your throat.

“i didn’t mean to betray you. it wasn’t real. i didn’t want him. i canceled. i only want you.”

“and yet your actions—”

“do not match the intention,” you finish. “but your honor, if we judged solely by intention, half the world would be in prison.”

he pauses.

smiles.

"touche."

then he grabs your waist and lifts you onto his desk like you weigh nothing. “but,” he says, stepping between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, “my laws are stricter.”

“what are my sentencing options?” you whisper, breath catching as his fingers drag closer to your soaked cunt. “option one,” he says, slipping two fingers inside you without warning, “i fuck you until you cry.”

you gasp, hips jerking.

“option two,” he continues, curling them deep, “i fuck you until you forget what dating even means.”

“and option three?” you moan.

he smirks.

“both.”

his mouth crashes into yours—hot, punishing, possessive. he tastes like espresso and judgment. you cling to his shoulders, thighs trembling as he fucks you with his fingers, slow and rough. “what’s this?” he growls. “tight. fluttering. wet. evidence suggests you like being punished.”

“i do—fuck—i do—”

he pulls back.

undoes his belt.

“bend over the desk. court is now in recess.”

you turn, arching for him, breath shaky.

his cock slides in deep—all the way.

you scream.

he grunts, hands gripping your hips. pace brutal.

“this pussy,” he pants, thrusting hard, “takes me like it was custom-built. you think someone else could manage this? think he’d know how to stroke this spot—” he slams in. “—or what you sound like when you’re just about to fall apart?”

you’re crying.

not from pain. from overstimulation. from being seen. known. owned.

“guilty,” he hisses, fucking you through it.

“guilty—yes—i’m guilty—”

he cums deep, cock twitching as he fills you.

he leans over you, lips brushing your ear.

“sentence: mine. indefinitely.”

you nod, sobbing into the desk.

he kisses your shoulder.

“case closed.”

[pucksandpower]

The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard

The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.

You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.

You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.

You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.

And you are not going to mess this up.

The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.

You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.

Hard.

Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.

You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.

Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.

Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”

Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”

Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.

“She’s what?”

“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”

Max doesn’t respond right away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.

Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”

“And she works here now? Like … full time?”

“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”

Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.

He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.

“You are.”

“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”

Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.”

Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.

You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.

You’re also annoyed.

Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.

You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.

Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.

“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”

You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.

Charles grins. “He never does.”

You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.

Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”

You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.

But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.

Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”

You follow him, head held high.

You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.

And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.

He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.

***

The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.

You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.

You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.

“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.

You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.

“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.

Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.

You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.

“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”

“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.

Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.

He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”

You sign, So are you.

He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.

You’re not expecting it.

For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”

You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.

They all fall silent.

You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.

Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”

Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”

And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.

“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”

You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”

“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.

Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”

You don’t get to protect me from my own future.

He flinches.

Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”

You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.

Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.

A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!

Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”

Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”

Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”

“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”

Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”

Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”

“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”

Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”

“She didn’t hear you.”

“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”

***

Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.

Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.

***

The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.

Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.

One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.

Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.

It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.

They’re starting to see you.

Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.

You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.

You turn.

It’s him.

Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.

You raise an eyebrow.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.

H … E … L … L … O.

Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.

You stare at him.

It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.

And whatever Max just spelled?

It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.

You blink.

He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.

You burst out laughing.

Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.

Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.

You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”

You shake your head, still grinning.

He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.

Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”

You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.

Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.

Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.

Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”

You nod. Always.

He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”

You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”

You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.

Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”

He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.

Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”

You give him a look.

His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.

Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”

Charles stares at you across the garage.

You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”

***

That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.

The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.

Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.

The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.

You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.

Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.

He shrugs. Maybe.

You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?

He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.

10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.

He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.

Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.

Your brows rise.

Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”

Not many ask what you do.

You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.

I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.

You pass the napkin over.

Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.

You grin. Correct.

He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?

You nod. Probably.

He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.

He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.

You stare at the napkin.

He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”

You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.

No one asks about your code.

No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.

Except him.

You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”

You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”

You nod. I get that.

You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.

Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.

You turn to him.

“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”

You blink. You researched it?

He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.

You hesitate.

When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.

You push it across.

He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.

Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.

Your throat tightens.

You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?

He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.

He types something on his phone, then holds it up.

Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

But not before you look back.

***

The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.

Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.

But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.

You fold your arms.

Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”

You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.

That’s not your choice.

Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.

“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”

You sign faster now, sharper.

What, and you think I can’t handle it?

“That’s not-”

You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.

His jaw tightens.

You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.

“That’s not fair-”

No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stare at him.

Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.

You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.

You hate that your hands shook.

You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.

You hate that people still don’t listen.

You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.

Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.

Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.

Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.

You keep writing.

You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.

He stares at the words. Then at you.

When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.

***

Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.

Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.

Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.

To her left sits the interpreter.

You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.

Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.

You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?

“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”

You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.

I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”

You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.

You’ve survived harder things.

But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.

Gone with a headline.

Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.

A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”

Max cuts in. Instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”

The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.

“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.

And nothing else.

***

You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”

You stare at him.

He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”

You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.

They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”

You don’t move.

“You make me want to be better,” he says.

You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.

Not for a long time.

***

The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.

The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.

Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.

He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”

Which would leave you starting fourth.

He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.

Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.

He turns to face you fully.

Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.

People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”

You blink. Why?

“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.

The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.

You don’t.

His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.

When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.

You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.

He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.

***

The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.

The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.

Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.

Charles approaches with purpose.

Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.

For a beat, it’s just them.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.

Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”

“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”

Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.

“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”

“I know what she’s been through.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”

Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”

“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”

“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”

Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”

He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.

“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”

Silence hangs thick between them.

“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”

***

While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.

The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”

You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.

Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.

“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”

Optics?

He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”

You don’t flinch.

Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.

Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.

A beat.

I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.

Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.

If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.

Until later.

You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”

You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.

Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”

You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”

You pause.

Why did you?

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.

***

Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:

He trusts me now.

Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”

You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.

You walk through the paddock with Max.

You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”

You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.

You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.

A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.

He stops.

Looks down.

And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.

Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.

But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.

You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.

He signs back, My name is Michel.

Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.

The mother covers her mouth.

You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.

Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?

Michel nods enthusiastically.

Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.

The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.

The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.

But the quiet between you two lingers.

He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.

Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.

You don’t kiss him.

Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.

But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.

And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.

[darlingsblackbook]

Ex-Boyfriend!Simon Riley X Reader

Secret Baby AU | He broke your heart. You left. Then you found out you were pregnant. A year later, fate throws you back in his path - with a baby that looks just like him.

I | You and Simon had a whirlwind romance during one of his rare long-term assignments. He was intense, quiet, and hard to read—but with you, he tried to open up. You gave everything. He gave just enough to make you believe it could last.

II | But it didn’t. One night, after weeks of emotional distance, Ghost shut you out completely - told you it was over, with no explanation. You tried to fight for him, asked what changed, begged him to tell you what he needed. He just said, “You deserve better."

III | Heartbroken, you packed your things and disappeared from Ghost's life. A few weeks later, you got sick. Tired. Nauseous. And then the test turned positive.

IV | You stared at the ultrasound photo alone in a small clinic. You thought about calling Simon. You typed out the message a dozen times. But you knew the damage. He made it clear - he didn’t want you, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him rejecting the baby too.

V | So you kept the secret. Moved somewhere new. Found a tiny apartment. Took on remote work. You did everything alone. And when your baby boy was born - dark eyes, a stubborn pout, and Simon's nose - you cried because it hurt and healed at the same time.

VI | Three months later, you’re walking through a rainy plaza in Manchester. Your son is tucked in a sling against your chest. You’re just trying to pick up baby formula when you hear a voice behind you - deep, clipped, unmistakable: “...Y/N?”

VII | You freeze. Turn slowly. And there he is. Simon Riley. No mask, just a hoodie. Taller than you remember. Paler. Scarred. Your eyes widen - but his eyes are already locked on the bundle against your chest.

VIII | Simon stares for what feels like forever. Your son makes a soft, babbling sound, and Simon’s breath catches. He takes a slow step forward and says, voice rough: “Is that…?” But you interrupt, panicked, breathless - “I have to go.”

IX | You rush off, heart pounding, trying not to cry. Simon doesn’t follow. Or maybe he does. You don’t look back. But that night, you can’t sleep. You can still feel his eyes on your son.

X | A few days later, you hear a knock at your door. You don’t answer. Then there’s a note slipped under it.

“I don’t deserve answers. But he does. Let me see him.” —S.R.

XI | You finally agree to meet. In a park. Neutral ground. Not for him - for your son. When he sees your son again - really sees him - he sinks to a bench like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “He looks like…”

He looks like you, Simon

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

XII | Simon holds the baby like he’s made of glass. His voice is barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your hands shake. “Because you didn’t want me. I thought… if you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t want him either.”

He goes silent. Then says something that breaks your heart all over again:

“I pushed you away because I thought it would keep you safe. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. And now, he’s here. And I missed it.”

XIII | There’s a long pause. Neither of you knows what happens next. You’re still angry. Still afraid. But when your son curls a tiny fist around Simon’s thumb, something in both of you shifts.

XIV | t’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But when he looks at you - really looks - you see the man you once loved, and the man your son might need.

I LOVE THE SECRET BABY TROUPE AND I AM NOT ASHAMED TO ADMIT IT 🗣🗣🗣🗣

All rights reserved © 2025 DarlingsBlackBook

[sceletaflores]

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

[sacredsorceress]

the fling / bob reynolds

pairing: bob reynolds x f!avengers!reader summary: bob finds out that you had a one night stand with bucky a few years earlier and feelings bubble to the surface. a/n: heavy on the dialogue since i'm still trying to learn how to write for these characters I'm sorry. for the people who went to thunderbolts for bucky and walked out with a crush on bob- I hope this is okay!! first time writing in a bit word count: 4.3k warnings: no smut, but there are mentions of sexual content so minors please dni!!, former one night stand with bucky (y/n living the dream life fr), john walker!! jumpscare!! (kidding, but he is in it), feelings of worthlessness- anything that would have been in thunderbolts*, drug mention

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

"Just one more time?" You asked. "Please? For me?"

Maybe you batted your eyelashes on purpose- your smile soft and warm, as you brushed your baby hairs from your face. Maybe it was on accident. Even you had been unable to differentiate between the blurred lines of how you instinctively reacted to his presence versus when you consciously tried to impress him.

You had been in the training room for an hour and although the ceiling fan whirred incessantly above the both of you and the fluorescent lighting had begun to give you a headache, you weren't ready to quit.

A glass of water stood on the far side of the room, among a few small puddles that had spilt as Bob had tried (and failed) to successfully raise it in the air telekinetically. A month earlier you had offered to help train Bob; with abilities the most similar to his out of anyone in the group, it felt like a natural step.

But as days turned to weeks, you needed a win just as much as him.

"Try to feel the energy running through you." You said, laying your hand against his shoulder. "I can feel it radiating off of you. You have to remind yourself that you're the one in control, Bob."

Bob's skin rose underneath his sweater- tiny goosebumps scattered across the expanse of his body. A shiver ran down his spine at the spark of your touch. As your hand trailed from his shoulder down his arm, his heart raced.

"It's all you." You whispered. "Now concentrate. Focus on the energy coursing through you. From your fingertips, up your arms," your fingers tracing up his arm as you spoke until they reached for his chest. "...to your heart..."

When Bob could feel your fingertips ghosting over his chest, pressing through the sweater that hung loosely on his frame, his breath hitched. His brain- a jumble of emotions that had far less to do with whatever god-like power was flowing through his veins and more to do with the brain of a man fogged by the woman he loved- lost focus on the task at hand.

His eyes screwed shut as the glass shattered in midair.

"Nice going, Bobby." Walker called, learning against the door frame.

Suddenly aware of how close you had become, you swiftly pulled away from Bob.

You scoffed.

"Don't be an ass, John."

The tension in the room was palpable as the three of you stood in silence. Only the mechanic whir of the fan click, click, clicking as it rattled on the ceiling kept you from hearing each other's breaths.

Glancing between John and Bob, you rolled your eyes and scooped your things up off the floor.

"Good work today, Bob." You said turning back with one last smile as you headed for the door. "See you at dinner."

Bob raised his hand to say something back, but before he could, you had scurried out of the room leaving him with Walker. Wonderful.

As if the room had been vacuum sealed and released, it was as though the liveliness of the room had been sucked out with your departure.

John gestured to the door.

"So you two are getting close, huh?" He asked, striding into the room with a beer bottle in his hand.

Bob felt the heat rise to his cheeks- was it that obvious?

"Oh uh... I guess." Bob smiled politely, shoving his hands in his pockets.

John's feet dragged against the floor as he walked, the sound of rubber against concrete like nails on a chalkboard in Bob's ears. Walker's gaze travelled across the room as if he was seeing it for the first time and hadn't trained in it himself daily, until his focus landed on the water spill from moments earlier. He kicked a stray piece of glass with his foot.

The super soldier cleared his throat.

"You know, man-to-man, Bobby: I'd be careful with her if I was you." Walker chuckled dryly. "Y'know, after what happened with Bucky."

Just as quickly as it had raced by your touch, his heart now stopped.

Everything that had been bothering him previously- the mechanic clicking of the fan, the bright white lights that reminded him a bit too much of a ward, the crisp tag that scratched the back of his neck, the way John spoke with drops of beer still hanging on his lips- it was endless, really- had faded into the background.

What did Bucky have to do with you?

He fidgeted with his hands, digging into the nail beds that were still dried with blood.

"What uh.." A nervous laugh escaped his throat. "What happened with Bucky?"

"Hooked up." Walker said, bringing the bottle to his lips. "Yeah.. it was like, a while ago back in my Captain America days." He raised his eyebrows. A pause. "She didn't tell you?"

As much as Bob had a difficult time lifting a glass, his heart had no problem dropping into his stomach.

One thing that Bob had always been cursed with from a young age was a hyper-active imagination that rarely ever served his own benefit. Now, it plagued him with the idea of you and Bucky together. Blurry images of you falling into bed together- your laugh in his ear. His lips on yours. His hands running up and down the length of your body...

He could be sick.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They all had their flaws but Bucky had been forced into a life of heinous acts and had still managed to come out on top. Captain America's best friend. A hero against Thanos. Fuck, he was even a congressman... meanwhile you had been there to witness the vivid memory of Bob high out of his mind working as a sign flipper first hand. He didn't even work for his abilities, he received them on the hunt for another high.

What was he thinking?

Bob's eyes fell to his hands as they fiddled in his lap and he shook his head.

"No uh, no..." He coughed, attempting to mask the tremble in his voice. "She never um.. mentioned it."

"Huh."

"What?"

John took another swig from his bottle.

"Nothing, nothing..." Walker said with a shrug. "I just figured you guys were close. Always hanging out n' all."

And by all means you were.

There was no coffee run complete without Bob's vanilla milkshake, or a night where you fell asleep on the couch without him by your side. He tasted everything you made before it managed to find its way into the oven. He came with you to every bookstore and supermarket run under the guise of 'wanting to feel useful', while really just wanting to observe you in mundanity outside the tower and carry the bags for you effortlessly home.

Him and Yelena were close, but you and him were partners.

Bob had understood that his more-than-friendly feelings for you would likely have been in vain, but he had never considered that yours were already taken by another.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Bob tugged at his hair and scratched the scruff that had begun to grow on his jaw.

"Yeah..." He shrugged. "I mean.."

John sized Bob up, trying to estimate how he was feeling. He was a difficult one to read- chronically calm in the face of adversity as if it was the life he was assigned to live. Staring at the polite smile that Walker could've sworn was glued to Bob's face, he accepted that he wouldn't know.

"Well, anyway," John said. "Time for dinner, right?"

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

"Can I ask you a question?"

It was a simple question. One that you didn't think would have much bearing. Afterall, the two of you were finally organizing your bookshelf- the final step in making Avengers Tower your home. You figured that it would be about where to place a book or how you liked it.

You would have never anticipated where the conversation was heading.

You absentmindedly flipped through the pages of one of your paperbacks before slipping it onto the shelf.

"You can ask me anything, Bob." You replied. "I'm an open book."

Bob watched where you were knelt on the floor below. The sun peeking in through the window behind him had cast a golden glow on your face, highlighting the crinkles that formed as you focused on the task at hand.

Did he want to know if you were Bucky's? Now, with the two of you alone in your room, doing a mundane task like organizing your bookshelf he could convince himself that this was his life. That you were his.

The truth could shatter that illusion.

What was he thinking? Of course he wanted to know.

The sound of his sock feet shuffling on the floor pulled your focus from the shelf to his flushed face.

"Is everything okay, Bob?"

You pulled your hand from the pile and laid it gently against Bob's clothed leg.

Bob cleared his throat.

"Are you and Bucky.. are you... did you-" Bob tugged at his hair. "Fuck, uh.. this is awkward. Were you two ever...?"

Your eyebrows furrowed as you listened and you swear you felt your blood pressure spike.

How did he know?

Bob was the last person on Earth you wanted knowing about your sex history- especially with someone so close to the two of you. His spluttering only dragged the moment on and you needed a mercy kill.

"Are you asking if Buck and I were a thing?"

Buck. Bob's mind raced. She's the only one in the tower he lets call him that. How did I not notice?

You watched him physically deflate once you posed the question for him- whether that was out of defeat or relief at the awkwardness being stripped from his own hands and shoved into your own, you weren't sure.

Your eyes trailed to the books in front of you.

"I guess, once." You replied trying to even the thumping in your chest. You were never sure of the extent of Bob's powers and if super-hearing had slipped its way into his skillset. "It was a one time thing. I think we just got lost in the heat of it all and when we were done with our mission, we got busy with our own things and it just... fizzled, you know? We're just friends now, Bob."

Without realizing it, your hands had clasped together, circling around one another nervously as you spoke. Noting your demeanor, you picked up another book from the pile.

"Walker just made it seem like-" Bob started.

Of fucking course it was Walker.

You shoved a hardcover into a free space on the shelf with a thud.

"Well Walker's an asshole." You stated flatly, loosing the composure that had been held together by the wringing of your hands. "There's nothing there, Bob. I mean, Buck is a good friend, but he's not the type of guy who'll grab coffee with you, or read your book recommendations, or-" You stopped yourself short, realizing the relationship you were describing was your own. "He's just.. he's not the guy for me."

A silence hung in the air for a brief moment until you could no longer take it.

"I'll be right back."

Before Bob had the chance to argue, you were on your feet, slipping through the door, and rushing down the hallway.

You welcomed yourself inside Yelena's room and shut the door behind you.

"I could kill John!"

Yelena, who had been sat on her bed reading, threw her book to the side.

"Uh, hello?" Yelena said pulling out an earbud. "Have you heard of knocking?"

Waving away her argument, you paced the length of her room.

"Walker told Bob that I had sex with Bucky."

Yelena had become well acquainted with John Walker's slights in the time since meeting him- he enjoyed getting under someone's skin like no other- a natural instigator- though, the team had become immune to it. But watching you now, burning a whole in the carpet with your pacing, Yelena realized she had never seen you so frantic.

"Well?" She asked. "Did you?"

You gave her a pointed look and sighed. That's all she needed to know.

Her jaw dropped.

"When was this!" She shouted, waving her arm in the air.

"Three years ago!" You yelled back. "But that's not the point- the point is that Walker told Bob!"

Yelena, quickly digesting the grenade of a revelation you just threw at her, shrugged.

"Well you just told me," she said. "Who cares if Bob knows?"

"I care!" You said flopping onto the bed. "It's different."

The blonde furrowed her brows.

"Why is it different?"

Staring up at her ceiling, you let out an exasperated sigh.

"Because you're a girl."

Yelena tapped her finger against her chin: "Well Walker knew and you did not care until he told Bob."

"That's because he was there, Yel." You argued. "I wouldn't want Alexei to know either."

A dry laugh escaped her lips.

"That is different." Yelena said. "Alexei would tell the whole world that you had sex with Barnes and the news would call you the Avengers' whore."

You reached for one of her pillows and threw it at her.

"Oh my god, Yelena!"

You hid your face in your palms.

"Not that I am calling you a whore!" She defended herself. "I am just saying-"

"Yelena." You said, face still hidden behind your hands. "Focus."

"I just do not understand why you care if Bob knows!" Yelena said with an exasperated sigh, running her hand in circles on your back. "You two are very close. He won't judge you. I mean, he is very awkward, but I am sure he's had sex before. It won't affect your-"

As if a cartoon lightbulb had appeared above her head, the thought finally came to her. Yelena ceased the motion with her hands.

"Wait." She said, pulling herself away from your touch. "Do you like him?"

You rolled your eyes.

"What are we?" You said, deflecting. "Kindergarteners?"

"Aha!" Yelena said, hopping off the bed. "I knew it!"

Somehow telling another person only made your feelings more real, tangible. Before you could deny that they had ever existed, but now that it was out in the open, you were vulnerable not only to your feelings but Bob's too. You could feel your face burning from the confession and groaned.

"You like Bob!" She said with a pout, as if it were the most wholesome idea in the world. "That is so cute. Why do you not you tell him?"

She asked it as if it were simple. As if the only thing that stood between you and what you wanted was a sentence. And that if things didn't go the way you hoped, that your desires would blow away like dust in the wind.

If anything, the revived information that you had a history with Bucky only further pushed down your inclination to confess your feelings to Bob. If three years had passed since a mutual one night stand and that was still haunting you, how would an unrequited love with your roommate be?

You weren't sure you could take it.

"You're joking, right?" You wrapped your arms around your legs and tucked your knee under your chin. "He's literally 'the golden god'. I mean Bob's just... he's so attractive and fit and nice... there's just no way he would feel the same and then it would make everything so awkward."

Yelena quirked her eyebrow at you.

"I am confused." She said. "Are we talking about the same Bob?"

You gave her a sad smile and swat at her arm.

"Yelena. I'm serious." Your argued. "Just think about it."

Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth, tut, tut, tuting you as she brushed her hand against your forehead.

"Y/n, before you started training with Bob, he could throw us all across the room without even thinking about it." Yelena said, stroking your hair. "Now, he can't even pick up a glass of water. Do you know why that is?"

You hadn't considered it.

"Do I make him uncomfortable?" You asked.

"No! I mean, yes, but it's not like that." She said, pulling away. "You make him so nervous that he cannot think straight. We all know that he's in love with you, we just did not think you felt the same."

You pulled yourself up onto your elbow to get a better look at Yelena, the sheets crinkling under your touch. In your chest, you swore you could feel your heart thumping against its cage.

Bob liked you? You?

As if you were a kid again you felt an adrenaline rush through your veins, begging you to hop off the bed, skip around the room and run into the arms of the man you loved.

But you were an adult who lived with both a man from your past and one who would, hopefully, be your future. Care and precision was needed.

"Really?" You asked, pressing your hand to your chest to steady your breathing. "Don't mess with me, Yelena."

Yelena laughed.

"Oh yes. He is very obvious." Yelena shook her head. "Always making the googly eyes at you when you talk and asking where you are... it's gross."

Without thinking, you closed the space between you and Yelena by gripping her hand.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes." She assured you, squeezing your fingers, "And you should tell him. Now that he knows about Bucky it is going to mess with his head. It is better to tell him soon."

Suddenly, you thought of Bob's feelings. The way he must have felt learning about Bucky.. if you were in his shoes and he had been with a member of your group, you think you would be sick.

As much as you wanted him- to hold him, to tell him you love him and hear it back, to be able to call him yours- it wasn't your feelings that drove you, but Bob's.

Yelena could be wrong, but she could also be right. You couldn't risk the latter by fear of the former.

You'd tell him tonight.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

After your conversation with Yelena, you had headed back to your room only to find it abandoned by Bob. The afternoon had dragged on in agony, avoiding Bob like the plague until dinner. Even once the dishes had been served, wine was poured, and you had relaxed into your seat beside him, it had taken you all dinner to get up the nerve to speak to him again.

Afterall, what if Yelena's intuition was wrong?

"Can we talk after dinner?" You asked.

You turned your head towards Bob and whispered, careful that the other members of the table wouldn't hear. Bob, who had been half-heartedly been picking fries off of his plate the entire dinner, bit his tongue at the sound of your voice.

"Ow- what? Y-yeah," He said with a polite smile. "We can talk."

You smiled.

"Perfect." You smiled. "It's a date."

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Your footsteps were the first thing he heard.

They were soft, hesitant. As if you had to convince yourself to take another step. You had wrapped your sweater tight around yourself to brace the chill that came with being so high above the ground and all Bob could think was he would warm you up if you let him.

But he'd never say that.

Instead, he braced himself against the railing and greeted you with a wordless smile.

"Hey."

"Hi."

You glanced down at your shoes then back to his face.

Just do it.

"I'm sorry that you had to find out about Bucky and I from Walker." You glanced between Bob and the traffic lights on the street below. His stare, so filled with kindness and care, made your breath catch in your throat. "But it's only because it's one hundred percent in the past. And I... was afraid that you'd look at me differently because of it if you knew."

Bob, usually the victim of low self-confidence, hated the look on you. Not because it made you look weak or worthless, no- but that he wished he could take whatever weight it carried in your body and absorb it into his own. Valentina may have called him the golden god, but you were the shining light that kept him him.

"Why?" He asked. "I could never judge you."

Your eyes locked with his and for a brief moment it was like the rest of the world fell away. You studied the blue in his eyes and the way gold specs floated around in them- as if the power within him was always just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. You took it in. If this all went south, at least you could remember him like that.

"Fuck." You laughed, taking a sudden interest in your shoes. "This sounds so childish, but I really don't know how else to say it..." Wrapping your arms tighter around you to brace the wind, you looked up at him and smiled. "I like you, Bob. Like more than... more than I probably should."

A shiver visibly rattled your body as another gust of wind hit. Rather than suggest that you go inside, Bob laid his hands against your arms, warming them.

"What do you... what do you mean by that?" He asked.

"C'mon, Bob." You sighed, shielding your face in your palms and burying your face into his chest. "You know what I mean. I just look at you and don't even know what to do with myself anymore; and I know I'm supposed to be your friend, but I can't keep pretending that I'm not having a heart attack every time you look at me like that."

A deep sigh shook your frame.

"Anyway just tell me you don't feel the same and I'll forget it." You said, "and we can pretend this never happened."

He could feel his heart shatter in his chest.

He knew the tremble in your voice well. The tone. The complete lack of confidence. It was unfamiliar coming from your lips but he had heard it come from his own every time he opened his mouth. To hear it come from you was not just unfathomable, but heart breaking.

How you could think that way about yourself in comparison to him... he couldn't believe it.

"Don't... don't say that." He said no more than above a whisper. "You're like, just perfect to me."

Bob stepped back, leaving space to get a better look at you. Running his hands up your arms, he reached your cheeks. He cupped your face in his hands, gently as if one wrong move would make his earth shatter, and guided your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look, I'm uh.. I'm not good at this whole... relationship thing..." Bob said, eyes darting from your face to your hair, to the space behind you as the glimmer in your eyes made him nervous. "But I- I feel the same... About you."

He laughed. The same sweet, nervous laugh that followed you into your dreams and gave you a reason to come home; and you felt your heart swell at the familiar smile painted on his face- this time for you.

"Really?"

Your fingers clung to the fabric of his sweater as if you feared that if you let go, it would turn out to just a figment of your imagination.

"Yeah."

Tendrils hung in his eyes as he leaned further, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin and and breath fanning your face. When your noses touched, ever so slightly brushing at the tips, you placed your finger against his lips.

Confusion and hurt painted his features until you gestured behind him.

"We have company." You whispered.

Framed by the warm light of the tower behind them, five all-too-familiar figures watched from the doorway.

"Should we be worried about the two most powerful people on the planet being in love?" Ava asked, taking a sip from her glass of wine.

"I'm more worried about the mental stability of their future kids." John deadpanned.

"No!" Alexei argued, slapping his hands against Ava and Walker's backs. "What are you saying? They will make strong babies!" He raised his fist in the air: "And they will be the pride of the New Avengerz!"

"Alexei!" Yelena groaned. "Stop making it weird."

As if Yelena had physically stung him with her words, Alexei's hands flew to his own chest.

"I do not make it weird." He argued. "I am being supportive. How is that weird?"

"They have not even kissed and you are talking about super babies!" Yelena shouted. "You are lucky they cannot hear you."

You called back.

"Oh no, we can hear you!"

Bob pointed to his ears and mouthed: "Super hearing."

Still cradled in Bob's arms, your eyes met Bucky's from across the landing pad. He smiled softly.

"C'mon." Bucky said waving the onlookers inside. "Let's go. Leave them alone."

Waiting until they left your sight, you looked back at Bob and breathed him in. His cheeks had begun to burn a bright pink that was visible even in the dim light of dusk, but he looked at you with eyes that could only be described as love drunk.

"So..." You said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. The palm that still laid flat against his chest felt his heart skip a beat. "Where were we?"

[classyrbf]

IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE! — GOJO SATORU

SYNOPSIS...you and gojo get into a fight after realizing that he’s been hiding something about your relationship the entire time

INFO...gojo x fem!reader, angsty, arguing, breaking up(?), not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

You slam the door to the penthouse, your heels clicking against the mahogany floors with each step. You toss your purse on the couch, hearing Gojo opening the front door and shutting it quickly. “Baby, please just listen to me.” He pleads, following after you.

“I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuse, Satoru.” You roll your eyes, plopping down on the edge of the bed to relieve your sore feet of the heels you’ve been wearing all night to your boyfriends opening event he’s been planning for months now.

“I’m not trying to make excuses. Please.” He walks over towards you and toss your heel at him. “Stop throwing shit and just talk to me!”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” You stand to your feet, glaring daggers at him. “Do you know how embarrassing that was for me? God, you’re a fucking asshole.” You seethe, narrowing your eyes. “I sat there all alone, while you let some woman feel up on you the entire night? Are you out your fucking mind?” You scoff.

“She’s just an old friend, y/n. I swear I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” He shakes his head at you, grabbing onto your arms tightly.

“Oh, yeah? So I when I came up and introduced myself as your girlfriend none of your friends were looking at me like I was crazy? I know we’ve been only together for a year, Satoru, but that’s fucking low.” You pull away from him. “They didn’t even know who I was. Then you got miss prissy bitch clearly flirting with you in front of me and you didn’t do a damn thing to stop it!” You brush past him, stomping over towards the bathroom.

“Slow down, y/n! Baby—”

“I’m not your fucking ‘baby’, Satoru.” You gather all of your products from the bathroom, from your makeup and skincare to your clothes and shampoo.

“Stop for just one second.” He spins you around so you’re facing him. “Don’t leave. I swear you’re the only girl for me. I know I fucked up, I know I did. I embarrassed you, made you look stupid and I am so fucking sorry. But please do not leave.” He cups your face gently and his touch feels so inviting, but you can’t forgive him that easily. “I only want you. I only need you.”

You look up at him through your lashes, swallowing thickly as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Should’ve thought about that when you let her kiss your cheek and you smiled at her. Right in front of me. Get the fuck off of me.” You push him, rushing to grab your bag from the closet.

Gojo lets out a tired sigh, following you. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not like this. “I shouldn’t have let her near me.”

“Why was she so comfortable with being that close to you, huh?” You question, furrowing your brows as you turn to look at him. “Now that I think about it. Let me guess, you two were more than just friends.” You stand to your feet, snatching your clothes off the hangers and shoving them into your bag. He looks at you, opening his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. And from the look in his eyes, you already knew the truth. A bitter laugh leaves your lips, shaking your head in disappointment.

“It was before you! Before us! We never dated it was just a small thing between me and her!” He tried to explain. “Baby, I swear! Once I met you, everything changed. I cut her off and focused all my attention on you. You’re the only who has my heart.” He grabbed your wrist only for you to pull away.

“Clearly I ain’t the only who who’s got your dick, though.” You slam the closet door shut, turning your back towards him.

“Don’t say that, y/n. That’s the first time I’ve seen her in years!”

“Yeah? Well all your friends sure know about her. She must’ve been great in bed, Satoru. Me? Well, they looked at me like I was a fucking ghost!” You scoff. “Like I was some delusional bitch who came up to you and said I was your girlfriend!” You throw your hands up in disbelief. “You must take me for fucking joke. It must be written on my forehead or something!”

“I don’t take you for a joke! You’re my goddamn girlfriend. You live with me. You have my initial around your fucking neck! I love you and you know that!” He takes a step towards you.

“Do I know that?” You ask aloud, cocking your head to the side.

“What—of course I love you. What the fuck are you saying?” He looked at you with pure confusion.

“You’re a joke. One of your friends, Shoko, pulled me aside and told me the only reason you got with me is because your little fling ended up getting a boyfriend herself around the time we started dating. You’re a piece of shit.” You revealed the truth to him, watching him stare at you blankly, lost for words. “Think I wouldn’t find out?” You ripped off the necklace with his initial, tossing it at him.

“Yes, I was upset that she got a boyfriend but—”

“So you had feelings for her. And just to cover them up, you got with me as a distraction.” You step closer towards him. “Listen to me, Satoru, don’t ever try and contact me again, keep whatever fucking gifts you bought me and return them, sell them, do whatever because I am done,” you spoke through gritted teeth.

“No, no, no, baby. You can’t leave me. Yea I liked her before, but so fucking what? I was never in love with her, not like I am with you. I was too fucking stupid. I still am! Just give me another chance to fix this. I don’t want us to end this way.” He grabs your packed bag from your hands and tosses it on the bed.

“Let me go, Satoru.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I can’t. You’re everything to me. She’s nothing compared to you.” He sniffles, holding your hands in his. “I love you so much and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry I embarrassed you. And I’m sorry for entertaining the idea that she could even come close to you. She can’t.” His hands cupped your face, his heart pounding in anticipation as he waited to hear any words from you.

You reached up, pulling his hands away from your face. “Bye, Satoru.” You walked past him, grabbing your bag off of the bed. As much as it hurt to leave, you knew you had to respect yourself. Time and space was what you needed to think. With each step out the door, you could hear Gojo’s sobs, something you’ve never heard before in the year you’ve been with him. For the strong, flashily and confident man he is, you never once thought you’d see or him break down. Especially not for you.

[rafayelxsylusho]

This was created because I'm ovulating and I was inspired by this art (link here).

What happens when you catch each LI humping a pillow? 🥵🥵

FOLLOW EKAY!!! art is amazing!!!

Full pictures are on Bluesky and X.

"What the hell?" That definitely sounded like Caleb, but the way he called your name was different. Not playful or teasing like usual. It was raw, desperate, almost pained. For a moment you think Caleb must have heard you come home and is calling for you from the kitchen. But the sound comes again, louder and it's clear something is very wrong.

You freeze on the stairs, hand tightening on the railing as you realize the noise is coming from upstairs.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself moving up the stairs, footsteps silent on the carpeted steps. You creep closer to his bedroom door, which is slightly open. You hear him grunt, followed by the creaking of bedsprings. Your stomach twists into knots as you push the door open a little wider, peeking inside.

The sight that greets you steals the breath from your lungs. 

Caleb, is on his knees on the bed, holding with both hands a pillow that is clutched tightly between his legs. His abs flex and tense with each thrust of his hips, the defined lines of his six pack glistening with a sheen of sweat.

A deep moan tears from his throat, your name falling from his lips like a prayer and a plea all at once. "Y/N..." he grunts with a sharp buck of his hips. The metal dog tag you gave him, the one he never takes off, swings and clanks against his chest with every movement.

His face is flushed a deep red, eyes open in concentration as he loses himself in his own twisted fantasy. His dark brown hair falls messily over his forehead, a few damp strands clinging to his skin. He looks lost in his own world, chasing some dark desire that you can only imagine involves you.

You stand there frozen, feeling a confusing mix of shock and embarrassment. You know you should look away, give him privacy, but you can't seem to tear your eyes from the sight of him so consumed by lust.

His breathing comes in ragged pants, chest heaving as he continues to grind against the pillow.

You don't know whether to be flattered, terrified, or turned on. Probably all three. But most of all, you are stunned. You had no idea Caleb was this intense.

The sound of the pillow rubbing against his heavy balls up to the tip of his cock, already slick with precum, makes you squeeze your thighs together.

"Fuck, pipsqueak..." Caleb grunts, "You feel so fucking good, baby. So tight and perfect around my cock." He gives a sharp thrust and the pillowcase darkens with his precum.

His filthy whispers fill the room, painting a vivid picture of the act he wishes he was performing on you. "Gonna fill this sweet little pussy up. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be dripping with it for days."

Your cheeks flush hotly at his words. You've never heard Caleb speak like this before. It's raw, it's real, and it's terrifyingly intense. A dark shiver runs through you as you imagine him saying those things to you, doing those things to you.

Caleb seems to be chasing something, a release he desperately needs. His grip on the pillow tightens, knuckles turning white as he holds on for dear life. The bed frame creaks beneath him, "Fuck, I need it... I need you... Gonna cum... Gonna fucking cum..." he snarls, hips jerking erratically now. The pillow case is thoroughly soaked, the spreading dark patch testifying to his desperation.

A gasp escapes you as you take an unconscious step forward, the door swings open a bit more. In that same moment, Caleb's head snaps up, eyes flying open wide as he realizes he's no longer alone.

But it's too late. Far too late to stop the inevitable. With a deep moan that echoes off the walls, Caleb's back arches as he finds his release. His hips jerk forward one last time, and thick ropes of pearly white cum erupt from his cock, splattering obscenely across his stomach and chest.

Some of it even reaches his flushed cheek, a single strand dangling from his jawline as he pants harshly, struggling to catch his breath. His pelvis is glazed with his cum, the patch of hair there dripping with his seed.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Caleb stares at you, eyes blazing with emotions, shock, embarrassment, but above all, hunger. It's like he's seeing straight into your soul and you are frozen in place, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. You don't know what to say, what to do. You are not sure if you should run, scream, or...god help you...take a step closer and let him pull you into his arms.

So you do the only thing you can think of.  You step out of the room, you let the door swing shut behind you with a soft click. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you stand there, back pressed against the closed door. You can still picture the look on his face, the raw need that contorted his features. It will be burned into you mind forever.

How can we go back to the way things were after this? 

Your heart skips a beat as you hear an unfamiliar noise coming from Sylus' room. It sounds like...grunting? You pause midstep, standing still just outside his bedroom door.

There's a strange, rhythmic creaking of bedsprings that makes your brows furrow. What on earth is Sylus doing in there at this hour, especially if he's not a morning person? You've never heard him make noises like that before. Perhaps surprising him like this wasn't the best idea after all.

You open the door slowly, maybe he is having a nightmare you tell yourself. Your heart lurches into your throat, eyes widening in shock. He is not having a nightmare, but something far more...intense. He's kneeling on the bed, gripping a pillow tightly between his thighs. The way his arm clutches it, fingers digging into the fabric, suggests a desperate, almost feral need.

His other hand is fisted in the sheets behind him, knuckles white from the force of his grip. The bed creaks and sways with his movements, the rocking of his hips unmistakable even in the dim light. He's panting, low grunts and growls rumbling from his chest as he grinds himself against the pillow, chasing his pleasure.

Shock roots you to the spot, hand still on the door handle. He's looking down at his throbbing cock, watching it, each slow thrust. His hips roll slowly at first, the movement controlled as he builds towards his peak.

"Fuck, kitten," he grunts, "You take me so deep, all the way into that tight little throat. That's it, open wider, take every fucking inch..."

You feel heat between your legs at the sound of his filthy words, arousal dampening the fabric of your panties

Suddenly, his thrusts turn quick and desperate, the arm gripping the bed slipping a bit. The sound of the pillowcase rubbing against him and the slap of his cock against his stomach fill the room. Beads of precum smear across his skin with each thrust.

You can't look away, even as your cheeks burn and your core throbs with need. You know Sylus is seconds away from coming, his thrusts becoming desperate.

He is fully lost now head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, you bite your lip hard, stifling the moan that threatens to spill out. You are not even touching yourself but you can feel your body responding to his fantasy as if it were real. As if you were the one on your knees, choking on his thick cock, gagging for his seed.

You gasp softly as he orgasms, his long moan of "Take it all, kitten... suck me dry" echoing through the room. The sight of his hot cum splattering across his stomach and staining the sheets is shockingly erotic.

There's so much of it. Thick, creamy ropes of cum paint his skin and the pillow beneath him. You can't help but picture how it would feel, the weight of it heavy and warm on your tongue, sliding down your throat. The thought makes your mouth water.

His cock pulses and throbs as he rides out his orgasm, spurting the last few weak drops of cum onto the pillow. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, arm gripping the sheets trembling slightly.

You are about to close his door when you hear his voice again. You freeze, hand still on the door handle, as he speaks.

"You, watching me, made this much more pleasurable, kitten. Don't walk away now."

You should have known you couldnt slip away unnoticed.

Fuck

Three weeks, that's how long you were on a mission and apart from him.

When you open the front door and walk in you notice the house is quiet, too quiet, as you set your bag down by the shoe rack, kicking off your boots.

Your heart flutters with anticipation as you tiptoe down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. The early morning sunlight peeks through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the house as you approach the slightly open bedroom door.

"Y/n...fuuuuuuuck"

He couldn't be...was he?

He was.

Your mouth falls open in shock when you see Zayne. He's on his hands and knees on the bed, a pillow placed between his legs. One hand grips the pillow tightly, holding it firmly against his body as he slowly thrusts his hips, his hard cock trapped between the pillow and his pelvis.

His other hand clutches the bedsheets in front of him like a lifeline. His black hair falls forward, hiding his eyes as his broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath. The room is filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of the bed creaking with his movements and the stifled groans that escape his lips. The sight of his muscular back moving with each thrust sends a shiver down your spine and ignites a fire low in your belly.

You realize that he's not just turned on, but he's already found his release once, the pillowcase, now soaked with his essence, testifies to it. He's using the damp fabric, slick with his cum, to bring himself to the brink again.

His cock, the tip an angry, almost painful shade of red, pulses and throbs with need. His balls draw up tight, and his toes curl.

His face, usually so stoic and controlled, is flushed and you can tell he's on the very edge of another orgasm. Your heart pounds wildly as you watch him chase his release, his hips moving more urgently now. His hand claws at the sheets, bunching the fabric in his fist.

Your own body responds with a deep throb of desire. You can feel the dampness pooling between your thighs, the way your nipples strain against the fabric of your bra. But you remain still, a silent witness to the intimate moment, not wanting to startle him.

He yanks the pillow closer, using it for more friction, more stimulation. "Fuck..." he growls "Always so fucking tight... such a dirty girl...making me cum twice"

Contrary to before, he doesn't hold back his noises this time. A guttural moan, tears from his throat as he finds his release. It's followed by a litany of curses, each one punctuated by the jerking of his hips and the pulsing of his cock.

"Fuck... shit... damn..." he growls, "Take it... take my fucking cum..." You are sure the sight of him losing control, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, will be seared into your mind forever.

You step into the room and walk towards Zayne, eyes drinking in the sight of him, back glistening with sweat, his hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his climax. As you approach him, he slowly turns his head, his eyes blinking in surprise and confusion as they meet yours. He's still gripping the sheets and pillow tightly.

Without hesitation, you reach out and swipe a finger along the tip of his softening cock, collecting the pearly drops of his release that cling to the sensitive skin. Then you bring your finger to your mouth, keeping eye contact with him as you slowly lick it clean, savoring the salty, slightly bitter taste of him.

"Surprise, honey," you say softly, a playful smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. "I'm home early."

You sigh softly as you remember the last time you saw Rafayel, just a few days ago. He had been absorbed in his painting, hunched over a large canvas propped up in his art studio.

You open his front door and walk inside, a basket of freshly prepared food tucked under your arm. You walk to his studio but he is not in there.

An unusual sound drifting down from upstairs makes you stop in place. It's a soft, strangled noise.

Was that a whimper?

Your brows furrow with concern and you set the basket of food down quietly on the staircase, not wanting to disturb whatever may be happening, but unwilling to ignore what sounds like distress.

Climbing the stairs quietly you approach Rafayel's bedroom door. The whimpering grows louder, now unmistakable. Your hand hovers over the doorknob and you take a deep breath, slowly turning the doorknob. As you push the door open just a bit, you peek through to see Rafayel.

It's not his face flushed a deep shade of red that extends to the tips of his ears or the sweat dripping down his chest that makes your heart skip a beat. It's the way he's positioned on the bed, with a pillow clutched tightly between his legs, his hips rocking and rutting against it with desperate, needy thrusts. His left hand gripping the pillow tightly, keeping it firmly in place as his other hand braces against the mattress, holding himself up.

Desperate whimpers and whines spill from his lips as he grinds his hips against the pillow, his eyes screwed shut in a mix of pleasure and what looks like anguish.

Rafayel pulls the pillow closer, the tip of his cock becomes visible with each thrust. It disappears and reappears, glistening with precum as he thrust against the fabric. It makes your face flush hotly, your eyes going wide as you instinctively press a hand to your mouth to stifle any sound.

"Please... please cutie... let me cum..." Rafayel whimpers "Please, I need it so bad... I can't... I can't hold back anymore..." You've only witnessed him in this state once before, and the memory of that intimate moment together flashes through your mind. The raw need in his eyes as he begged you to let him find release within your warmth and tightness.

A single tear of frustration trickles down his flushed cheek, glistening in the soft light. His abs clench and flex with each thrust against the pillow. "Fuck... I can ... smell her..." he chokes out, his voice breaking with need. The pillow is now soaked with his sweat and the weeping tip of his cock.

It's clear that Rafayel is thinking of you, craving you, desperate to fill you and but he is also having trouble reaching his peak, so you decide to help.

You walk softly towards the bed, as you approach, his thrusts against the pillow falter, then stop altogether. He looks up at you with wide, teary eyes, his cheeks burning an even deeper shade of red.

That's when you see the raw vulnerability and need in his expression, the way he's stripped bare of all his usual composure and confidence. It's both humbling and deeply intimate, a rare glimpse into the true depth of his desire for you.

Sitting down gently beside him on the bed, you lean in close, your lips nearly brushing the shell of his ear and in a soft, encouraging whisper, you breathe out the words:

"Keep going, Raf. Cum for me."

Those three simple words, spoken with such gentle encouragement, seem to be the final push Rafayel needs. His eyes flutter closed, a look of pure bliss spreading across his face.

With a hoarse cry of your name, Rafayel's body goes rigid, his hips jerking forward as he finds his much needed release. Thick, hot ropes of his cum spurt from his fat cock, coating the pillow and his hand as he grips it with white knuckles.

"Such a good boy, Raf," you coo softly, reaching out to gently brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead. Your touch makes him shiver, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

You're glad you brought food, because you know you will both need it after the long day and night ahead of you.

You slip the key he gave you into the lock and turn it slowly, easing the door open as quietly as possible. The apartment is dimly lit and you can hear the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic, but otherwise, it's quiet.

Closing the door behind you, you pad softly into the kitchen. You have a plan, start on breakfast, then wake him so he can eat something. He's probably exhausted from his mission, and you want to make sure he has a nice, relaxing morning. Maybe he forgot you were supposed to have breakfast together this morning.

You open the fridge and start gathering ingredients, eggs, bacon, some fresh fruit. You had found a recipe online that looked delicious and you thought he might enjoy it.

The sound of something slamming softly against the wall grabs your attention. Concerned you walk towards his bedroom, leaving the ingredients on the kitchen counter, the sound growing louder with each step. Gently you turn the doorknob and ease the door to his bedroom open, just a little bit at first. But once you open it a little bit more the sight that greets you makes your breath catch in your throat.

Xavier is sprawled naked on his back, body bathed in the soft glow of the lights filtering through the window. His legs are bent, knees up and feet flat on the bed. Nestled between his thighs is a pillow, and you can see his hips rocking slowly, rubbing the pillow against his lenght.

Your gaze is drawn to his cock, standing proud against his stomach. You can see pearly drops of precum dripping from the swollen, flushed tip, trailing down and pooling in his abdomen.

Unconsciously you lick your lips, imagining the taste of his skin, the feel of his body against yours.

Xavier grips the pillow tightly with both hands. His long fingers dig into the fabric as he pulls on both sides, tightening the pillow around his throbbing cock. The soft material squeezes his shaft, providing a delicious friction that has him gritting his teeth.

You can see the desperation in the way he's chasing his pleasure, the hunger that drives him to seek more, always more. His eyes are clenched shut, lost in a world of sensation and desire. A part of you wonders what he's thinking about, what fantasies are playing out behind his closed lids to have him so worked up. 

You don't have to wait long for an answer.

"Fuck, bunny..." he grunts, voice breathless. "You feel so fucking good...ngh...take it all, just like that. Squeeze me... You ride me sooooo good... fuck, you're so tight...so perfect..."

There's no doubt about it now, in his mind, he's with you, lost in a fantasy starring none other than yourself.

His words dissolve into a moan, the sound vibrating through his chest. The signs of his impending orgasm are unmistakable. His thrusts become erratic, the grip on the pillow tightening. His breathing grows ragged and shallow, each inhale ending on a sharp grunt or a moan. The muscles in his thighs and stomach tense and flex.

"Fuck,... I'm... I'm so close... Ah, shit..." Xavier pants. He throws his head back, hair splaying out around him like a halo. "Don't stop...! don't you dare fucking stop..."

And in his head you don't stop because the next second he comes undone. His back arches sharply, pressing himself against the pillow, as thick ropes of hot, sticky cum spurt from his throbbing cock.

The headboard slams against the wall with the force of his thrusts, the rhythmic banging keeping time with the throbbing pulses of his release.

His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. The pillow is a mess, soaked through with his release. He collapses back onto the bed, a blissful smile playing at the corners of his lips.

For a moment, you're stunned speechless, hardly believing this really happened. Did he really just...?

Before you can overthink it, Xavier's head turns towards the door, his piercing blue gaze locking onto you. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, the smirk of a predator who's just spotted his prey.

"Come here, y/n," he purrs, "I noticed you were there before I came, but I wanted to keep the show going for you."

Of course he noticed you standing there, his hunter's instincts always on high alert. It's no wonder he's the best deepspace hunter. Now all you had to do was walk to him.

Easy...right?