#this has been in my drafts for like a year and a half. and u know what. im releasing it. no care | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaysbaefie · 1 month ago

Text

bullshit | sjy

synopsis: in which months of mocking jake online comes back to bite you, and he makes sure you regret every single word—on your knees.

genre: idol au

pairing: idol!jake x blogger!reader

warnings: dubcon? bratty!reader, petty!jake, mean!jake, big dick!jake, kidnapping (sort of kind of??), oral (m.rec), cum swallowing, reader grinds down on jake’s shoe, mention of daddy kink (but it’s not used), forced submission, manhandling, titty sucking, marking, begging, degrading. self degradation, rough and unprotected p in v, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light spanking slapping and chocking, creampie, spitting, recording for blackmail purposes. i think that’s it….

wc: 15.1k

a/n: this took a lot more time that i initially thought it would … but it’s here now! this draft has been sitting in my archives for years like literal years. back when i used to write on wattpad for bts i had this plot written for tae but scrapped it because i lacked creativity to make it happen. but here we r ! also side note this is not edited to the best of its abilities so if u c a mistake… im sorry :D hope you enjoy, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :)

✎﹏﹏

the dorm door slammed open, the sound of sneakers dragging across the floor echoing behind it. the 7 exhausted boys spilled into the living room, all drained and sweaty from the insane dance practice that had run two hours longer than scheduled. jake collapsed face-first onto the couch, groaning into a throw pillow as he stretches his limbs before he feels a cramp in his leg.

"i think my spine is permanently bent," he mumbled, not moving an inch.

sunghoon flopped onto the floor, using his hoodie as a pillow. "i think i disassociated during 'bite me.'"

"you always disassociate during 'bite me,'" heeseung shot back, tossing a towel at him making sunghoon scowl.

jay, meanwhile, had his phone out, thumb lazily scrolling through twitter as he half-listened to the chaos around him. he was about to put his phone down when a thread caught his eye.

"kpop idols who probably have the smallest dick (a very unserious thread)"

"...oh?" jay blinked, intrigued for all the wrong reasons. a grin formed on his lips as he clicked, the list started off wild.

1. jaehyun nct - idc what y'all say. he screams below average. 2. jeno nct - this is a hater post. cry about it. 3. jake from enhypen - golden retriever energy but gives micro vibes. sorry not sorry.

jay let out a loud, sudden laugh at the description given for jake—catching everyone's attention.

"yo, jake," he wheezed, turning the screen toward him. "look what someone said about you."

jake rolled over lazily, half hazy, "what?"

jay shoved the phone in front of his face. jake read the tweet once, then again. then a third time. his brows furrowed deeper with each pass, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"...are you serious right now?"

he sat up, yanking the phone from jay's hand to read it himself. his eyes scanned the username, the post and then the likes. 10k likes for a bullshit post, jake scoffed in disbelief. he scrolled down to read the replies which were full of people either agreeing or arguing like their lives depended on it.

"no because she's right and she should say it louder" one of the comments read, jake furrowed his eyebrows before scowling.

"i love him but... yeah."

"nah he gives big dick energy actually"

"this is so mean LMFAOOO"

jake's mouth opened in shock. "why am i even on this list? what did i do to deserve this? how does someone look at me and go, 'yeah, micro dick.' what the hell?"

jay couldn't stop laughing. "it's so random, too. like. where did they get the data? did they run a poll?"

"this isn't funny!" jake snapped, slapping jay's shoulder with the back of his hand. "i'm being slandered in front of thousands of people. tens of thousands!"

sunoo peeked over jay's shoulder. "ooh. and someone made a follow-up post. wait—found their tumblr. they said he looks like he apologizes after missionary.'" sunoo cackles, "i can totally see that."

jake nearly choked on air, "what?!"

he snatched sunoo's phone this time, heart pounding as he scrolls violently across your twitter page. he followed the breadcrumb trail from twitter to a tumblr blog: @s0ftbrat666.

the header was a blurry photo of a cunty hello kitty, and the bio just said: "unserious about everything but dick size."

"who the hell is this? why do they hate me so bad?"

niki, who had been quietly sipping water from the kitchen, muttered, "maybe they're a fan of yours. like, weirdly obsessed. reverse psychology or something."

"no. this is personal. this feels targeted," jake muttered, already downloading and opening the tumblr app on his phone. "i'm not letting this slide."

he made a new account. he picked the most ironic, absurd username he could think of: @goldenjake420.

because that screams, 'i'm the real jake sim!!'

he messaged you immediately, his hands shaking in rage as he smashes his fingers into the screen.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

"this is so stupid," he muttered, tossing his phone beside him.

jay raised a brow. "you really just dm'd a twitter troll on tumblr?"

"yes. because the truth matters, jay. i do not have a micro dick!" he exclaims, clearly frustrated from his group mates lack of empathy. he looks around the room in hopes of his members reassurance, only to receive looks of disturbance.

"cmon guys, you know i don't have a micro dick.." he trails off when he sees sunoo grimace at his words.

heeseung smirked from the other side of the couch suddenly sitting up right, ignoring his aching body. "you should send a pic to prove it."

jay cackles before agreeing, "yeah, downwards angles always make that shit look like a tower."

"SHUT UP!" jake shouted, face red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

the room erupted in laughter as jake sat there fuming, arms crossed, waiting for a response. he had no idea the person he messaged was already rolling their eyes and preparing to block him.

and this was only the beginning.

you were no stranger to the occasional deranged and delusional fan losing their mind over a post. it was social media, not a diplomatic summit. if you said someone's fave had bad fashion sense or gave off weak dick energy, it was bound to stir drama��but you thrived in it.

what you didn't expect, though, was to get a dm from an account called @goldenjake420 claiming to be jake himself. not just a fan defending him. not someone crying in your inbox about how you were "too mean."

no. this person had committed to the bit.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

you blinked at the message, snorted, and sat back in your chair.

"okay..." you muttered under your breath. "we've reached new levels of delusion."

you clicked the profile. no posts. followed no one. default layout. pfp of a blurry golden retriever. and the username?

goldenjake420.

"oh my god," you wheezed. this was peak fandom brainrot.

you stared at the message for a minute, thumbs hovering over your keyboard before you decided, you know what? fine. you wanna play jake sim? let's play.

you typed:

@s0ftbrat666: omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry... i didn't know you had a tumblr account i feel so bad now omg i'll take it down right away thank you for being so mature and respectful about it... ugh i feel terrible lol

you hit send. then burst out laughing, eyes watering as you cackle alone in your room.

and five minutes later, you posted a new post on your blog.

—— post by @s0ftbrat666

just got a dm from someone PRETENDING to be jake sim because they were mad i said he has a micro dick LMAOOO. like babes be serious... jake sim is not on tumblr dot com messaging me with a blurry pic of a golden retriever and the username @/goldenjake420. but since he's here reading my posts, hey jake! if u're mad now wait til u see what i post next

anyway updated my list: "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version" jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes and gifs as evidence. enjoy :] ——

you tagged it: #jake sim #enhypen #pls don't take this seriously #except jake if ur reading this then yeah take it seriously

you sat back and refreshed the notes every few seconds. it was already blowing up. likes, reblogs, someone screaming in the tags: "NOT THE FOOTNOTES."

you were thriving, satisfaction filling you as the comments seemed to hype you up.

unbeknownst to you, somewhere in a dorm across the city, jake was screaming into a pillow.

jake was laying on his stomach, face shoved into a couch cushion, aggressively refreshing your tumblr page like a man on a mission. the first message he sent you hadn't gone exactly how he expected. he thought maybe—maybe—you'd feel a little guilty, take the post down, maybe even apologize. instead, he was met with:

"omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry..."

at first, he blinked. then smiled. you were going to apologize and take it down..great!

okay, he thought, that was easier than expected.

but then he saw the post you had published just a few minute later.

—— "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version." jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes. and gifs. enjoy :] ——

"NO I AM NOT," he yelled into the pillow, voice muffled but full of sheer disbelief.

he rolled over and shot upright, shoving his phone in jay's face. "do you SEE this? i was already called micro dick jake, but now i'm a submissive pillow princess? where is she even getting this from?"

jay looked over the post with a calm expression and said, "well... you did say 'ngl' in a tumblr dm. that's kinda submissive."

"jay."

"i'm just saying."

jake's blood pressure was actively rising. he was pacing the living room now, phone clenched in his fist. "this isn't a joke anymore. she's making footnotes. gifs, bro. there's like a whole academic paper on my dick energy. and worst of all, PEOPLE ARE AGREEING."

sunoo peeked around the corner. "maybe just let it go? like... it's tumblr. no one's gonna remember next week."

"it's twitter too! no. no, she wanted to make it personal. it's personal now."

he went back to tumblr, typing furiously in your dm's.

@goldenjake420: okay first of all?? i was acc being really nice u said some really rude stuff and i still tried to talk to u calmly but now ur doubling down with footnotes?? idk y ur so convinced i'm a submissive pillow princess but ur wrong like so wrong scientifically inaccurate levels of wrong

he hit send. then stared at the screen.

nothing. no response. refresh. refresh.

"error: message could not be delivered."

"...what?" jake frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he desperately tried sending his messages again.

he clicked your profile.

"you've been blocked by this user."

the silence that followed was deafening.

"she blocked me," he whispered, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. "she actually blocked me."

jay cackled from across the room. "maybe now you'll stop fighting the tumblr girl who thinks you're a bottom."

"i'm not a bottom!" jake snapped, defensive. "and i'm definitely not a pillow princess!"

jay peers over jake's shoulder, his face pulls into a grimace as he reads jake's messages. "maybe it's a good thing that those didn't deliver... you're proving her point." jake rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to deal with his friend.

he opened twitter, then paused. was he really about to tweet about this?

he closed the app.

instead, he opened his notes app and started typing:

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick."

this wasn't over.

if he had to write a dissertation, he would. he was reclaiming his name. one footnote at a time.

you were in bed, face smushed into your pillow, scrolling aimlessly when the tag notification came in. you were about to ignore it—probably another reblog of your cursed "submissive missionary micro dick energy" thread—but the caption caught your eye:

@s0ftbrat666 you need to see this LMAOOO he made a THREAD. a whole thread.

confused but curious, you tapped the post.

and there it was.

a full thread. by a tumblr user named @truthaboutjake, which already gave deranged energy, but it got better.

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick (a thread)."

you nearly dropped your phone, a giggle leaving you as you excitedly click on the thread.

the first slide was formatted like a presentation. bolded title, bullet points, and an unnecessary amount of spacing like someone had spent way too long formatting it.

—— slide 1: addressing the accusations • the tumblr user @s0ftbrat666 has made multiple posts claiming i am submissive • she has also accused me of having a micro dick • both of these are false, offensive, and based on no real evidence ——

no real evidence, he said. like you were in court.

"what in the deranged.." you muttered to yourself, re-reading the text a second time to make sure you were hallucinating.

you snorted, swiping to the next.

—— slide 2: rebuttal • i've been told i give off dominant energy • no one who owns a denim jacket collection that big can be submissive • as for the size... let's just say i've never received complaints ——

you had to pause there, hand over your mouth, wheezing. "denim jackets radiate peg me," you cackle to yourself.

this wasn't a thread written by a deranged fan. no, this was someone personally offended on a soul level. and the way it was written? the tone? the wording?

it was giving him. it was jake.

no one else would be this pressed.

you laughed so hard you had to sit up.

this man had been so insulted by your dumb, unserious thirst post that he created a whole alternate account, wrote a google-doc-tier thread, and was now trying to clear his name in the notes app format. you were obsessed.

you hit reblog.

—— @s0ftbrat666: i have never in my life witnessed a man fight for his dom rights this hard the denim jacket argument almost had me convinced ngl

jake sim if this is actually you: 1. calm down 2. you're literally proving my point 3. post the evidence since you're so confident ——

the comments came flooding in:

"NOT HIM MAKING A PRESENTATION" "'never received complaints' is CRAZY" "he could've just logged off but now he's in too deep" "@truthaboutjake is shaking"

you weren't done though. oh no.

you clicked the original post again and dm'd @truthaboutjake directly.

@s0ftbrat666: wow a thread? you really sat down and made a powerpoint about your dick this is the best thing that's happened to me all week but you still haven't proven anything so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era i'll wait <33

you hit send with a shit-eating grin.

this was your roman empire now. you were going to be thinking about this thread forever.

jake stared at your message like it physically slapped him.

"so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era"

his jaw dropped.

"e-evidence?!" he sputtered aloud, standing up in the middle of the dorm living room like he'd just been accused of murder.

jay, sitting across the room with earbuds in, pulled one out and glanced up. "what now?"

"she wants evidence."

jay blinked. "like...?"

jake gestured wildly at his phone. "like evidence evidence!"

jay raised both brows before grinning "...so what i said about the downward angle, i'm telling you jake that shit makes it look h—"

"NO!" jake practically yelled. "i'm not sending a picture of my dick to some random troll on tumblr!"

he fumed. typed. deleted. typed again. then, finally, sent:

@truthaboutjake: okay. listen. i'm not sending you a dick pic. i don't care how much you want "evidence" that's weird. this whole thing is weird. i'm literally just trying to correct a false narrative about myself

you saw the message and immediately rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. you were curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, typing with vicious speed.

@s0ftbrat666: omg. are you serious right now?? NO ONE asked for actual dick pics. what the hell is wrong with you. you're literally so deep in this delusion you really think you're jake sim like?? be serious for once you are a grown man on tumblr dot com pretending to be an idol and defending your imaginary dick size this is next level behavior. you need to touch grass and maybe talk to a therapist jake sim would never you are EMBARRASSING yourself rn.

you hit send and sighed, rubbing your temples. it was funny at first but the more you interacted with this person the more brain cells you lost, it shocked you that people would go to such lengths to defend their favs.

this was beyond fandom drama now. this was a case study. and the worst part? you were kind of impressed with how committed he was to the bit. concerned of course, but impressed too.

like... he was spiraling. but passionately.

still. you weren't going to let up. because whoever this man was, he needed to be humbled.

you opened a new post draft and typed:

—— @s0ftbrat666: update: he dm'd me again and accused me of demanding dick pics because i said "evidence"

i rest my case. this is not jake sim. this is some 32-year-old man who unironically uses reddit and thinks being called "submissive" is a slur

log off, drink some water, and go outside before you get a nosebleed from rage

#jake sim #not the real one obviously #this is tumblr not onlyfans relax ——

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to move on.

he really did.

after the dick thread. after being labeled a submissive missionary pillow princess. after the fake fan accusations and being accused of roleplaying as himself—he made the conscious choice to stop checking your blog. he muted your username. closed tumblr for a solid 24 hours. he even turned off his notifs.

he was healing. growing. rebuilding his sanity.

until a member sent him a screenshot.

it was sunghoon.

of course it was sunghoon.

sunghoon: yo y tf she got sm time on her hands icl tho she funny asf

attached was a photo of your newest tumblr post.

jake opened it, eyes squinting. then he saw it.

—— @s0ftbrat666: watched enhypen's most recent stage and i just wanna know WHO chose those pants for jake like bffr. i can see his entire situation

the dick print? front and center. and it's not giving what he thinks it's giving

it's giving: he begged the stylist to let him wear those pants so he could prove me wrong and i'm here to tell you... babe... don't ever do that again.

i'm LAUGHING.

#enhypen #jake sim #pls don't wear tight pants if ur not ready for the scrutiny king #it's not looking good ——

jake froze.

his phone was literally vibrating with how hard he was gripping it.

"she's watching performances now?" he whispered to himself, horrified.

jay looked up from across the room, warily. "...oh god. again?"

"she's analyzing my crotch, jay. she made a post about my dick print."

jay blinked. "that's... new."

"and she said it's 'not giving'!" jake practically screamed, spinning his phone around to show him. "not giving what?! not giving big dick energy?!?!"

jay read it silently, lips twitching. "...it does kind of sound like she thinks you're trying to prove her wrong. which, to be fair, you kinda are." he pauses for a second, "but i thought she deemed you as a deranged fan, does she think that you're actually texting her?"

jake shrugs, "who knows what she's thinking, clearly way to much of this is the shit she posts. also i wasn't even thinking about her when i wore those pants!"

"you literally made a thread defending your dick size last week."

"NOT THE POINT."

jake felt like he was going to combust. it was like every time he clawed his way back to peace, you dropped another post from hell and dragged him back into the pit.

and this time?

this time you targeted his outfit. his styling choices. his crotch visibility. he couldn't even enjoy the stage anymore without wondering if you were out there in a hoodie, behind a screen, zooming in on freeze frames of his pants.

"this is psychological warfare," jake muttered.

sunghoon looked up from his phone, his face annoyed. he was tired of hearing about this, "just block her again."

jake clenched his jaw. "she'll post about it. she'll brag."

he scrolled back up, reading the caption again. and again. his fingers hovered over your username.

he didn't message you. not this time.

instead, he posted on his burner account:

—— @truthaboutjake: some people spend their lives spreading negativity online because they have nothing else going for them. if you spend your free time zooming in on people's bodies just to make fun of them, seek help.

also, the pants looked fire. ——

he hit post. and then, two minutes later he opened the group chat.

jayke: whoever styled me last week. never again. we're going back to loose pants. i'm not doing this with tumblr anymore

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to stay composed. he tried.

but every time he opened tumblr, there you were—lurking in his psyche like a demon with wi-fi.

at first it had been a few jabs, sprinkled here and there between your usual posts about other idols. someone's hair, another's dance move, one guy you kept thirsting over for his "evil smirk" and "long fingers." whatever. jake didn't care.

until suddenly—your entire blog became about him.

not in a cute, stan-like way.

no.

it was relentless.

"jake sim update: still looks like a man who apologizes during sex."

"new era, same micro dick energy."

"his pants looked like they were holding in a lie."

"i know he fumbles the aux every time. just look at him."

your followers ate it up. reblog after reblog. tags like "#he's just so bashable" and "#jake sim slander is self-care" filled the notes.

there were polls. there were graphics.

you made a tier list of idols based on who looked like they cried after sex, and jake was placed right at the top with the caption: "he looks like he'd say 'was that okay?' while tucking his soft dick back in his briefs."

jake was spiraling.

the worst part? you didn't even seem like a hater. you didn't hate him.

you just... targeted him like it was your job. your content was crafted with care. effort. borderline affection.

jay leaned over one afternoon while jake doomscrolled through another one of your polls—this one titled "which idol do you think would last the shortest in bed (no offense)", where jake was winning by 68%.

"you know," jay mused, "i think she actually likes you."

jake looked up, eyes wide with horror as he looks at jay disgusted. "what?"

jay shrugged. "she's obsessed. it's giving weirdly specific attention. enemies-to-lovers coded."

"jay. she made a gifset of my crotch."

"exactly."

jake nearly threw his phone across the room.

it wasn't just slander anymore—it was becoming personal. and the most infuriating part?

you were so sure. so smugly sure.

every post was laced with casual cruelty and the sharp confidence of someone who truly believed they knew him. his vibes. his music taste. his dick size. like you'd studied him and filed a damn report.

and the urge to prove you wrong? it was eating at him.

he'd see one of your posts and get this itch. this slow, simmering burn in his gut. like he had something to prove now. like he wanted to walk up to you and say—

"say that shit again. to my face."

he'd fantasized about it more than once.

cornering you at a fansign, maybe. or catching you backstage if he ever figured out who you were. you with that smug little expression, your arms crossed like you knew everything. and him, leaning in, low and sharp, and making damn sure you knew you were wrong about everything—especially that.

he wasn't even mad anymore. not just mad. he was determined.

this wasn't just tumblr slander. this was a challenge.

and jake sim? he didn't lose.

✎﹏﹏

jake laid in bed, phone hovering above his face, lit only by the blue glow of tumblr's godforsaken app. it was well past 2 a.m., and he'd already scrolled through your entire blog—again.

he told himself it was just to see if you'd posted anything new. which, of course, you had,

but really, he was spiraling.

another post. this one read:

—— @softbrat666: something about jake sim just screams whines when it doesn't slide in all the way like he'd pause mid-thrust to ask if you're okay because he came too fast

he'd definitely say 'but you just feel so good...' as an excuse ——

and the worst part?

jake read every single reply. studied them, even. like they held some kind of twisted insight into how you saw him. how you imagined him. you were building this whole persona of him in your mind and then broadcasting it to thousands of followers like it was gospel. and the most messed up part?

you had just enough accuracy to make it sting.

and yet—you remained anonymous.

faceless. untouchable.

he'd tried to find out who you were. he dug through old posts, clicked your tags, searched your url on twitter and insta.

all he found was: • you lived in seoul • you were 21 • you drank too much iced americano • and you had audacity in excess

that was it. no selfies. no personal posts. no full name. you were just a sassy username and a collection of jake sim hate posts.

meanwhile, he was a public figure with his whole government face on blast while you dragged him through the mud constantly.

he hated how much he thought about what you looked like.

were you soft and bratty, like your tone suggested? did you smirk when you wrote those captions? were you the type to twirl your hair and say, "what? it's not that deep," while ruining a man's reputation?

he imagined you walking around seoul, laughing with your friends, ordering overpriced coffee with that smug, evil-little-gremlin energy.

he imagined running into you.

he'd play it cool at first—polite, casual, maybe even a little flirty.

watch you ramble. watch you squirm. and when he caught you slipping—maybe when you made some offhand comment about k-pop or tumblr—he'd hit you with it:

"so how's that blog going? still think i'm a submissive pillow princess with a micro dick?"

he rolled onto his side, fuming into his pillow. you lived in his head rent-free and you didn't even know what he looked like at night when he was losing sleep over your bullshit posts.

it was unfair.

you got to stay invisible while he was out here analyzing his own stage outfits to figure out what clip you were gonna slander next.

he scrolled back to that gif set you made of his recent performance. paused on the close-up. the zoom-in.

the goddamn caption: "not jake sim trying to start a dickprint redemption arc. spoiler: it's not working."

his eye twitched.

"this girl is the devil," he muttered.

and yet... he couldn't stop checking. he needed to know what you'd say next.

✎﹏﹏

you wake up to absolute chaos.

your phone is buzzing. not one or two notifications—hundreds. group chats. twitter and tumblr dms. unknown numbers. missed calls. it's like your phone caught fire overnight.

you blink against the morning light, groggy and confused, heart picking up speed. something's wrong. you can feel it. you squint at the screen, drag down your notifications, and the first notification you see makes your stomach drop.

"girl you're trending rn... what did you DO???"

then another.

"is that actually your name???"

your pulse is pounding before you even open twitter. your fingers shake as you type your own @ into the search bar, and the second you hit enter, your breath catches.

it's you.

your name. your photo. your phone number. everything.

someone—no, a group of people—had clearly gone full fbi. they'd taken all your casual, dumb little posts over the years and pieced them together like a fucked-up puzzle.

and now your full name was in a viral thread titled: "this the girl behind the jake sim micro dick blog?"

with a photo of you at a party two months ago, smile beaming.

people were quote-tweeting it with comments like: "she built like someone who'd have beef with jake sim for no reason." "oh she definitely owns a stan twitter burner too." "her blog is my roman empire i need her in therapy immediately."

your blood turned to ice. you were exposed.

fully.

not just as a shitposter but as the jake sim hater. your inbox was flooded—death threats, confessions, apologies, people asking if it was really you. tumblr dms screaming:

"TAKE THE POSTS DOWN BEFORE HE SEES THEM."

too late.

you scrambled to log into tumblr. your hands fumbled across the keys. it took three tries to get your password right.

the second you were in, you did the only thing you could do.

you hit deactivate.

the blog was gone. years of posts. thousands of notes. all of your followers, your drafts, your hate-poll templates.

deleted.

and then the panic really set in.

your hands were trembling. your ears were ringing. and all you could think about was @truthaboutjake, your mind racing. it was him, you realized that it was him.

"he knows. jake sim fucking knows who i am."

and the worst part?

you had no idea what he'd do with it.

✎﹏﹏

jake found out the same way everyone else did—waking up to a string of texts from jay and sunghoon absolutely losing their shit.

jay: bro. check twitter. sunghoon: she got exposed. jay: HER NAME IS OUT LMAOOO jay: bet she's sweating rn sunghoon: she's kinda cute tho

he blinked hard, still groggy, and tapped open the thread that seemed to be trending.

your face stared back at him.

his heart flipped.

you looked... nothing like what he expected. he'd imagined someone smug. cold. maybe with villain bangs and a cigarette habit.

but no—there you were, face flushed in a group photo, laughing mid-sip of iced americano. you looked normal. it almost hurt to admit, but you were pretty.

you looked real.

and now, you were reachable.

he did what anyone would do: searched your name on instagram. he found your linked facebook.

scrolled. scrolled.

paused.

you had your workplace tagged in an old comment.

"juniper bean café - seoul branch."

he stared at it for a long moment. then, very calmly, he stood up, threw on a hoodie, cap, and mask, and left the dorm.

✎﹏﹏

the café was a little tucked away spot with plants hanging from the ceiling and a chalkboard sign outside that said "kiss me, i'm caffeinated."

jake walked in, glancing around. he spotted you immediately, behind the counter, head down as you punched in an order.

he could tell that you had a rough morning, good. your posture was tense. your hair was pulled back messily. your voice was strained. you looked tired, your eyes that seemed so full of life in your leaked photos had disappeared.

he stepped up to the counter. waited. his eyes trailed down your figure, your frame was draped with a loose fitted sweater and some baggy light wash jeans. you wore a black apron, cinching at your waist—allowing his hungry eyes to capture your curves.

you were trying to look invisible. trying not to stand out. but to him—you were glowing with guilt.

he watched you fumble with a stack of napkins, pretending you didn't feel his eyes burning into you. finally you cleared your throat, still not looking up.

"hi, what can i get you?"

he smiled behind his mask, slow and wicked. he pulled it down just enough to speak—voice dripping low, sharp with mocking sweetness.

"you gonna spit in my drink too?" he asked. "or just keep running your mouth somewhere i can't see?"

you froze.

head snapping up. eyes locking with his. and there it was—that flash of horror, recognition, disbelief. it was him.

you had to admit, he was just as if not more handsome in person. your mouth dried up when you watched his lips curl into a smirk and his eye twitch.

your mouth opened. closed. no sound.

"hi," he said, almost sweetly. "miss me?"

you fumbled a reply—something, anything—but he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world.

"you disappeared fast. what happened? got leaked and lost all your guts or did you burn through all your micro dick material?"

your coworker looked between you both, utterly confused and in awe that jake was standing in front her. you took a breath. straightened your spine. tried to salvage your dignity.

"this is harassment," you muttered.

"this is karma," jake shot back, his smile dark. he twitched in anger, how dare you call this harassment—what about what you had been doing for the last couple of weeks? "i wanted a latte, by the way. no sugar. unless you're finally ready to be sweet to me."

you nearly dropped the milk jug.

he didn't care. he was so amused. you were the girl who wrote entire essays dragging his dickprint and his imagined bedroom habits? you, flushed and stammering behind a café register?

he wanted to laugh. he wanted to lean in closer. he wanted to ruin you back.

and this? this was just the beginning.

your hands were shaking. milk frother sputtering. heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape. and he—jake fucking sim—just stood there.

smiling.

smug.

head tilted slightly like he was thrilled by your discomfort. "you gonna make that latte, or you gonna keep fumbling around and glaring at me?" he drawled, voice low and casual.

you gritted your teeth, turned back to the machine, and fumbled through the motions of making the drink. you could feel his eyes on you the entire time—watching, drinking you in like you were the fucking joke.

you finally slid the drink across the counter, trying not to slam it.

"here. now leave."

he didn't move. just sipped slowly, then licked a bit of foam from his lip like it was the most dramatic thing anyone had ever done in a coffee shop.

and then—he leaned forward. elbow on the counter. voice quiet, words slow and deliberate:

"what time do you get off?"

you blinked, "excuse me?"

"your shift. when does it end?"

"why the fuck would i tell you that?"

his smile widened, all teeth now, sharp and smug. "because there's going to be a black car waiting for you outside." he continues, "when you clock out, you're going to get in. and then you're going to follow instructions."

you stared at him, genuinely floored. "are you insane? what the hell are you talking about?"

he tilted his head, mockingly sympathetic. "i get it. you're scared. probably embarrassed." he grins, "but see, that's the thing about defamation—once it's public, i can take legal action. and you've been very public."

your stomach dropped, "you're bluffing."

he shrugged. "wanna bet your savings account on that?"

you opened your mouth. closed it again. because—fuck. he wasn't bluffing. he didn't have to. you'd posted too much. said too much. and now he had your face, your name, your location.

"you can't just—kidnap me," you said, weaker than intended.

he laughed.

"it's not kidnapping if you get in willingly, sweetheart."

then he slid the latte off the counter, turned, and started to walk toward the door. before he left, he glanced back, over his shoulder.

"9 p.m., right?" he called out. "don't be late. i hate being stood up." he grinned, fuck him.

the bell jingled as he left. the door shut behind him.

and you stood there, in your apron and sneakers and sweaty palms, absolutely rattled. what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

✎﹏﹏

9:03 p.m.

you were pacing behind the café. your shift ended three minutes ago, but you hadn't stepped outside yet. you couldn't. your feet felt like bricks. your stomach twisted with anxiety, hands clenched in the pockets of your jeans.

what the fuck am i doing?

you shouldn't go. you know you shouldn't go. this was literally stranger danger 101, except instead of a stranger it was a kpop idol whose dick size you flamed online for weeks.

your brain was screaming at you. your nerves were a warzone. your inner monologue sounded like one long anxiety spiral:

"you're insane." "this is how people get murdered." "he's rich. he could make you disappear and blame it on anxiety meds." "but also... maybe he just wants to talk?" "or maybe he's gonna sue you in person with his scary legal team and laugh while you cry." "or—worse—what if he takes a picture with you and posts it with some shady ass caption like 'finally found her :)' and now you're really cooked?"

your fists clenched tighter.

this was your own fault. you were the one who made that blog. you were the one who said he looked like a pillow princess. you were the one who photoshopped a pacifier into that one fansite photo and captioned it "baby boy can't handle coochie."

and now?

now he knew your name. your face. your shift schedule.

and there it was, waiting on the curb like a horror movie prop—a sleek black car, windows tinted, headlights glowing like eyes.

you stared at it.

and then, finally, took a deep breath and walked towards it.

the back door opened before you could even touch it. you slid inside, hesitating, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. you looked around the dimly lit interior. leather seats. no jake.

just a stone-faced driver in a black cap.

"um," you said cautiously. "where are we going?"

no response.

you leaned forward slightly. "hello? i just—can you at least tell me if jake is—"

silence.

he kept driving.

great.

you sat back, heart still racing. the lights of the city blurred past the windows. you couldn't even track the direction—you were too jittery to focus. every turn felt like it took you farther from safety.

and god, the silence was suffocating.

you hated it. you hated him.

jake sim and his smug face and his legal threats and the fact that this whole thing was so humiliating.

how the hell did he turn it around on you? curse those people who leaked you.

you were supposed to have the power. the upper hand. you were the one who had thousands of people laughing at his expense. you were the one whose posts got quoted like bible verses on stan twitter.

and now?

now you were alone, in his car, being driven to god knows where because he told you to.

you should've never fucking posted about his dick. you should've stayed anonymous. kept your mouth shut. deleted the pacifier post when it hit 10k notes.

the car slowed. you peeked out the window. it wasn't some mansion, like you feared. wasn't a dungeon either—at least you think so.

it was a private-looking building—modern, sleek, tucked down a quiet alley with a gated entrance. definitely expensive. definitely secluded.

you were dropped off at the curb. the driver didn't say anything—just nodded toward the front door.

you stepped out slowly, phone gripped tight in your hand, ready to fake an emergency call or scream if necessary.

a man, different from the driver, opened the front door. another silent guy in all black gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated, then followed him down a short hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, until you reached a door with a single number carved into it: 17.

he knocked once, then opened it.

you stepped in—and stopped.

jake was inside.

he was leaning casually against a wall, dressed in all black—hoodie, chain, jeans, hair tousled, like he hadn't even tried and still looked like a good.

he was scrolling on his phone when you entered, then looked up.

and grinned, "hey." he stops, letting his gaze travel down your trembling form, "glad you could make it, hate blogger."

you wanted to punch him. you wanted to turn around and leave. but most of all—you wanted to know what the hell came next.

and by the look on his face?

he was very ready to show you.

room 17 is quiet. too quiet.

you stand near the door, gripping the strap of your bag like it's your last line of defense. jake hasn't moved from his place against the wall, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. he looks too calm. like this is just some casual meetup and not the most batshit confrontation of your entire life.

"you still haven't told me why i'm here," you say finally, voice tight, trying to sound unbothered even though your throat is dry.

he doesn't answer right away. he just studies you, eyes flicking from your clenched fists to your shifting posture to the tiny, almost-invisible tremble in your knees.

then he lets out a soft little chuckle, the kind that feels mean. smug and quiet and condescending.

"you really don't know?" he asks, stepping away from the wall at last. his strides are slow, deliberate, like he knows you won't run—but that you should.

you take a step back automatically, bumping into the door behind you.

"if this is about suing me," you mutter, chin lifting defensively, "you could've just emailed your legal team. this whole drama king act—" "i'm not suing you." he cuts you off, voice calm but sharp. he walks past you and locks the door with a soft click. your stomach flips.

"then what the hell is this?" he turns back to you, expression unreadable, "this is about correction."

you blink, "what?"

"you posted things that were... inaccurate." he steps closer. you press yourself further into the door. "about me. my body. my performance. my preferences." another step. you swear you stop breathing, "so now i'm giving you a chance to see the truth."

you stare up at him, wide-eyed, "you're joking."

"does it look like i'm joking?" he murmurs.

you're momentarily speechless. your brain is whirring, trying to process what's happening. jake sim—international idol, global heartthrob, the man you've memed within an inch of his digital life—has dragged you to a private room to debunk his dick size?

you should laugh, but you can't.

because he's standing too close. because he's looking at you like prey. because his voice is dipped in amusement but his eyes are furious.

"you're out of your mind," you whisper, eyes wide and your jaw slacked.

he shrugs, "maybe."

his hand lifts, knuckles brushing your chin—just enough to make your breath catch.

"but you made this personal. you dragged it out. you turned it into a running gag." he leans down slightly, until your noses are nearly brushing. "and now you're gonna watch what happens when you say shit you can't back up."

your throat works around a swallow. your persona starts to crack.

still—you can't not be a brat.

"so what, you're gonna just pull your dick out like some frat boy in a scandal?" you snort. "you're so mad over a joke, you're—"

"baby," his voice cuts you off again, soft but dangerous.

"a joke is calling me clingy or annoying. a joke is editing me into a pink onesie." he steps even closer, "but accusing me of being a submissive pillow princess with a dick that couldn't break a hymen?" he tilts his head, mocking, "that's slander."

you flush. deeply, "you saw that post?"

"i've seen every post," he says coolly. "and the reblogs. and the tags. and the memes."

you suddenly feel so small. not because he's taller—though he is—but because you'd spent months building this image of jake sim as a joke. a punchline. a target.

and now he's right here. and he's pissed.

"you're really that bothered?" you ask, but your voice is quieter now, unsure. "bothered?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "sweetheart, i was obsessed." his hand lifts again, brushes your hair away from your face, fingers dragging a little too slow behind your ear.

"you don't understand what it's like to be degraded by someone who's too cowardly to even show their face." he pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips, "but i'll show you."

you swallow hard. "so what?" you ask, trying not to waver. "you want me to apologize? to... take it all back? post a formal retraction about your dick?"

he grins. slow and sharp, "nah."

"i want you to see it," he pauses, lets the words sink in. "and then i want to see the look on your face when you realize you were dead fucking wrong."

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. your heart is pounding so fast you think you might throw up. because there's teasing and there's joking and there's flirting with danger—but this? this is crossing the line, and you don't know if you want him to stop.

you laugh, it comes out breathy and nervous and completely unconvincing. "okay," you say, holding your hands up a little, trying to cut the tension with sarcasm, "haha, very funny. you got me. you've officially scared the shit out of me, and if that was your goal, congratulations."

jake just stands there. watching you. expression unreadable, unreadable and dark. you shift on your feet, trying to find a way out of this, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"look," you continue, "i'll take everything down, okay? every post. every meme. every stupid out-of-pocket caption." you swallow. "i'll issue an apology. hell, i'll write a thread. a whole google doc. whatever you want."

you inch away from the door, toward the side of the room, trying to put some space between you.

"i crossed a line. i get that now." you laugh again, weaker this time. "like—clearly."

jake still doesn't speak, he starts walking.

slow. silent. like a cat with its prey cornered.

your back hits the wall.

"i'll stop posting about you," you rush out, your heart beating frantically when you feel jake's breath fan against your cheek. "seriously. no more degrading content. no more jokes. you win, okay?" his palm hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud.

you freeze.

he leans in.

"i don't want a fucking apology," he murmurs, voice thick and low, the sound of it making your legs weaken. you try to hold his gaze, but it's hard when he's this close. when you can smell his cologne—clean and warm, like cedar and skin. when you can see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

"i want you to look at me," he says, "and admit you were wrong."

"i just did—" "no." his other hand comes up, fingers ghosting your chin, tilting it up. "not because you're scared. not because you think i'm gonna sue your ass. i want you to say it because you know."

you suck in a breath as his fingers graze your throat. not squeezing. not threatening. but claiming, staking a presence.

"you think i'm some submissive little pushover," he whispers, "who just lays there and takes it. soft. boring. harmless."

your heart pounds in your chest so loud you swear it echoes. "you think you own the narrative. that you get to decide who i am, what i'm like in bed, how big my fucking dick is."

you flinch at the way he says it, so vulgar and harsh it shoots straight to your core.

"but the second i show up—" his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "you're quiet. nervous. twitchy. like you already know you were talking out of your ass."

you suck in a shaky breath and try to bite back the heat that's crawling up your neck. "you're insane," you whisper, but there's no bite behind it.

his body is so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him. he hasn't even touched you properly and you already feel like your knees are going to give.

"what do you want from me?" you ask, voice barely holding together. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"i want to fuck the lies out of your mouth." his voice is so low, it vibrates down your spine. "i want you to choke on everything you said about me and realize i was never the one being dominated."

you let out a small, shaky sound—and that's when he finally kisses you.

not soft.

not slow.

possessive. like he's claiming what he's owed.

like he's trying to shove every insult back down your throat, one filthy kiss at a time.

your mind blanks the second his mouth claims yours. his tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you right where he wants you, and you feel it deep—too deep. like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage and brand himself there.

his kiss isn't gentle. it's punishment. all teeth and tongue, your back shoved harder into the wall as he presses against you. his body completely, deliberately dominating yours.

"still think i'm soft?" he growls against your lips when he pulls back, breath ragged, thumb digging into the underside of your chin to keep you looking at him.

you don't answer. you can't.

your mouth is open, panting, lips wet and swollen from how violently he just kissed you. your knees barely hold.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, and lower.

he smirks.

"you look scared," he says, tilting his head slightly. "thought you liked writing filthy shit about me. what happened to all that confidence?"

you swallow hard, still in absolute disbelief, "you're—you're actually insane."

"and you're actually still turned on." his hand drops to your hip, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him—and fuck. he's hard. painfully hard. pressing right against your lower stomach. and he knows you feel it.

your eyes widen. you try to squirm away but there's nowhere to go, your back hits the wall again and his thigh wedges between your legs.

"not so micro now, is it?" he breathes against your neck. you let out a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—and that's when jake loses it.

he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, other hand sliding beneath your shirt, grazing skin and pulling a shocked noise out of you. he doesn't give you room to breathe.

"say it," he growls. "say you were wrong."

you shake your head. still stubborn. still you.

"no?" he scoffs. "fine." his thigh presses harder between your legs, rocking up once. your clit throbbed pathetically at the feeling, it was just enough friction to make your eyes roll back. you try to keep your composure, but he watches your face change—watches your pride falter.

"don't lie to me, baby." his voice drops lower—hungrier. "you're dripping. over the same guy you dragged for months."

you gasp, trying to turn your face away from him, but he leans in again, his nose brushing your cheek.

"you gonna blog about this too?" he whispers. "tell your little followers how jake sim manhandled you and made you eat your words with his cock halfway down your throat?"

you whimper and it disgusts you how fast your body betrays you. how wet you already are. how much you want him to ruin you just to prove you were wrong.

and he can tell.

he sees the shift in your expression. how your resistance is slowly, deliciously, falling apart.

your wrists are still pinned, your breathing uneven, chest rising and falling fast as jake leans in like he owns the air around you.

"i'm done hearing you talk," he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "i think it's time you showed me just how sorry you really are."

he releases your hands and steps back. you don't move. your legs are trembling, your pride hanging on by a thread.

"on your knees," he says simply.

you scoff, arms folding defensively across your chest, "you can't be serious—"

he tilts his head, "i'm not asking again."

there's no loud threat. no yelling. just the terrifying calm of someone who already knows he's won. you hold your ground—barely. but something about the way he looks down at you, already palming the bulge in his jeans, makes your body respond before your mind does.

you sink, slowly. knees hitting the floor like it's a confession. he watches you with quiet satisfaction, like he's waited for this exact moment.

he had been dreaming about the moment he would get you to himself, on your knees—right where he wanted you.

"look at me," he says, and you do—eyes meeting his as he unzips, the sound ridiculously loud in the silence.

he's already thick in his hand when he pulls it out, and your mouth goes dry. you don't want to admit it, but fuck. it's big. way bigger than you ever gave him credit for. your throat tightens at the sheer weight of it, thick and flushed and veined.

his smirk deepens when he sees the way your eyes drop.

"what was that again?" he mocks, giving himself a slow stroke. "micro?"

you glare up at him, heat crawling up your neck. "i was clearly misinformed."

"say it properly."

you hesitate, his free hand tangles in your hair—firm, but not painful. just enough to tilt your face up toward him.

"say. it."

you grit your teeth, "i was wrong."

"about what?"

you groan. "about your dick. okay? you don't have a micro dick."

he raises an eyebrow, "that all?"

"it's big," you mutter, cheeks burning. "you made your point." he laughs—low and satisfied—and guides your face closer, "not yet."

you gasp when you feel his tip touch your cheek, he grins at your expression—feeling satisfied with your shock. he does a few experimental taps, dragging his length over your lips. you hold in a whine when he smears his pre cum over your bottom lip, almost as if he was applying lipgloss on you.

and then he pushes in.

there's no easing into it—he gives you the thick weight of his cock all at once, making you choke. your hands scrambling to grip his thighs as he holds you there, watching with dark, satisfied eyes.

"look at that," he murmurs. "mouth so full of me you can't even talk shit now." you gag again, but his grip stays steady, fingers flexing against the back of your head as he rocks his hips in slow, controlled thrusts. just enough to make you feel how deep he is and prove how wrong you were.

he could feel how warm your mouth was around him, basking in the feeling of not only pleasure but the satisfaction of shutting you up.

"this what you wanted?" he groans. "to see what i've been hiding in those pants you loved to degrade?"

you can't respond. not when he's using your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking every insult out of you with a punishing rhythm. spit drips from out of your mouth and onto your chin. tears prick at your eyes and yet—somewhere deep in your gut—you like it.

jake's grip on your hair gets stronger, the pain causing your jaw to slack as you continue to take his brutal pace. you could feel the head of his cock rub against the back of your throat, the force not strong enough to make you gag but enough to cause a stream of tears to run down your face.

your nose touched his pelvis with every thrust, indicating how deep he was going. "fuck. look at you, __. who knew cock being in your mouth is the only way to shut you up."

you whine at his words, looking up at him with pleading eyes—yet you didn't know what exacting you were begging for. you rub your thighs together in hopes for some temporary relief, the scene so lewd that you could feel yourself gush in your panties—holding in the urge to let your hands wander down to touch yourself.

jake looked down at you with hungry eyes, his lip twitching as his grip in your hair grew tighter with each thrust. he let low moans slip from his mouth every time his dick grazed the back of your throat.

"aren't you a dirty little whore.." jake drawls out, his chest heaving with pleasure when he notices how tightly you have your thighs clenched. "getting all worked up for someone you've publicly shat on for having the least sex appeal."

you moaned around him when suddenly he pushed your thighs apart with his foot, wedging his sneaker between your legs—giving you something to ease up the tension in your core.

you mewl when he pushed against your clit, almost urging you to grind down against him while he used your mouth to his hearts content. slowly, but surely—you allowed yourself to ground yourself against him. it sickened you how desperate you had become in just a span of a few minutes.

jake almost cums when he sees you move your hips, desperate for any kind of friction to relieve you from your throbbing clit.

the familiar feeling in his stomach begins to tighten, his grip on you becoming unforgiving as he loses self control and allows himself to push himself into your mouth as much as he could. his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly now, a mixture of his cum and your spit dribbling out of your mouth.

"f-fuck," he groans. "m'gonna cum.. you're gonna take it? yeah? take it in that bratty mouth, hm?" jake murmurs to what seems himself just before he combusts in your mouth. you swallowed a chocked moan when you feel his warm cum coat your mouth, gagging around him as he twitches.

jake felt as if he was on cloud 9, his head lulling to the side as he keeps your head planted where it is—ensuring that you swallow what he gave you fully.

when he finally pulls back, cock glistening with your spit and his cum, your jaw aches as you swallow the salty yet sweet taste of his release. your chest heaving like you've just survived something.

"mouth open and tongue out," he demands. you hesitantly open your mouth, your tongue out as you show him that you swallowed everything.

you whine out desperately when he slides his foot away, leaving you aching again. jake tsk's, "desperate slut."

he crouches down to your level, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth.

"still think i'm a pillow princess?" his voice is a little breathless now. dark and smug. "or you finally ready to admit you don't know shit about me?"

your throat still burns. your lips are swollen, coated in spit and shame, and jake's leaning over you like he's just getting started.

"on your feet."

you hesitate, still panting, still dazed from the way he fucked your mouth like it was owed to him. but something in his voice—firm, expectant—makes you move. your knees tremble as you rise.

jake doesn't give you time to adjust. the second you're upright, he steps in close, hands on your waist, guiding you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

you're pressed back against the mattress, thighs parted under his hands, still catching your breath from how rough he'd just been with your mouth. but instead of backing down, you do what you do best—deflect.

"look—how about this," you say, voice shaking but holding onto some scrap of cocky defiance. "i'll just say the blog was satire. irony. you know, performance art or something. no one has to know i meant any of it."

jake's expression doesn't change.

"or better yet—i'll make a new post trashing someone else. redirect the attention. easy." you flash a grin that's all teeth. "maybe i'll even throw in a little praise for you. balance it out."

he just blinks at you. slowly.

"you think you're negotiating right now?" his voice is calm, but the grip on your thighs tightens.

you blink. "i mean, i'm trying to be reasonable—"

"reasonable?" he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "you publicly dragged me for weeks. humiliated me. and now that you're caught, you want to rewrite the narrative?"

"i'm offering solutions—" "you're offering bullshit," he snaps, and in a second he's climbing over you, his body slotting between your legs like it was made to be there. "and you think you still have leverage? cute."

your breath hitches. your hands push at his chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them down again, harder this time—your body arching into him involuntarily.

"here's what's really gonna happen," he says, leaning in, nose brushing yours. "you're gonna try to flip this. act like you're still in control. try to turn the tables on me."

your throat tightens.

"but you won't. because the second you try, i'll remind you who made you beg. who had you gagging on the dick you said didn't exist." his voice drops lower, dangerous. "and then i'll ruin you all over again."

you glare up at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and defiance."you know what? fine." your voice is sharp, shaky. "you wanna play games? i'll play. let's see how fast you fold when i turn this around."

he raises an eyebrow. "is that right?" you reach down between your bodies—slow, deliberate—wrapping your hand around him. he's still hard. unfairly so. hot and heavy in your palm.

"maybe i was wrong about the size," you murmur, stroking him slow, his breath hitching. "but maybe you really are just a pillow princess. maybe you like being praised more than you like fucking."

his jaw ticks.

you press a kiss to his neck, voice a taunt against his skin. "what happens if i ride you instead? if i make you cum all over yourself."

he freezes.

"what if i write about that next?" you sit up dragging your tongue along the edge of his jaw. "'jake sim—big dick, zero stamina.' think the internet'll love that?"

you think you've got him.

until suddenly—he flips you.

you yelp, back hitting the mattress again as he rips your hand away from his cock and shoves your thighs up around his waist. the shift is fast, dominant, practiced.

"you really thought that'd work?" he's laughing now—mean, breathless, hungry. "thought you'd rile me up and get the upper hand? you forget who tracked you down and got you here in this room." his voice is pure venom now, thick with want. "who had you gagging and drooling on your knees while you fucked yourself on my shoes not even 5 minutes ago?"

his hands expertly yank off your jeans, his thumb hooked around the waistband of your baby pink cotton panties—teasing you. you writhe beneath him, but he doesn't budge—he presses into you, cock sliding between your clothed folds just to tease, just to show you what you don't get to control.

"you wanna test stamina?" he growls. "i'll fuck you 'til that smug little attitude disappears. 'til you're begging me to stop. 'til you're crying and calling me daddy."

you gasp—rage, arousal, panic blending in your gut—but you can't deny the throb between your legs. the way your body betrays your pride.

he feels it too.

his free hand runs up your sweater, your breath shaking as you feel him run his fingers up your stomach and make themselves comfortable on your tits. letting your hands go momentarily, he's yanking your sweater off and throwing it across the room.

"didn't know bratty girls like you wore baby pink. ruffles, lace trim—bows?" he grins, his hands playing with the frills of your bra as you twitch beneath him.

"fuck you," you spat out, voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. jake only smirks, his hand reaching up to pull the straps of your bra down—letting your tits fall out. "oh i will," and with that he's taking one of your nipples hostage in his mouth. his grip on your wrists stays planted, not allowing you to move or struggle against him when he nips at the sensitive skin of your breasts.

he switches from left to right for a few minutes, basking in your whimpers and mewls before he kisses down your stomach. pulling away he's back to being face to face with you, a smug look on his face before he plants a kiss to your jaw. the kiss turns into bites, nipping at your neck and chest as he leaves behind purple splotches.

"maybe you can post the marks i left and then bash me," jake grins against your skin. you roll your eyes in response only for jake to shoot you a look that says: behave.

he moves your underwear to the side, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. he runs his thumb through your slit, gathering your slick.

"so wet," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock against your slit. "guess your body knows who's in charge, even if your mouth doesn't." he slams into you—deep, all at once—and you scream.

no teasing now. no easing in. no prepping.

just punishment. just proof. just him, ruining you from the inside out like it's the only way to shut you up.

"gonna make you forget every insult," he grits, hips snapping into yours over and over. "gonna fuck the hate right outta you."

he could feel your velvet walls convulse, sucking him in like a vacuum as he thrusts into you. you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching, mind blurring. you hate how good it feels. how right.

"gonna ruin you," he whispers, lips at your neck. "and you're gonna thank me for it." his mouth traveling down to your tit to engulf one of your nipples once again.

your body jolts with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping and moans filling the room as you struggle to adjust to his girth.

you're still trembling when jake lifts your chin. his touch is deceptively gentle, but there's nothing soft in his expression. smug. commanding. dangerously patient.

"you still think you were right?" he asks lowly, voice scraping down your spine like velvet over steel. you blink up at him, lips parted, but your throat is dry. no sass now. not with the way your body's still recovering, knees weak, throat raw from every choked sound he pulled from you.

when you don't respond jake stops his movement, his hips go still as he simply stares down at you with a dark look in his eyes.

you were falling apart.

his cock was deep inside you, filling you so completely you couldn't even think straight— but jake wasn't moving. he just held you there, pinned beneath him, wrists trapped against the mattress, his hips grinding slow and mean against yours.

you whimpered, hips twitching up against him helplessly, desperate for more. he smirked down at you, cruel and smug, loving the way your body shook, the way your face twisted in frustration.

"what's wrong?" he murmured mockingly, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. "thought you'd be tougher than this."

you rationed with yourself for a moment, were you really going to beg? yes.

you tried to twist your wrists free but his grip only tightened. "please," you gasped out, tears welling in your eyes from how badly you needed to cum. "please, jake, i need it—"

he laughed, low and sharp, and snapped his hips forward once—deep and brutal—making you cry out. but then he stilled again, ignoring your desperate whines.

"you need it?" he repeated, pretending to think. "need my cock? need me to make you cum like the stupid little whore you are?"

your cheeks burned, shame rolling through you, but you nodded frantically.

"say it," he ordered, voice dropping, rough. you squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated, but the words still poured out.

"i need your cock," you sobbed. "please jake, please—i'll do anything, i'll be good, just let me cum—"

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied with himself.

"should've thought about being good before you started running your mouth online," he muttered, dragging his cock slow and deep inside you, making you arch and cry out.

you were shaking now—your whole body burning, every nerve stretched tight and ready to snap.

"you want it that bad?" he asked casually, grinding his hips just enough to make you sob.

"yes," you choked out. "please, jake—please, i need to cum, i can't—"

he grinned wickedly and finally, finally started fucking into you hard—deep, punishing thrusts that made you see stars. your walls clung onto how dick like a suction in attempt to milk him dry.

your moans spilled out loud and wrecked, your whole body bowing off the bed.

"good girl," he murmured darkly, "you're gonna cum when i say. not a second before." you nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. and when he finally, finally leaned down and growled, "cum for me, slut,"

you shattered.

you came so hard you were sobbing, spasming around him, your body giving out completely under his.

jake fucked you through it, laughing under his breath, dragging every last bit of pleasure and humiliation out of you until you were left shaking and gasping for air.

and even then, he wasn't done with you yet. he hadn't cum yet, and at the end of the day that's what you were here for—to be his little cum slut. you barely had time to breathe—your body still spasming from the orgasm he tore out of you before jake grabbed your hips and pulled you back down onto him, grinding even deeper.

you yelped, broken noises spilling out of your mouth, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"no," he snapped, voice sharp and final, one hand locking tight around your waist to keep you from moving. "you don't get to run."

your head lolled back, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body a twitching mess.

"too much," you sobbed, trembling violently.

he laughed—laughed—at your misery.

"too bad," he muttered against your ear. "you're not done." he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard, fast, merciless. your thighs shook, your nails dug into the sheets, your mouth fell open in helpless, gasping cries. you could feel yourself spiraling again—pain and pleasure tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"you think you're in control?" he grunted, slamming into you harder, making you scream. "you think you can say whatever you want about me and not pay for it?"

your whole body jolted with every thrust, the humiliation making your head spin.

"say it," he growled. "say you were wrong."

you whimpered, stubborn even now, biting down hard on your lip. he slowed down, grinding his cock against your sensitive walls in deep, deliberate circles that made you keen helplessly.

"say it," he repeated, cruel and low, "or i'll edge you until you're fucking crying."

your pride crumbled fast.

"i was wrong," you gasped out, voice cracking. he smirked, hips snapping forward again. "about what?"

you squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. "about—about your dick," you choked out. "i lied, you're big—you're fucking huge—"

he chuckled darkly, like he already knew. "good girl," he breathed, voice dripping with mockery. "what else?"

you shook your head frantically, body jerking with overstimulation. he pulled almost all the way out—your cunt squeezing around nothing— before slamming back in so brutally you cried out.

"what else?" he hissed against your throat.

"i—i'm just a stupid bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about," you sobbed, face burning hot.

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied, so cruel.

"that's right," he murmured. "a stupid little whore who can't stop begging for the cock she said was too small."

you whimpered, broken, humiliated beyond repair. and still—your body clung to him, desperate for more. you realized with a sick twist in your gut that you would do anything—say anything—just to have him fuck you harder.

and jake knew it too.

he leaned down close, mouth brushing yours cruelly.

"beg," he whispered. "beg me to ruin you."

you could barely think. your body was burning, trembling, stretched tight around him— your mind a broken mess of shame and need. and still jake kept fucking you deep, rough, relentless.

his hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, your throat, your jaw—manhandling you like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

you whimpered when he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him.

"beg," he ordered again, voice dark, breathless with lust. "beg me to ruin you, slut."

you shook your head at first, a broken little sob tearing from your throat. he growled low, slammed into you even harder—your back arching, a scream ripping from your lips.

"you don't get to say no," he hissed. "you wanted this." tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling violently.

"please," you gasped out, the word slipping before you could even think. "please jake..ruin me, use me. fuck me however you want—"

he laughed, so fucking smug, dragging his cock out slow just to make you whine. "good fucking girl," he murmured. "finally learning your place."

you babbled desperate nonsense, sobbing into the sheets, your pride shattered into dust.and jake fucked you through it all—using you like a fleshlight, pounding into you until your legs gave out, until your voice was wrecked and broken.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he sneered, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a sting. "to get fucked dumb? to get put in your place like the stupid little whore you are?"

you nodded frantically, gasping, sobbing, brain completely mush. "can't even speak anymore," he muttered, mocking. "just a cockdrunk mess." your nails clawed helplessly at the sheets, your cunt squeezing him so tight he groaned.

you felt another orgasm building—sharp, unbearable—but you were too gone to even ask permission. you just sobbed and gasped and let him take everything from you.

"yeah, that's right," he growled, voice thick with pleasure. "cum all over my cock, slut. make a fucking mess."

you shattered, your whole body convulsing around him, screaming his name like a prayer, a curse, a broken confession. and jake fucked you through it, dragging every last bit of your pride and resistance out of you, until there was nothing left but a crying, ruined mess on his cock.

you were shaking. your body was limp, wrecked, trembling under the weight of everything he made you feel.

and jake still wasn't satisfied.

he kept moving, grinding his cock deep inside your overstimulated cunt—mocking every broken sob that fell from your lips.

"what's wrong?" he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "too much?"

you could only whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he grabbed your face again, rough, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his.

"you wanted to run your mouth so bad," he sneered. "now you can fucking thank me." your brain barely processed the words, too fogged with shame and pleasure. he slapped your cheek lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back.

"say it," he barked. "say thank you."

you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"th-thank you," you stammered, voice barely a whisper.

he smirked, cruel and satisfied.

"louder," he ordered, snapping his hips forward viciously, making you cry out. "thank you!" you sobbed, your voice hoarse and broken.

he chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down your throat, pressing lightly just enough to make your head spin.

"thank me for ruining you," he muttered, rolling his hips slow and deep, dragging another helpless moan from your lips.

your pride was turned into ash, your mind gone.

"thank you for ruining me," you gasped out, shaking uncontrollably, completely destroyed. he groaned, clearly getting off on how ruined you were—your body slack, twitching, drooling, your cunt spasming weakly around him.

"pathetic," he muttered against your ear. "look at you." you could feel how wet and messy everything was—your thighs sticky, the sheets underneath you soaked.

and still—still—he wasn't finished.

"gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice rough with the effort of holding back. "gonna fuck you so full you'll be leaking for days."

you sobbed, the humiliation sinking deeper into your bones.

"please," you whispered, because you didn't know what else to say anymore. he grunted low in his chest, thrusting faster, chasing his release. he could feel that familiar tinge in his stomach, he was close.

"such a good little cumdump," he growled. "just a hole for me to use." you broke again, another weak orgasm rolling through your abused body.

and jake finally spilled inside you—deep, hot, filling you up exactly like he promised.

he didn't pull out immediately. he stayed pressed deep, making sure you felt every drop. when he finally did pull out, you collapsed completely, a ruined, twitching, crying mess.

and jake just chuckled, so fucking smug. running his fingers down your slit before plugging your fluttering hole, making sure that his cum stays in you for as long as it could.

"maybe next time you'll think twice before running your mouth about me," he said, releasing your wrists before he gets off the bed. he left you there, spread open, dripping, humiliated beyond repair.

and you realized with a sick twist of your gut— you liked it.

you fucking loved every humiliating second of it.

✎﹏﹏

your body aches.

not in the romantic, soft-lit, post-orgasm kind of way.

no. it's raw. it's degrading. it's embarrassing.

your legs are trembling so badly you have to lean on the sink just to stay upright. your thighs sticky, sore. your throat dry and stretched thin from the pathetic, wrecked sounds he pulled out of you.

you yank your clothes back on as fast as your shaking hands allow, muttering curses under your breath. you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. because you know what you'll see: the ruined, wrecked version of yourself jake created.

and you hate him.

you hate how smug he looks when you finally stumble back into the room—hair mussed, shirt untucked, standing like he didn't just break you open with nothing but his cock and his fucking mouth. you hate how he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that says he's already won.

you hate that he was right.

and you really, really hate that you liked it.

you roll your shoulders back, force yourself to stand straight even if your body is begging you to drop.

"that what you wanted?" you rasp out, voice wrecked and scratchy. "you win. congrats. want a trophy or something?"

jake doesn't say a word. he just watches. calm. amused. smug.

and it pisses you off. burns you alive from the inside.

"you got what you wanted. you ruined my pride," you snarl, stepping closer even though your knees are ready to give. "so what now? supposed to kneel and thank you? beg you to keep ruining me?"

he cocks his head slightly, lips twitching.

you hate how unbothered he looks. you hate it so much it makes you reckless.

"you don't actually believe i meant all that, right?" you spit. "you really think i meant it when i said you're big? when i cried about how good you fucked me?"

you scoff, shaking your head with a cold, sharp laugh.

"you're pathetic. you got played because i moaned a little."

and that's when everything shifts.

because jake steps forward—smooth, controlled—grabbing your jaw so hard you gasp, slamming your back against the wall without even looking like he's trying. his face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes dark and furious.

"still lying?" he murmurs.

your heart pounds wildly. you try to twist away but his grip on your jaw tightens, bruising.

"you begged for my cock," he hisses, thumb dragging across your trembling bottom lip. "you fucking cried for it. and you're gonna stand there and lie to my face?"

you choke on your words, humiliation pouring down your spine in cold waves.

he laughs bitterly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "guess you really are as dumb as you look."

you flinch.

and jake leans in closer, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanna pretend you're still in control?" he taunts, dragging his fingers down your throat slow, almost tender. "you wanna act like you didn't cum so fucking hard you couldn't even say my name?"

you tremble.

but you don't back down—not yet. pride and fear tangled up, keeping you frozen.

he chuckles darkly.

"fine," he says, voice a low threat. "i'll remind you."

his hand snakes between your thighs, shoving your jeans down again, your underwear dragging with it, baring you completely in seconds. you gasp, struggling—but he's too strong, too fast. he grabs you by the hips, throws you onto the bed like you're weightless.

and then he's on you.

he presses your wrists to the mattress with one hand again, his weight pinning you down, his other hand roughly forcing your legs apart.

you barely have time to gasp before he's inside you again—deep, brutal, fucking the defiance out of you one savage thrust at a time.

you cry out, throat raw. he fucks you like he's furious, every slam of his hips meant to punish. "not so fucking smug now, huh?" he pants against your ear.

you whimper, broken sounds spilling out without permission.

"what happened to all that fake confidence, princess?" he mocks, rolling his hips harder, forcing your body to take every inch. "thought you said you could handle it."

you sob, writhing under him, but he doesn't let up. he leans down, dragging his teeth across your jaw, making you shudder helplessly.

"gonna make you beg again," he growls. "gonna make you say it like you fucking mean it."

you try to shake your head—but you're drowning. he's everywhere. he's everything. and no matter how much you try to cling to your pride, it crumbles between your shaking hands.

you're crying now—humiliated tears streaking down your flushed face—as he pounds into you mercilessly.

"please," you choke out, voice cracking.

he chuckles, cruel and satisfied.

"please what, baby?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to a deep, punishing grind that makes your whole body twitch and seize.

"please," you sob again, shame burning you alive. "please let me cum."

he leans back slightly to look at you—hair a mess, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"you don't deserve to cum," he says, voice mocking. "whores who lie don't get rewards."

you whimper, hips stuttering against his, desperate, broken.

"but," he adds slowly, almost lazily, "if you beg real nice... maybe i'll consider it."

you sob harder, pride shattered into dust. and then—you beg.

you beg like a good little whore.

"please, jake," you cry, voice wrecked and hoarse. "i need it—i need to cum—please, please—"

he grins, dark and cruel, and finally—finally—lets you fall apart again, your body convulsing, cunt clenching around him helplessly as he fucks you through the brutal, soul-crushing orgasm. and you barely have a second to breathe before he's moving again—pulling out, grabbing your face in both hands, forcing your mouth open.

"open wide," he orders.

you're so wrecked you don't even think to disobey. you just open—lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

and jake leans over—spits straight into your mouth, thick and wet and humiliating.

you gag slightly, tears burning your eyes.

"swallow," he commands sharply.

you do.

you obey without even thinking.

and he smirks—grabbing his phone, flipping open the recording he just made of your pathetic begging, letting you hear it on loop while you lie there ruined, body trembling, throat raw.

he tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. "remember this next time you wanna talk shit," he says, voice low and smug.

he kisses you—mocking and possessive—and leaves you there: used, wrecked, humiliated, and so thoroughly owned that you can't even pretend anymore.

jake sim ruined you and there's no taking it back.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

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thepencilnerd · 21 days ago

Text

A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail.

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing.

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin.

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended."

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised.

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s.

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it.

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner.

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying?

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit.

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all.

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn.

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title.

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind.

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments.

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip.

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything.

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night."

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life."

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay."

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream.

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang.

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read.

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water.

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

517 notes · View notes

lee-laurent · 1 month ago

Text

Hey There, Delilah - Luke Hughes

Summary: Luke finally has a chance with Delilah Zegras. Or in which, Delilah Zegras isn't over her ex

content: fluff, angst, breakup, smoking, drinking, exes, kissing, zegras!oc x ex!matt rempe

wc: 6.7k

notes: idk how to feel abt this... but enjoy! also if u saw it before the title change, the (version 2) was because i rewrote it completely from my original draft

It was so damn humid.

That kind of sticky heat that made everything feel like it would be better if done barefoot and half-drunk. The lake shimmered past the treeline and the house buzzed with the slam of car doors, music blasting from a speaker, and the hum of a weekend that already smelled like cheap beer and sunscreen.

Luke was on cooler duty. Which meant standing on the porch with half-melted ice up to his elbows while Jack shouted about how "you can't just throw a thirty-rack on top of the coolers, Luke, Jesus."

Cole was already shirtless, naturally, and Quinn was somewhere inside, pretending that the chaos wouldn't grow by nightfall.

Luke wiped his hands on a towel and reached for another case of beer just as a car pulled into the gravel driveway behind him.

Trevor.

And--right. Her.

Delilah Zegras slipped out of the passenger side like she hadn't been gone for three years.

The air shifted. Or maybe it was just Luke's stomach.

She was older now--not in the tired, adult way, but in the subtle, glowing kind of way that came from too many summer days. Her hair was longer, curled in loose waves that looked like they had a mind of their own. She was tan, her legs bare under cutoff shorts, a simple tank top that stopped just above her waist. She wore sunglasses and a scowl and looked like she was already regretting being there.

Luke didn't move.

Trevor slammed the trunk shut and waved lazily toward the house. "We made it," he called.

Jack stepped out just in time to see the two of them. "Ayy, Z!" he shouted. "And the prodigal little sister returns."

Delilah gave him a small, close-lipped smile. "Hey, Jack."

"You remember everyone, right?" he asked, walking down the steps and pulling her into a hug before she could deflect it. "Cole's still an idiot, Quinn's still boring, and Luke's... somewhere."

Luke cleared his throat.

Jack turned, "Ah, there he is. Cooler boy."

Delilah's eyes flicked to Luke, expression unreadable behind her sunglasses. "Hey, Hughes."

"Hey," Luke said, as casually as possible.

He hadn't seen her since she was nineteen--back when she only wore Ducks hoodies and acted like everyone around her annoyed her. Even then, she'd been Trevor's snarky little shadow. Now she looked like someone who'd spent the last two months of her life drinking wine on her couch and trying not to cry.

Yet, she was also, somehow, even hotter than he remembered.

Luke turned back to the cooler before his brain could spiral.

Inside was chaos.

Bags were dropped in the wrong rooms, someone was already searching for a bottle opener, and Quinn had his arms crossed in the kitchen like a parent watching a toddler birthday go off the rails. Cole was making a playlist, still shirtless and dancing like no one had asked him to.

Delilah trailed behind Trevor with her bag slung over her shoulder, scanning the place with the cautious eyes of someone trying not to seem out of place.

Luke hovered by the kitchen, cracking open a drink even though it wasn't late enough to justify it. Jack caught his eye and grinned.

"Dude," he mumbled under his breath. "You're staring."

"I'm not."

"You are. It's fine. She looks--"

"Don't."

Jack smirked, clearly entertained.

Luke didn't say anything else.

By the time the group finally made it down to the dock, the sun was low and casting long shadows across the water. They'd all changed--swimsuits, loose t-shirts, bare feet thudding across wood. The lake lapped gently at the shore, and the air smelled like barbeque and spilled drinks.

Delilah sat near the edge of the dock, legs stretched out, sunglasses still on, one hand braced behind her as she leaned back to take in the last bit of sun. Her expression was calm, maybe even a little distant. Not unfriendly... just hard to read.

Luke tried not to look. He failed.

Every time he glanced over, she was laughing softly at something Treovr said or tossing her hair over one shoulder or stretching in a way that made Luke's brain short-circuit.

It was really fucking annoying.

She wasn't doing anything on purpose--she didn't even see him that way. She never had. He was just Luke. Trevor's friend. Jack's little brother. The kid who used to try too hard to make her laugh then they were preteens.

Now she was here, freshly heartbroken and wearing the hell out of a bikini top, and Luke didn't know what he was supposed to do with himself.

They stayed out late. Long enough for the dock lights to flicker on and cooler to run low. Someone sugested a drinking game. Trevor grilled more burgers. Cole fell off the end of the dock, fully clothed, and Delilah laughed, actually laughed.

Luke noticed.

He noticed that her face lit up when she smiled, even if it was for half a second. The way she flipped her phone over to check a little too often, even when no new messages came in. The way she turned down another drink and then accepted it anyway five minutes later. The weight she carried that she was pretending wasn't there.

And the way that Jack caught Luke staring again and said nothing, just raised his eyebrows and walked away.

Luke took a sip of his drink and sat a little further back, looking up at the stars in the sky. The stars you couldn't see in Newark.

He was gonna make it through this trip, even if it killed him.

Delilah knew the sound of a hangover when she heard one.

Cole was groaning from somewhere down the hall. Jack was loudly asking who the hell had moved the chips. Someone dropped a plastic cup in the kitchen and then said "I meant to do that," which was obviously a lie.

She rolled over in bed and buried her face into the pillow.

Her room was quiet. Too clean. The kind of guest room that didn't look lived in, plain blue quilt, one sad framed photo of the lake, air slightly too cool from the fan humming in the corner.

It was a nice house. It smelled like cedar and sunscreen and expensive body wash.

But it wasn't hers. None of this was.

She rubbed her face and sat up slowly, head pounding.

There was a moment, half a second really, where she almost forgot... where it felt like just another vacation, another house full of boys laughing too loud and beer in the fridge and a lake waiting outside.

Then the ache in her chest settled back in like it had never left. The sharp reminder.

Matt.

Her mouth was dry. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, hoping for a weather app or a notificaiton or something other than his name.

Nothing.

But the fact that she even looked?

She hated that.

By late morning, everyone was already halfway through breakfast beers and discussing who was in charge of lunch.

Delilah moved through the kitchen like background noise. Said yes when offered coffee, stood near the counter instead of sitting, smiled when spoken to.

Trevor kept glancing at her like he was waiting for her to crumble. It was annoying. She wasn't going to break. She was just... quiet.

Luke was at the sink washing a pan with his sleeves rolled up and a slice of toast between his teeth. She tried not to look at him too long. He didn't say anything to her, didn't stare, but there was a softness in his body language. Unbothered. Like he wasn't performing for anyone.

It made her feel even more out of place.

They all ended up outside again by middday. The dock was scattered with towels and drinks, someone brought out the speaker again, and Jack declared it a "no shoes, no shirt, no baggage" zone.

Delilah was once again on the edge of the dock, sunglasses on, hoodie zipped despite the heat. Her legs dangled over the water, barely touching. She could hear everyone laughing around her--something about Cole trying to flirt with a bartender a few weeks before--but it felt like a different world.

She should've stayed in New York.

Or maybe gone to her parents'. Or literally anywhere else.

This was supposed to be her distraction--sun, drinks, no expectations.

But all it did was make her feel lonelier.

She didn't want to be that sad girl. She hated the way people looked at her now--like they were waiting for her to talk about it. Like they expected her to unload everything just because it made them uncomfortable to pretend it wasn't happening.

Luke sat down next to her without a word.

She blinked, startled out of her spiral. "Hey."

He handed her a can of something cool. "Tangerine or... mango? I panicked."

She took the mango without hesitation. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "You looked like you could use one."

She popped the tab open and took a slow sip.

They sat in silence, both staring at the lake waiting for it to answer all their questions.

After a minute, Luke nudged a bag of chips between them. "Also found these in the back of the cupboard. Probably stale."

She didn't reach for them. Just let the bag sit there like some kind of peace offering.

"Everyone's pretty chill," he said after a while. "If they're too much, you can just... disappear for a bit. No one'll take it personally."

Delilah nodded. "It's fine. I'm just tired."

"Not sure that's allowed here," he joked.

She just shrugged, but he didn't press. Didn't ask any more.

She wondered if that was worse, the patience.

He stood up after a few minutes when someone called his name. Before he left, he gave her a small half-smile. Not pitying, just... present.

She hated it.

Delilah had showered, changed into dry clothes, and curled up in the corner of the living room with her phone. Everyone else was playing some aggressive, probably ruleless drinking game around the dining room table. Quinn was halfway invested and Jack was narrating every move like a sportscaster.

Trevor flopped down on the couch next to her.

"You okay?"

She didn't look up. "Fine."

"You've said maybe four words since we got here."

"I'm just tired."

"Del."

She finally met his eyes. He looked concerned, big brother concern. The kind that really got on her nerves.

"I'm here, aren't I?" she said.

"Yeah, but... are you here here?"

She exhaled and leaned back, rubbing her eyes. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You know you don't have to fake it, right?"

"I'm not faking it."

"You're not fooling anyone."

She didn't answer.

"We're going out on the boat tomorrow. You better participate."

She gave him a tired thumbs up.

Alone again, she sank deeper into the couch. The laughter was still going. Someone had turned the music up louder, if that was even possible.

She checked her phone.

One notification.

Not a new one. Just him.

Matt: Thinking about you. Call me?

She didn't respond.

Didn't block him either.

Just locked the screen, pressed her forehead to her knees, and stayed quiet while the rest of the world kept moving.

Late afternoons at the lake were one of the best parts of owning the house.

The sun hung low and the temperature got a bit more bearable, drinks got stronger, music got louder, and whatever plans had existed melted into the bottom of solo cup.

Jack called it "golden hour energy," or some stupid shit like that, meaning people got a bit more reckless.

This specific night, it meant beer pong.

They dragged a table out onto the back deck, cracked open another round of drinks, and started forming teams like their lives depended on it. Luke ended up standing by the railing with a drink in hand, watching the chaos unfold, when Jack slinked up beside him.

"You're being so fucking obvious."

"What?"

"Don't play dumb, Rusty. You're looking at her like she's a mirage."

Luke took a slow sip. "I have not."

"Oh my god," Jack said, delighted. "This is amazing!"

"She's our friend's sister."

"Exactly! That's why it's so much fun."

Luke rolled his eyes.

"Do you think she knows?" Jack chuckled.

"I'm not doing anything."

Jack cocked an eyebrow. "You gave her your mango seltzer and your chips yesterday. You never share food with like anyone."

"That's not--"

"And you haven't made eye contact with her for more than five seconds because you know you'll start blushing like a teenage girl."

Luke stayed quiet.

"Unreal," Jack said. "I fucking love this."

Trevor was refilling his drink when Jack cornered him in the kitchen.

"Hey. So. Quick question."

Trevor shook his head. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, I do."

Jack grinned. "Your sister's hot, man."

Trevor looked like he was debating whether to pour the rest of the vodka on Jack's head. "Don't start."

"I'm not saying I'm into her. I'm just noticing. And you should probably know that Luke is currently fighting for his life every time she walks by in that bikini."

Trevor sighed, hard. "He's not--ugh. No. No way."

Jack just looked at him.

Trevor's jaw clenched. "That's my sister, dude."

"Yeah, and Luke's not exactly a creep. If anyhting, he's too respectful. It's almost annoying."

"Do not encourage this."

Jack threw his hands up, innocent. "I'm not encouraging! I'm just observing. Like a scientist."

Trevor mumbled something under his breath and walked off, muttering something about "pushing Luke into the bonfire."

When they both got back outside, everyone was buzzed and shouting. The beer pong table was fully set up again, the unofficial second round. Jack was undefeated and way too smug about it. Delilah was sitting on a lawn chair, sipping something pink through a straw, watching it unfold like she was trying to decide if she wanted to join or not.

"Del!" Jack called. "You're up!"

She looked over. "Against who?"

"Team Us," Jack said, pointing between himself and Trevor, who was making a point to look anywhere but at her. "And your partner is... drumroll... Rusty!"

Luke looked up from where he was sitting on the steps.

Delilah raised an eyebrow.

"Come on! Don't be lame."

He stood slowly, walking over with half-nervous energy that made him look guilty even when he hadn't done anything wrong. He offered Delilah a small smile.

She smiled back, polite but still distant. At least she hadn't said no.

The game started off slow. They weren't great, but they weren't terrible. Delilah was the more competitive one, which caught Luke off guard. She got quietly pissed every time they missed a shot, and muttered "let me do it" before sinking three in a row.

"Damn," Luke said, impressed.

She barely looked at him. "Trevor and I used to hustle guys at parties."

He snorted. "Remind me not to play against you."

"Smart."

They lost by a cup, and Jack did a full victory lap around the table, yelling, "Undefeated! Put it on my fucking tombstone!"

Luke grabbed a drink from the cooler and passed one to Delilah without asking. She took it. Their fingers brushed, and neither of them said anything.

It was nothing. But it wasn't.

"Loser has to do a dock jump!" Jack announced. "Lukey, that means you!"

Delilah stood near the top of the dock, arms crossed, hair messy from the breeze. She looked at Luke, not in a big, obvious way, just a small glance.

But it was enough.

Luke sighed, handing his drink to Cole as he walked toward the edge. Jack and Trevor were cackling.

"You good, Rusty?" Jack asked with a grin.

Luke didn't answer. Just looked down once, back at the shore, at Delilah.

She met his eyes. Just for a second.

Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth.

Luke jumped.

It was midnight by the time it was quiet outside.

Inside the music was still thumping and the boys were still shouting, but outside past the hum of the porch light, everything was still.

Luke stood on the dock, toes curled over the edge, shirt off, shorts low on his hips. He could still hear Jack and Trevor laughing from earlier: "You lost, dude. Strip and jump, that's the rule."

So he did.

Trevor had doubled over, tears in his eyes. "You look like a wet dog," he'd choked out when Luke came back up, soaked and gasping.

Now the chaos had moved inside, and Luke was alone, dripping, staring at the dark water.

Until the sliding door squeaked open.

Delilah.

She stepped out barefoot, hoodie halfway zipped, drink in hand. Her hair was down again, loose from the ponytail she'd worn during pong, and her eyes were glossy in that way that said tipsy, not quite drunk, but close.

Luke turned slightly. "Hey."

She raised her eyebrows. "I can't believe you really jumped."

He pointed to his soaked hair. "You're telling me?"

She smiled, small, amused. "Trevor's still crying laughing."

Luke smirked. "He'll live."

There was a beat of silence. The music inside muffled.

"Is it cold?"

"Kinda perfect."

She set her drink down on the dock, kicked off her hoodie.

"You're not gonna--?"

But she already was, tugging her shorts down, peeling off her tank top. Underneath: a plain black bra and underwear. Nothing fancy. But Luke still forgot how to breath.

He turned around fast, like an idiot. "I didn't mean--I wasn't trying to--"

"You've seen a girl in her underwear before, right?" she called behind him, amusement laced through her voice.

He let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. Just... didn't expect it."

A splash.

He turned just in time to see her surface, hair slicked back, eyes closed for a second. Then she looked at him, blinking water from her lashes.

"Well?" she asked.

He didn't hesitate.

Luke jumped into the water for the second time that night.

They swam for a while. Not really talking, just floating near each other. Every now and then their arms would bump. Their knees. The lake was quiet in the way only summer nights could be, everything felt suspended. Lit only by stars and the distant porch lights.

Luke kept looking at her.

She was bloating on her back, arms out, her stomach rising and falling just above the water's surface. Hair spread out like seaweed. Eyes closed.

He was sure she didn't even know he was watching.

She did.

Delilah rolled over in the water and swam toward him, slow, unhurried. They met halfway between the dock and the boat.

"You're quiet," she said.

Luke shrugged. "You're floating around in your underwear. Kinda hard to focus."

She grinned, drunk and lazy. "So you are looking."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean... I guess."

They drifted closer. Neither of them moved away.

Delilah's voice dropped. "You always this shy, Lukey?"

Luke met her eyes. "You always this bold?"

She tilted her head. "No."

That one word hit heavier than it should've.

There was barely a pause, a hearbeat maybe, before her arm slipped around his neck.

And then she kissed him.

It wasn't gentle or delicate. It was a lot. Teeth and tongues and wet skin and drunk laughter between breaths. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his hands found her waist under the water by instinct.

Luke couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Not from the lake. From her.

Delilah kissed like she was trying to forget something. Luke kissed like he was trying not to fall apart.

Eventually, they pulled away, panting, foreheads nearly touching.

They both laughed.

"Wow," she said, brushing her wet hair out of her hair.

"Yeah," Luke said, dazed.

She floated back a little, giving them space. "That didn't happen."

Luke blinked. "Nope."

"Just swimming."

"Exactly."

They stayed in the water for another twenty minutes.

Neither one brought it up again.

But when Delilah climbed out first, reaching for her clothes on the dock, Luke watched her like he didn't know what the hell to do with himself.

Because he didn't.

He was fucked.

And all she did was smile like it hadn't meant anything at all.

The next morning felt slow and unwelcoming.

Delilah stood in the kitchen, staring at a bowl of cereal she had no intention of eating. Someone had made a pot of coffee and left it to burn on the hot plate. The lake outside shimmered like it hadn't witnessed any emotional sabotage the night before.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip.

She could still taste him.

Luke.

His name in her head made her flinch, even though no one had said it out loud.

She hadn't meant to kiss him. Not like that. Not at all. It had just happened. They were drunk. It was late. She was floating in the lake with someone who looked at her like she wasn't a mess. Like she was still some version of herself she barely recognized anymore.

And then she'd kissed him like she was starved.

Now her skin buzzed with regret. Not because she didn't want it, but because it was easier not to want anything.

Especially not Luke Hughes.

"Morning."

His voice was soft behind her, almost hesitant.

She turned slowly to find him leaning against the fridge, damp curls sticking to his forehead, hood half-zipped over his bare chest. His expression calm. Open.

She nodded. "Morning."

That was it.

He waited for more, maybe a smile, maybe a glimmer of last night. But nothing came.

Delilah turned back to the counter and stirred her cereal.

Luke shifted his weight like he was going to say something else, but then Trevor appeared behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, making the moment vanish.

"Someone better come help with the boat," Trevor said. "Jack's trying to tie knots like he's on Deadliest Catch."

Luke nodded, glanced at Delilah one more time, then followed him out.

She finally let herself breathe.

Delilah moved through the house like a ghost.

She sat out on the dock for a while, pretending to read. She laid on a towel and kept her sunglasses on, pretending to nap. She even laughed a bit--too loud, too fake--when Quinn made a rare, yet funny joke.

But inside? She was splintering.

Her phone buzzed on and off, the screen lighting up every few minutes. She ignored it at first, then couldn't anymore.

Finally, in the bathroom with the door locked, she sat on the edge of the tub and opened the messages.

Matt: I hate how we ended things. I was angry. You were angry. But I still love you. I can't stop thinking about you. Please, Del. Talk to me.

Her chest clenched. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then pulled away. Again. And again.

She didn't know what to say.

She didn't know what she wanted.

Matt had always been all-in. Until he wasn't. Until hockey came first. Until the calls stopped and she was left with long voicemails and empty weekends. They were still in love. That wasn't the problem. The problem was life--messy, relentless life.

Trevor found her later, leaning on the porch railing, phone in hand, screen dark.

He stepped beside her, arms crossed. "You're being weird again."

No answer.

"I mean, like, weirder than usual."

Still nothing.

Trevor let the silence sit for a beat. Then, quietly: "Something happen?"

She shook her head. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Trevor narrowed his eyes. "Is it Matt?"

Delilah stiffened.

"I knew it," he muttered. "Is he texting you again?"

She turned, eyes sharp. "Can you not?"

"I'm not judging. I just don't want you spiraling again."

"I'm not spiraling."

Trevor didn't push. But the look on his face said everything.

She brushed past him and went inside without another word.

That night, everyone gathered around the TV watching some terrible horror movie Jack insisted on. The room was quiet except for the occasional yelp from a jumpscare or tense scene. Luke was tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket tossed over his lap, eyes flicking to her every so often.

Delilah didn't stay long.

She slipped out quietly and padded across the porch, hoodie pulled tight around her, vape tucked in the front pocket.

She only hit it when things were bad.

Maybe the silence outside would help her clear her mind, but instead the stillness made everything louder in her head.

She sat on the edge of the porch, knees pulled up to her chest, and breathed in until she couldn't anymore. Held it. Exhaled slowly.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back.

She didn't know why it felt like everything was closing in.

Maybe it was the texts.

Maybe it was the kiss.

Maybe it was the way Luke kept looking at her like she meant something.

She hit her vape again.

Behind her, the sliding door rattled, but no one came out.

Good.

She didn't want to talk.

Didn't want to explain that she was stuck in the space between wanting Matt and not being able to let go. That her body remembered Luke's hands on her waist, but her heart still ached at Matt's name.

She didn't want to be there.

She didn't want to be anywhere.

She buried her face in her hoodie sleeve, blinking away tears.

This time, she didn't hear the door as it opened.

She was too deep in her own head, hoodie over her knees, still holding her vape like it was the only thing grounding her. The stars in the sky were blurred now, not by clouds, but by her tears.

She blinked hard. Hit her vape again.

The porch creaked gently behind her.

She didn't look up. "Don't say anything."

"I wasn't going to."

Luke's voice was quiet. No judgment. Just him.

She didn't stop when he sat down beside her.

He didn't sit close--left a little space, just enough for her to breathe. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, his legs outstretched. For a second, neither of them said anything.

Just the soft sound of cicadas and crickets chirping.

"I thought you were watching the movie," she said eventually.

"I was," he said. "Then I saw you leave."

She nodded, eyes still forward. "Movie was too loud."

"Yeah."

More silence.

Then, her voice, smaller than before. "I didn't mean to be weird today."

"You weren't."

She huffed out a breath. "You don't have to lie."

Luke shook his head slowly. "I'm not."

"I just... sometimes it's like I can't get out of my own head. Even when I want to. Even here."

"You don't have to explain."

"I kind of do."

Luke shrugged.

"I didn't come here to make things more complicated," she sighed.

He turned his head, watching her.

"I didn't expect to feeling anything," she added. "And then I did. And it caught me off guard."

Luke's jaw twitched slightly, but his voice stayed soft. "Was that about him? Or...?"

She shook her head fast. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay."

It came out steady. Easy. But she heard the disappointment in it.

He wasn't asking for much. Just something. Just a little honesty, a little clarity, some kind of thread to hold onto.

And she couldn't even give him that.

She turned toward him, finally meeting his eyes. "You're... good at this."

He raised an eyebrow confused. "At what?"

"Sitting with someone while they're falling apart."

Luke looked away, half-smiling like it hurt. "I've had practice."

She nodded, then quickly looked back down at her hands. "I don't wanna like... hurt you."

"You're not."

Delilah didn't believe him.

He stood up after a beat, slow and reluctant. He looked down at her, like he wanted to say something else--to ask, to push, to feel something outloud, but he didn't.

He just said, "Night, Del."

And then he went inside.

She sat alone on the porch, vape forgotten beside her, the air suddenly colder than before.

The kiss still sat heavy on her lips. So did the guilt.

She hated that she hadn't say anything. Hated that she was the one making it weird. Hated that Luke had looked at her like that and she couldn't look back.

She blinked slowly, jaw tight.

"Why the fuck did I come here?"

The bar was all bass and bodies packed together tight.

It smelled like tequila and bad decisions, but the group had shown up anyway, ready to make their bad ideas sound fun. Jack was holding court at a high-top table and Trevor was already two drinks deep, making fun of Cole's fake ID that he carried around despite not needing it anymore.

Delilah had started the night slow.

A seltzer. Then a vodka soda. Then someone handed her a shot, and she didn't ask what it was, just tipped her head back and swallowed.

Luke had noticed.

She wasn't drunk at first, just loose around the edges, easier with her smiles, her shoulders a little less tense.

But by midnight, she was gone.

Luke saw it first when she came back from the bathroom with her mascara slightly smudged.

He didn't say anything. Just stood beside her while the others argued about Uber rides and dive bars and whether or not they should drink more.

She blinked too much. Her hands were shaky.

Luke leaned down. "You okay?"

She nodded too fast. "Yeah. Totally."

She wasn't.

Fifteen minutes later, she'd disappeared.

He found her in the back hallway of the bar, crouched on the floor outside the bathroom with her head in her hands, quietly crying.

Not dramatic sobs. Not the kind people notice.

The kind that's silent. Exhausted. Almost invisible.

Luke crouched down in front of her. "Hey."

She looked up, startled. "Shit."

"It's okay."

"No, I'm fine... I just..." She wiped her eyes, smudging her eyeliner more. "God, this is so pathetic."

"You're not pathetic."

She sniffed hard. "Everyone else is having fun. And I'm here, crying like some emotionally unstable idiot."

Luke gave her the faintest smile. "A cute idiot."

She laughed, broken and tired. "You're too nice to me."

He didn't respond, sitting close enough to be steady, far enough to give her space, just like the night before.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered.

"With what?"

"Everything."

He waited.

"I'm still in love with him," her voice cracked. "Matt."

Luke didn't flinch.

"I hate that I am. I hate that I--" She sucked in a sharp breath. "I hate how he makes me feel now. Like I'm chasing him. Like I'm waiting for him to figure it out. And I know he loves me, but it's not enough. It's never gonna be enough."

She paused. Then added, softer, "But I still want it to be."

Luke swallowed hard. "Yeah."

She looked at him, eyes glassy. "That's messed up, right?"

"No."

Delilah shook her head. "I kissed you and I didn't even-- I didn't think about how it would make you feel. I was just trying not to feel like this. And now I made everything worse."

"You didn't."

"I did."

Luke moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers.

"I'm not trying to replace him," he said.

She turned her head.

"I'm not expecting anything," he added. "I just want you to be okay."

Something in her face broke and she let her head fall gently onto his shoulder.

They sat like that for a while. No pressure. No words. Just breathing quietly together in the back of a bar.

He got her home safely.

Helped her up the stairs of the house, handed her a glass of water, and made sure she got to bed with her makeup wipes and a bottle of Advil on the nightstand.

He didn't linger.

Didn't touch her again.

Just stood in the doorway for a second, unsure what to say.

Delilah looked at him from her bed, blankets pulled up to her chest.

"Thank you."

Luke nodded. "Get some sleep."

He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly. Even if nothing had really changed that night, he stil felt... different.

Delilah woke up with a faint headache and vague memories of crying in a hallway, followed by Luke's voice and the feeling of being carried back home. It felt like someone had finally taken all the weight off her shoulders, even for a night.

She stayed in bed longer than usual, doomscrolling through her phone, heart racing each time Matt's name would pop up on an app. But no new texts. No missed calls.

Eventually she got up. Washed her face. Pulled her hair into a loose braid. Hoodie. Shorts. As little effort as possible.

The shift wasn't dramatic. It was subtle.

She lingered a little longer in conversations. Laughed a little more. Sat closer to the group instead of on the edge. She didn't flinch or look away when Luke made eye contact, and once (maybe accidentally) her knee bumped his under the picnic table, and she didn't move right away.

Luke didn't push. He didn't flirt. He met her where she was.

They joked a little. Shared glances during Jack's overdramatic stories. Passed drinks and sunscreen and chips without having to ask.

It felt like something new was growing out of what had almost broken them.

Trevor noticed first.

He was mid-sip of a beer on the dock when he saw Delilah bump Luke's shoulder with her own after he said something sarcastic, and Luke grinned at her like it lit him up inside.

Trevor narrowed his eyes.

Jack saw it too. Of course he did. He was basically watching their entire dynamic unfold like it was a reality show he'd produced.

"Don't say it," Trevor warned him.

Jack held up his hands. "I didn't say anything."

Trevor muttered, "I swear to God--"

"I'm just observing." Jack paused. "They're cute though."

Trevor groaned.

Jack clapped him on the back. "At least he's not a Ranger."

Trevor didn't laugh, but he didn't argue either.

The text came in just after sunset.

Delilah was upstairs, towel-wrapped and fresh out of the shower, hair damp, phone facedown on the nightstand. She'd been having a good day (good in a fragile, new way where she was still worried it would fall apart).

Until the screen buzzed.

Matt: I know you don't want to hear from me. And I'm not trying to change your mind. I just can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop picturing what it would've been like if I had just put you first. If I had fought harder. If I'd told you what you meant to me before it was too late. I still love you, Delilah. That's not a line. It's the truth. You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.

She stared at it for a long time.

Not crying. Not shaking.

Just still.

Because it was everything she had wanted to hear him say for almost two months, back when it would've rewired her heartbeat. Back when she was practically begging the universe for one text said that "you matter to me."

But now?

Now it didn't hit the same.

Now it just felt like a weight--not a safety line.

She didn't reply.

Didn't type. Didn't even screenshot it to send to her friends.

Instead, she put the phone down and slipped into her pjs, before heading down toward the dock, where Luke was sitting alone.

She could tell it was him from the posture, legs stretched out, body slouched, but still alert like he always waiting for something.

Each broad creaked softly beneath her.

He looked up when he heard footsteps. Didn't speak, just shifted to make room for her.

Then she spoke. "Can we talk about the kiss?"

Luke glanced over. "Yeah."

Delilah didn't look at him, just kept her eyes on the water. "It messed me up."

His brow furrowed.

"Not because it was bad," she quickly added. "It wasn't. It was... the opposite of bad."

That got a soft, breathy laugh out of him.

"I think that's what messed me up," she said. "I felt something. And I wasn't ready to feel anything."

Luke was still, letting her speak.

"It wasn't about Matt. It wasn't me trying to forget him. I thought it was... but it wasn't."

He nodded once. "I know."

"And I'm not saying I'm ready now. I'm still, kind of, a mess."

Luke didn't flinch. "Okay."

"I just didn't want you to think I regretted it."

"I didn't."

Delilah exhaled. "You've been really... good to me."

"I'm just trying to be real with you," he replied. "That's it. I'm not waiting on some big moment. I'm not trying to push you anywhere. I just want you to know I'm here."

She looked at him like she didn't know what to do with all his kindness.

Like she never really believed someone could mean it.

"I still feel it," he said softly. "The kiss. The shift. All of it."

Delilah's throat tightened.

She looked back out over the water.

Then leaned her head on his shoulder, gently, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to--and relaxed when he didn't move.

The dock swayed beneath them, quiet and slow.

Above them, the stars blinked into place.

And between them, something sparked. Not a fire, but the start of one perhaps.

The lake still looked the same as the first they got there.

But now the dock was worn slightly more from wet footsteps, the cooler practically empty, the towels faded from the sun. Everyone had written their name on the bottom of the table they used for pong.

Summer was winding down.

The house felt quieter somehow, even when it was loud. Like the energy had shifted. Like it knew they were all about to go different ways again.

Delilah leaned on the railing of the deck, drink in hand, watching the different colours set over the lake.

She wasn't over Matt.

But she wasn't unraveling anymore.

She could breathe again. She could laugh without flinching. She could sleep without checking her phone first.

Luke hadn't asked her for anything since that night on the dock. No pressure. No expectations. Just presence.

And it made all the difference.

Their final party was a quiet kind of wild.

Delilah and Luke had moved to the stairs leading to dock, both tired of Jack's horrible DJing skills. The two of them were slightly buzzed, legs touching, watching fireflies blink across the trees.

Neither of them had said much.

They didn't have to.

Delilah looked over at him, his profile lit by the string lights draped on the railing, the curve of his crooked smile, quiet and content.

"Hey," she said.

He turned toward her, eyes steady.

She leaned in, her hand finding his knee for balance, and kissed him.

It was nothing like the first one.

It wasn't drunk. It wasn't desperate.

It was soft. Slow. Meant.

Luke didn't move at first, then kissed her back gently. No rush. Just quiet understanding.

When she pulled back, she didn't say sorry. Didn't explain.

But she did pause.

Then, gently: "Don't wait for me."

Luke's eyes didn't flicker. Didn't change.

Just a soft smile.

"Wasn't planning to."

She nodded, and they sat there a while longer, not touching, not speaking. Just sharing the last quiet of the last night.

And even though she hadn't told anyone about her and Matt--hadn't told Luke, hadn't told Trevor, hadn't even told herself out loud--she knew that he knew.

Not because she'd said it.

Because Luke saw things. Accepted things. Let them be what they were.

And that? That would stick with her.

The next morning was a blur of bags, bad coffee, and half-hearted goodbyes.

Trevor packed the last of the stuff into his trunk while Jack hovered, giving unhelpful instructions. Delilah came down the steps with her bag slung over her shoulder.

Luke was sitting on the steps, arms crossed, face unreadable.

She looked at him.

He lifted his hand in a wave.

She waved back, small, soft, and held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

Then she opened the car door, climbed into the passenger seat, and didn't look back as they pulled away.

But Luke did.

He watched the car disappear down the gravel driveway.

He didn't chase. Didn't wonder. Didn't hope.

But he didn't forget either.

#nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #luke hughes #luke hughes imagine

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livwritesstuff · 3 months ago

Text

happy valentine's day pallies <3 threw this the office-inspired drabble together for funsies over the last few days and thought today was a good a day as any to finally post

“What the hell is wrong with Dustin?” Eddie asked as he walked through the open door to Robin and Nancy’s apartment, “I passed him in the hall and he’s ranting and raving like a goddamn lunatic. Barely even acknowledged me.”

“You got lucky,” Steve shook his head as the rest of the Party, scattered around the living room, gave a similarly over it-kind of response, “Also – hey. Missed you.”

Eddie dropped down onto the couch next to Steve and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Ugh,” Robin groaned from the other end of the couch, “Either get a room or be gross later.”

“Missed you more, my love,” Eddie said loudly and pointedly as he settled in, and Steve ignored the way Robin rolled her eyes as Eddie draped an arm over his shoulders, “So…Dustin? What’s his deal?”

“He thinks he’s never gonna find love,” Lucas said from his spot on the rug, mouth full of half-crunched chips.

“Because he hasn’t dated anyone since Suzie,” Will clarified.

Steve watched Eddie’s eyebrows furrow.

“Uh, okay, didn’t they split, like, a month ago?”

“Yep,” Mike nodded.

“And didn’t Dustin just say last week that he’s happily married to his studies?”

“Dude,” Mike replied, “If you hadn’t been thirty minutes late, you would have seen us ask him these exact same questions.”

“Alright, gimme a fuckin’ break, man,” Eddie protested as Robin stuck a foot out and clipped the side of Mike’s head, “Not all of us are in college, asshole, living our most carefree lives. Some of us have jobs we're societally obligated to hold onto, Michael.”

“Anyway,” Steve cut in before Mike and Eddie’s bickering could derail the discussion too badly, “Dustin is apparently so desperate for love or whatever now that he’s trying to crowdsource a relationship.”

“And we’ve all been drafted,” Max said drily, “He wants us to set him up with someone at least once a month.”

“Each,” El added from beside Max in the armchair they're squashed in together.

“Each,” Max repeated with a nod.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie blinked, “He needs to chill out.”

Eddie got a chorus of agreements in response, plus another snarky comment from Mike about how he could have told Dustin this himself if he hadn’t been late to their weekly movie night hangout, and then from there, the conversation spun into the Party’s usual overlapping pre-movie (waiting for the pizza to be delivered) chatter.

Eddie turned his attention to Steve.

“So who’s the lucky girl you’re siccing our deranged little buddy on?” he asked, voice just loud enough for Steve to hear over the surrounding conversations.

“I dunno,” Steve shrugged, catching Eddie's hand in his and starting to fiddle with the chunky ring on his pointer finger, “I don’t think anyone here is gonna put up with his shit, but…yeah, I dunno, I feel bad. I might try setting him up with Lauren – y’know, Andie’s friend she has over all the time?”

Andie is Steve’s roommate, who took Robin’s spot on the lease after Robin, the woman she is, U-Hauled with Nancy at a spectacular rate (barely a month into her and Steve’s lease). Steve couldn’t exactly blame her – Nancy’s brownstone is leagues (and leagues and leagues and leagues) nicer than the shitty walk-up he and Robin had barely been able to afford at the time. Plus, Robin was all kinds of apologetic about it – paid her half of the rent and everything until she found a suitable subletter.

Enter Andie, a women’s and gender studies major who Robin had met at their school’s SGA during her first semester of undergrad and who leans pretty much as far to the right on the good ol' Kinsey Scale as someone could. Both Steve and Andie had been a little on the fence at first, but as far as living with a half-stranger goes, he can admit that it actually went okay.

Case in point, he and Andie are both a good few years out of college now and neither of them have made any move to, y'know...move.

“Lauren?” Eddie repeated, “You mean, Andie’s straight friend? The one Andie is very actively and overtly trying to woo?”

“It’s not gonna work,” Steve insisted (because this has been a topic of conversation between the two of them for a while), “If she’s straight, she’s straight.”

“Well, yeah,” Eddie acknowledged, “But it’s not her I'd be worried about, Stevie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, Steve – it’s basically a lose-lose for you. If Dustin goes on a date with Andie’s straight friend that she is, once again, very overtly and obviously into, whether or not it goes well – whether or not it even happens, Steve – Andie’s gonna find out that you were the one behind it, and you’re living with her.”

“So?”

“Dude, you’re gonna get booted outta your place.”

“No way,” Steve scoffed at him.

“I’m telling you – hell hath no fury like a lesbian scorned. Have you seen Nancy at the bar when someone is trying to hit on Robin? The big guy in the clouds was cutting from the same cloth when he created these ladies.”

Steve rolled his eyes at his boyfriend's brand of ex-Catholic poetic.

“Well…whatever. It’s just an apartment. If Andie really has an issue…I dunno, I’ll just move.”

Eddie grinned at him.

“Oh really?” he says, “And who do you think’s gonna be taking you in? You’re a crazy neat-freak, you think it’s totally appropriate to watch sports during breakfast – I mean, seriously, I get wanting to watch Sunday Night Football or whatever, but listening to recaps before I've had a cup of coffee is borderline criminal – and you've got basically a thousand houseplants.”

“Yeah,” Steve gave a feigned nod of understanding, “Maybe I’ll just move in with my boyfriend – he could use some order in his life.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, straightening a little in his seat, “I’m in if you are, Stevie-boy.”

Steve felt his face fall just a little. He tried to laugh it off, but even he could hear how awkward it sounded, and he glanced around to make sure the rest of the Party was otherwise occupied.

“I mean...," he said slowly, keeping his eyes on their hands so he didn't have to look at Eddie and his ever-expressive face, "I’m not gonna move in with someone unless we’re getting married.”

He really won’t either.

He’d done that before with his first serious boyfriend a few years ago – it was kind of a U-Haul situation in its own right, and it’s how Steve’s apartment became Andie’s apartment that Steve pretty please asked to move back into four months later when everything went to shit with the boyfriend.

(Their landlord had raised an eyebrow at them when they asked to put Steve back on the lease he’d only just left, but he didn’t ask any questions.

“He probably thinks we’re, like, a total dysfunctional couple or something,” Andie had pointed out.

“If only he knew,” Steve shook his head, “He’s leasing to a pair of idiot queers who can’t get their love lives together.”)

So, yeah, the U-Hauling thing may work for lesbians (or, two very specific lesbians whose couch he's sitting on, at the very least), but it’s not for Steve.

He’s a little too intense for it, contradictory as it sounds. He’s been burned in the past by the notion that someone could be willing to take a step as big as moving in with someone, and yet still see their relationship as “unserious” enough to balk at other big things (things like meeting each other’s friends and family, and what to do if Steve had another seizure). He’s not interested in being burned again, thanks.

Not that he actually thinks Eddie would do anything like that – the opposite actually. Steve knows he won’t.

For as long as he and Eddie were friends, Steve had known it in a kind of way he didn't even think about, and he's known it in another way, in a way he couldn't not think about, ever since he eavesdropped on a conversation between Robin and Eddie.

“Steve’s boyfriend is a fucking asshole and I hate him,” Robin had said, because this was back when Steve was dating (and living with) his ex, who did turn out to be a colossal fucking asshole, but this was the first time Steve had heard that particular opinion voiced by one of his friends.

“Shit, okay," Eddie had replied, "Do I need to go kick someone’s ass?”

Robin had paused for a split second before saying, “No. You’d just finally decide to confess your love for him and make everything even messier than it already is.”

They'd both been quiet for another few moments, and then Eddie let out a frustrated sigh.

"Fuck, man, that blows." Another pause. "I just – I don't understand how anybody could get to have Steve like that and not worship every breath he takes. I'm telling you – if it were me, you'd be able to break me down into fuckin' molecules and still be able to find him there. He's the sun in the fuckin' sky, dude. How are people not getting this?"

Steve hadn't been able take any more than that, not without feeling like something within him would split in two, so he had gone back to getting snacks in the kitchen like Eddie and Robin had thought he was doing, and then he'd spent the rest of the night feeling a little nauseous in a way he couldn't explain.

To this day, Steve is pretty sure that neither Robin nor Eddie know that he'd overheard their conversation, but it's what led to him breaking up with his boyfriend nonetheless.

Nothing had happened between Steve and Eddie at first. Eddie had actually been in his own relationship at the time, despite his and Robin' conversation, though they inexplicably split only a month after Steve’s break-up (Eddie never gave the Party a reason why).

Not too long after that though, Eddie had shown up on Steve’s doorstep (in a goddamn rainstorm, no less, the theatrical bastard) to profess his undying love, and by then Steve had spent enough time reflecting on the last several years of his friendship with Eddie and had firmly landed on the conclusion that he was in love with him too.

And so here they are now.

Steve spared a quick glance at Eddie to see that he was wearing a cute, kind of confused look.

“Wait – Steve, have I not proposed to you yet?”

And Eddie's truly dumbfounded tone, Eddie's way of bringing Steve's attention back up to his face so Steve could see the cheeky grin he's still wearing, had relief flooding through Steve's veins and washing away any doubt or insecurity or fear because, as Steve might have let himself forget, this is Eddie.

“I don’t think so…” Steve replied, then he flipped their clasped hands over to show his unmistakably ringless ring finger, “Nope.”

“Huh. Well…look out, Stevie, ‘cuz that’s coming.”

“Oh really?” Steve asked, and now he’s got a big smile growing on his face too, and he ignored the way his heart was thrumming over what Eddie had just divulged to him, how matter-of-fact, how certain he'd sounded when he said it.

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nodded, and Steve is so in love with him it nearly hurts.

“You mean, like, right now?” Steve continued, still feigning confusion, still keeping up the bit like they weren't having a huge, important, real conversation right now, because they hadn’t been together that long, all things considered, and yet Steve wasn’t surprised to hear any of this because he felt it too.

Eddie rolled his eyes, “Not right now. Have a little faith, darling. Now would be pathetically unromantic.”

“Hmm,” Steve hummed his agreement, though a small part of him could acknowledge that now – happy and surrounded by all their friends – wouldn’t be the worst way to get engaged, but Eddie hadn't lost any of his flair for dramatics over the years, so he's not exactly surprised to hear that Eddie is picturing something more.

“I got it all planned out, don’t you worry," Eddie told him, looking all kinds of proud, “And it’s gonna knock your socks off, Steve Harrington.”

"Alright," Steve said as Eddie leaned away, leaned back into conversation with their friends, a tight squeeze to Steve's hand his only acknowledgement of the sheer magnitude of the conversation they'd just had, "I've been warned."

#andie does not kick steve out #and eddie proceeds to fake-propose to steve at every opportunity for a full year #i realize that this unfortunately makes dustin the *michael scott* of the situation #apologies to dustin #it had to be done #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

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cuteandhughesy · 4 months ago

Text

Love Is Not Dying | Vince Dunn

summary: hooking up with the hottest guy who think you’ve ever seen can’t go wrong…right?

[word count] 7.4k

a/n: formed from this request! thought i’d combine this idea with the very much high-demand need for vince dunn! so with that being said here’s so smut to satisfy your eyes on valentine’s day 💌🤭

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contrary to what movies, shows, books and anything and everything else tells you—moving to a new city is actually really refreshing. there's something about a fresh start that just feels so good. the delicious cafes, the smell of a new apartment, the new restaurants and people everywhere you turn...what's not to like?

seattle is your fresh start—your new city. a place where you can forget about your old life and asshole ex-boyfriend back in massachusetts. getting treated like the dirt on the bottom of a shoe and being cheated on for 2 and a half years really pushes you to get the hell away from hingham.

moving to seattle seemed like the most logical option considering it's where your younger brother lived—playing for the kraken like the ridiculously talented athlete he's always proven himself to be. hockey has never really been your thing though, regardless of matty's undying devotion. you prefer to cheer him on from your couch...with your dad texting you anytime matty scores. you didn't even know seattle had a nhl team until they drafted your brother.

your phone buzzes in your jacket pocket, vibrating the leather and tickling your skin.

little shit

hey. you're still coming over for breakfast tomorrow?

matty's text has you snickering, and you almost walk into a bike rack lining the sidewalk. you blink, a flush covering your cheeks.

y/n

planning on it. unless you've changed your mind and want to treat some random hookup to my well deserved time with you

the bag on your shoulder begins slipping, the faux leather providing the perfect slip and slide for the strap of your canvas tote. the last thing you need is to drop the grocery bag and shatter your eggs and spill the milk. then the whole trip out would be pointless.

matty can tell you're joking around, he knows you too well to assume otherwise. you have always been close, and because of the distance between states, you'd only been seeing one another at christmas and in the summer since 2021–when he was drafted. but now you're in seattle, and your younger brother is only a 10 minute drive from your new apartment.

you've only been here three days, and matty has been bugging you about having breakfast since the u-haul pulled into your complex. little bastard couldn't even help you unpack because of his strict schedule—two game day naps your ass.

little shit

I was going to ask if you wanted sweet or savoury—but maybe I should reconsider having you over if you'd be so inclined to think i'd cancel on my favourite sister

y/n

i'm your only sister

little shit

see you tomorrow 😌

you roll your eyes with nothing but fondness, shoving your phone in your pocket as you continue the walk back to your apartment. it doesn't take long until you're back home, unloading the small grocery haul from the strawberry printed tote bag.

your new job at seattle's biggest law firm—which you still can't believe hired you—started yesterday, and it's only been a day but you feel so welcomed and accepted already. it's another confirmation that you're meant to be in seattle. one of your new co-workers jasmine, a stunning woman with dark skin and chocolate eyes, invited you out to one of the local bars tonight.

you'd gotten the text on the way to the grocery store, as well as a follow up message that she and a few other employees wanted to get to know you better. ever the social butterfly you agreed easily—excitement flowing through your veins at the thought of letting loose, mingling and hopefully forming some friendships.

jasmine let you know that everyone was meeting at the bar around 8:30, and you were welcome to join them anytime then. you make yourself some dinner, a delicious saucy pasta that has you serving yourself a second bowl, before jumping into the shower.

you take your time in there, making sure your scalp is scrubbed, and your legs and underarms are shaved—you're not sure if you're going to wear a tank top, and you're going to be prepared. by the time you've blowed dried your hair into loose, bouncy curls, put on your usual dusting of makeup and decided what to wear—it's time to leave.

you order an uber as you're planning on having a couple drinks, and as you finish up with your shoes, the notification of your rides arrival lights up your phone. on the way to the bar you busy yourself with your phone—responding to emails and texts that you've been neglecting since getting to seattle. you even respond to matty's picture of waffle ingredients laid out on his counter, as well as his annoying message.

little shit

you never answered. so sweet it is 🖕🏽

y/n

if you think I wanted anything but sweet you're just stupid

little shit

ouch. i'm going to poison your breakfast

the uber comes to a rather rough stop against the curb, the middle aged man giving you a polite smile that also says hey, get out. i've got work to do.

you bid a thank you and step onto the sidewalk, the late october air nipping your skin despite it being a warmer evening. you run your hands through your hair to try and tame any frizzy fly aways that have sprouted in the uber, and make your way inside the cozy bar.

you're immediately enveloped in the atmosphere of what feels like a family owned bar—exposed brick and worn leather booths lining the walls, matching the scuffed floorboards under your feet. the lights are dim, giving that mysterious vibe that does nothing but intrigue you. it's cute and packed.

you should've expected it to be busy considering it's a friday night, but the amount of people lingering and mingling throughout the room is just baffling. you push up into your tip toes, searching through the sea of people to try and spot your co-workers. well, jasmine—because you're not sure who else is here.

jasmine finds you first, standing up at their claimed booth and waving. "y/n! we're over here."

you smile as your eyes connect, making your way through the crowd and dodging tipsy people as you walk towards the booth. "hey," you greet warmly, accepting the sweet hug jasmine offers. "this place is nice."

"and fucking packed." your other co-worker, a defense lawyer named brock, mumbles with a grin, taking a slow sip of his beer as he eyes you.

joseph, another lawyer stands from his spot on the outside of the booth, gesturing for you to slip in beside him. you smile politely, slipping your pea coat off and hanging it over your arm. "thanks."

"you look great." jasmine compliments warmly, twirling the mouthful of wine left in the bottom of her glass, creating a mini whirlpool. "seriously where'd you get that jacket—it's killer."

you grin, sliding the clothing item of jasmine's desire between your hip and the wall. your jewelry chimes together as you pick up the small drink menu. "it's from h&m, can you believe that."

she gasps, lips forming a small shocked but amused 'o'. "I wasn't aware of h&m's game."

you laugh, thumbing through the sheets of laminated card stock that display the assortment of different drinks. there's even some typical bar food listed like fries and wings—slathered in sauce and grease. joseph doesn't sit back down beside you, but instead jerks his thumb over his shoulder and in the direction of the bar. "anybody want a drink? i'm going up for another round."

"hit me." brock says deeply, finishing off the last swig of foamy beer in the bottom of his bottle. jasmine follows suit, asking for another mulberry wine with a exaggerated grin.

joseph looks at you expectantly, a playful quirk to his one dark eyebrow. "i'll have whatever whiskey they have, with some coke. diet please, joseph." you say confidently, closing the menu and slotting it back into the metal holder at the end of the table.

brock hums in what seems like approval, drumming his fingers on the slightly sticky table top. "you heard the lady, joey boy."

despite the almost arrogant attitude brock seems to have, he's actually really fucking nice—hell so is joseph, and jasmine even more so. you can't believe how lucky you've been at this job, and having three amazing people to work alongside you is a dream come true.

seattle already feels like home and you haven't even been here a week. you spend a good two hours laughing, chatting—and drinking—with your new friends, and everything in your little world flows easily.

it's almost 11:30 when you slurp up the last sip of watered down whiskey and coke concoction through one of those small black mixing straws. you pout with a tiny whine, dropping the glass back to the table. "i'm empty."

joseph snorts behind the rim of his bottle. "want another?"

"yeah," you huff. "but I'll get it—need to stretch my legs before I start to cramp." jasmine laughs playfully as joseph lets you slide out of the booth, stumbling slightly as your feet find the worn wood floorboards.

jasmine takes a slow gulp of her wine, eyes nothing but mischievous as she eyes you. "sure you just don't wanna get closer to that group of hotties over there? that one brunette can't stop checking you out."

your brows pull, as well as your smile. "where?" you ask wildly, looking over you shoulder to try and find this alleged group of men jasmine alludes to. you find them easily. theres 5 men, all broad and tall, sticking out like a sore thumb. there's one guy in particular—a stupidly good looking guy—who must've been watching you, because as soon as you catch his eyes, his head turns away faster than you can blink.

"don't look!" she scolds with a hushed tone, but her words have no bite against her amused expression.

"I don't care." you admit cheekily, pulling your gaze away from jasmine and back to the guys sitting on the opposite side of the busy bar. although now it's not as bustling, but still packed enough that you have to weave through bodies to get to the bar top.

the female bartender, probably around 50, looks at you flatly. but even with that deadpanned looks you can see a friendly glimmer in her eyes, and the subtle way her lip quirks upwards in a smile. "what can I get you honey?"

somebody on your left bumps into you, too distracted talking over her friends to pay attention to you. you sigh gently, but ignore it, giving the bartender your full attention. "whiskey and coke please. diet."

she lets out a half breath of laughter, grabbing one of the shallow glasses from underneath the counter. "got sick of your boyfriend coming up here?"

you're confused at first, but then the blonde bartenders brows flick towards, eyes darting back to your table—to joseph. "oh," you chime, "he's not my boyfriend but yeah, I was ready to get out of that booth and stretch my legs a little."

your eyes find her shiny gold name tag, 'marlene: owner.' you should've known this woman was important to this place, her energy is just that strong. marlene turns away from you, walking further down the bar is search of the whiskey she's been serving you all evening.

the bar has cleared a bit in the time she's gone, and the oblivious blonde who bumped you earlier and her group has gone back to the makeshift dance floor—but there's still enough of a crowd that if you look on either side of yourself, your eyes are landing on somebodies face or shoulder (depending on their height obviously).

marlene returns after a minute or two, sliding a perfectly made glass over to you—the diet coke bubbles, coming up and stinging your nose. "here you go baby."

"thanks," you grin, opening your small shoulder bag and digging through your various cards. "how much?"

"oh no," marlene snickers, pulling your attention back to her unreadable expression. "it's been paid for." before you have a chance to question what she means, marlene's hazy eyes flicker to the other side of the bar—where she was just making your drink. that's when you see him. the guy who you caught starring at you earlier. the mystery man isn't with his friends, but he's got three beers in his hands like he's been sent up to fetch them.

his cheeks are pink, skin pale. his broad shoulders are covering by a black fitted long sleeve, the material hugging his biceps and doing nothing to hide the ridges of muscles underneath his skin. the man's eyes dart up, finding you and marlene.

unlike before he holds your eye contact for a moment, tipping his head in a greeting and a small smile pulling at his plump limps. your brows raise in amusement before turning back to marlene. "i'm sure i'll see you again."

she snickers. "i'm sure you and him both will."

you take your drink before rounding to the other side of the long bar counter, pushing between bodies until your right next to the attractive mystery man. your chest smooshes against his bicep, and when your nipples catch wind of the contact against his hard muscles, they pinch and tighten.

he looks down at you curiously, but amused nonetheless—tongue darting out to swipe along his lower lip.

"so first was staring at me across the room, and then next was buying my drink..." you trail off lightly, eyes twinkling with playfulness as you pause in anticipation. "what's after that?"

he breathes a soft laugh, eyes quickly flickering away from you and across the bar. but just as fast, mystery man is looking back down at you. hoping to appear seductive, you slowly take your straw into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the mixing stick before taking a drink—hopefully you're tempting him.

he swallows thickly. "well maybe you'll find out once you finish your drink." his tone is teasing, and it shoots straight down to your core. you haven't even thought of a man sexually since breaking up with your boyfriend—and honestly even having sex with him didn't do anything for you.

you're touch starved, and so horny it's not even funny. so go forbid you start throbbing as soon as an attractive stranger buys you a drink and keeps eyeing your lips. sue you.

your brows raise, and before he can blink, you take your straw out of the glass, raising the rim to your lips and chugging the entire thing. once it's empty, you wipe your mouth and plop the mixing stick into the empty glass and put it back on the bar.

he takes his bottom lip into his mouth, and he can't help but eye the way your lips have been moistened by your drink—and maybe even taking a quick peek at your cleavage. he's stronger than no other man.

"alright," he smiles, tone full of appraisal and making your heart skip. "I'm vince." his hand justs out, and you take it, your small hand almost completely enclosed by his much larger palm.

"i'm y/n." you smile, and the sight has vince's breath hitching. suddenly he's completely forgotten that he's still waiting on jared's wine (his taste is too expensive for beer apparently), and when you ask him to dance with you, he quickly agrees, abandoning the beer bottles in the bar.

from your booth, your new co-workers watch you lead vince out into the crowd, both of you looking at one another with a look that just screams tension. joseph's brows raise, but an amused smile is on his face. "she's insane."

brock blows out some air. "she's hot."

"she's a baddie." jasmine corrects brock, elbowing him in the ribs as a warning for his behaviour. but he just snickers again, watching through lidded eyes as you vince begin moving with one another in a slow, steady motion—knowing grins on your faces as you whisper to one another about god knows what.

you love the way vince is touching you—grabbing you—like you're his. but it's also not possessive, and even though the way he's handling you is confident, you can feel an underlying shyness, or perhaps hesitation in this movements.

vince doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, and he also doesn't want to come across awkward. it's not everyday he's out at the bars, dancing with strangers like this. a very beautiful stranger who makes his dick twitch in anticipation nonetheless.

you dance together for what feels like forever—but could honestly only be 10 minutes. every look vince sends your way, every lick along his bottom lip, every touch, breath, laugh, and whispered words has your stomach dropping and head spinning.

his voice isn't super deep, but it's got a certain rasp that has you hanging onto every word and question that passes through his tempting lips. between dancing with vince and going back up to the bar together for refills—marlene giving you that look everytime she spots you tucked under his arm—you learn quite a bit about the handsome stranger.

vince works in sports, but he didn't disclose his actual profession. it has your mind working overtime—is he a journalist? maybe a football star? does seattle have a basketball team? he's originally from a small town in canada, one that you've never heard of. his ideal vacation is somewhere tropical, his favourite food is italian and he's a boobs guy based on the fact he can't stop looking at yours.

thank the fashions gods for low cut shirts.

and it's not like he's been only letting you ask him questions. vince has been just as interested in asking you about your life (and squeezing your hips, but that's a whole another story). telling him about moving out to spend time with your younger brother and working at a high end law firm came easily, and the almost proud smile on vince's face made your decision feel validating.

which says something, because validation from a stranger is never something you've strived towards. vince doesn't feel like a stranger though, which is a shame because after tonight, chances are he will be.

a little while later jasmine is sliding up next to you and vince, her eyes narrowed playfully as she looks at the lack of space between the two of you. "hey," she starts, her grin growing. "we're hungry, thinking about getting pizza. you guys wanna come?"

a small gasp leaves you, and your eyes light up like fireflies. your drunk brain and empty stomach agree—pizza would be divine. "oh my god! yes."

jasmine cheers, lips tainted with her wine. "yay! okay i'll get your coat and we will meet you outside." her eyes dart to vince again, smiling increasing before she slips back through the crowd.

you take your lip between your teeth, but even that can't stop your smile from widening. your small hands wrap around vince's forearms, squeezing the muscles beneath your fingers as you blink up at him. "you coming? please come with me. we can share pizza lady and the tramp style."

he laughs, a real hearty laugh that comes from his stomach. his fingers slide up your back, passing over your bras straps. "how would that even work?"

you shrug. "I don't know but we can figure it out."

vince's eyes twinkle with something you don't recognize, and his lips quirk up higher in an amused grin. you blink up at him again, all doe eyes and babydoll like and he's nodding. "okay, let's go."

you grin triumphantly, and he lets you pull him through the crowd easily. there's something so sexy about it, especially when you know he could easily overpower you in any way—at any moment.

the chilly air nips at your bare arms, leaving a wake of goosebumps all over your skin. you curse three different swears, all of them blending together to create one big fuck fest. vince snickers, rubbing his hands over your arms in attempt to warm you up. he's so hot you're pretty sure your underwear are soaked with arousal.

when joseph passes you your coat, vince takes it from your co-worker with a nod, and then he helps you slip it on. you're seriously going to die before getting pizza.

the walk isn't more than 10 minutes, and you can smell the tomato sauce and warm dough as you approach the building, lit up by neon signs. inside is busy, mostly drunk college kids. vince keeps you close, and arm around your waist between you and your coat like he's from a damn rom com. "what are wanting?" he asks you softly, leaning down so he's whispering in your ear.

you hum pleasantly. "just cheese."

joseph gets garlic bread for himself, and he threatens if anyone tries to steal a bite he'll walk them over the head with the red plastic basket. jasmine and brock get a deep dish pizza to share, loaded with vegetables and pepperoni, while you and vince get your cheese pizza. and yes, he pays for not only your order, but your co-workers orders too.

you might be in love and you might have to keep him forever.

because it's busy, the seating options are a little sparse, and you won't be able to all sit together. your co-workers get a table meant for two, but steal a spare chair from a friendly group of frat guys and make it a table for three. you and vince find a spot at the counter, two available stools in the corner against the wall—next to the neon outline of pizza slice.

your so squished in there that you're overlapping with vince, and your leg might as well be draped over his spread, huge thighs. you take an unattractive bite of your slice, and groan happily.

vince smiles, chewing his own bite of pizza as you watches you with amusement. "good?"

you nod. "so good." you finish off the slice before speaking again, sucking your thumb into your mouth to taste the pizza grease. "what's your favourite disney movie?"

he's almost at the crust of his second slice of pizza. vince hums between bites, brows pulled in concentration as he thinks of an answer. "sleeping beauty."

your lips quirks. "really?" he nods. "you kind of remind me of prince phillip you know, all sexy and tall." you admit shamelessly, picking up another slice and biting the into crust first.

vince blushes, but doesn't look embarrassed. "you think i'm sexy?" he questions, dusting his hands off against his thighs. you watch his fingers as they run over his legs, and when he catches you staring, vince's smirk widens.

"yeah, I do."

his tongue swipes along his bottom lip, and he leans closer to you by an inch or two. "I think you're really sexy." vince says, voice all low and hushed like he doesn't want anyone to overhear. nobody could even if they wanted to, the array of loud voices and charli xcx playing over the speakers is too loud.

you take your lip into your mouth as you smirk. you decide to tease him, "does that though have anything to do with my cleavage?"

vince's eyes twinkle again. he holds your gaze, and his brows pull together the smallest amount—smirk never wavering. "part of it, yeah." to accentuate his point, vince's gaze flickers to your boobs for a moment, and then finds your warm face again.

your cross your legs to try and relive some of the throbbing pressure in your corse. "perv. eat your pizza." you send him a teasing glare and smile before you take a bite of your slice in an attempt to try and not jump his bones in front of everyone. vince's eyes linger on you for a long moment but eventually he does what he's told, picking up a slice and taking a huge bite.

a moment passes, and he swallows. "you always this curious?" it's not accusatory, but instead curious. vince waits for your response, wiping his mouth with a logo branded napkin before balling it up and setting it on the nearly empty pizza stone.

"always," you nod. "you can learn so much about a person when you ask them questions—questions that aren't informative but rather fun and silly. like the disney movie one."

he hums. "so what have you learned about me from my disney answer?"

you purse your lips in thought, dropping the rest of your slice back down to the stone. you ponder for a moment as you try and find the words. your eyes flicker over his, and you lean in close, your leg pushing against his. "I think that you're a bit of a hopeless romantic, even though you'd never admit it. you're a bit shy, but you love meeting new people. you'd do anything for the people you love—even if that means pricking yourself on a cursed needle."

vince nods, a deep sound rattling in his throat as he looks at you. without realizing it, he's leaned in closer to you, and if you wanted to, you could brush the tips of your noses together. he takes his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on the skin as his gaze darts over your face. "interesting."

your quirk a brow. "am I right?"

he releases his lip with a gentle pop, gaze never once wandering from your warm, beautiful face. vince swallows, "yeah. you're right."

you cheer and that has vince's fond smile widening. he has to ignore the way your small, painted fingers absentmindedly run over his jean covered knee or else he'll have no choice but to take your clothes off and fuck you on the counter.

vince blinks the dirty thought out of his mind. "ask me another question. I like when you're talking."

a beat passes before your eyes glaze over with lust. you put your hands on the top of his thigh for leverage as you lean into his space, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you speak. "are you gunna to fuck me tonight?"

his body tenses, you can feel it under your palms. you grin in satisfaction, pulling back just enough so your eyes lock. vince's hand slides over the side of your face, fingers threading through your hair as he holds you. before he can talk himself out of it, he leans in and kisses you.

it's chaste and experimental like he's testing the waters and giving you the opportunity to stop him. but you don't want him to stop, your earlier words doing enough to prove that. you kiss him again, a more firm pressure that last 5 seconds. he taste like pizza and beer, and you can't get enough.

and then vince kisses you for a third time, his lips slotting between yours in a proper, hotter embrace that has your toes curling in your shoes and belly swooping. mindful of the public space, he releases your mouth after merely 15 seconds, resting his forehead on yours as you both breathe heavily. "I want to ruin you."

"ruin me." you whisper, pressing one more kiss to his glistening lips. "let's get out of here." you breathe against him, sliding off your stool and standing between his spread thighs.

the taxi ride back to your place is excruciating. you can't keeps your hands off one another—subtle squeezes and trailing fingers over sensitive areas. vince kisses your neck in open mouthed, hot intervals, and each time you moan—which makes him snicker against your skin.

the taxi driver keeps sending you looks through the rearview, but you don't even care.

as soon as you're in the elevator, vince's lips are on yours—capturing them in a breath taking kiss that has you tingling. your hands rake over his strong chest, feeling up his muscles underneath his black long sleeve.

he shudders at the feeling, but his kiss doesn't waver. vince has one hand tucked in your hair, scratching at your scalp soothingly while his other hand squeezes handfuls of your ass—the combination the perfect mix of soft and rough.

"I need you." you whimper against his lips. vince sighs deeply, pushing his bulge against your lower belly—he doesn't have to repeat your words. he doesn't need to in order for you to know it's reciprocated.

the elevator dings, and the heavy doors slide open. your grin, pulling away from vince and taking ahold of his hands. you pull him down the hallway quickly, stealing flirtatious glances over your shoulder. as your hands begin unlocking the door, vince smacks your ass firmly before giving it another hard squeeze.

he leans into your back. "you're so fucking pretty." vince presses a kiss to the junction of your neck, and it has you faltering, eyes fluttering closed and a sigh leaving your puffy lips.

thankfully vince pushes the door open further and saves you from having to move. he uses his hips to shuffle you into your own apartment, never stopping the suckling against your neck as he gently kicks the door closed.

his hands are all over you again, squeezing your hips and running up your belly until his thumbs brush the underside of your boobs. he repeats the motions until your withering, wordlessly begging for more. vince pushes you to the wall, and you shiver when the cold surface touches your chest—nipples pinching under your top.

vince slips off your coat, and his lips trial after it—down your shoulder and towards your elbow. your gasp lightly, looking down over your shoulder with hooded eyes as he removes your jacket, throwing it towards your couch. his eyes flicker up towards yours. "wanna taste you. you gunna let me taste you, baby?"

"yeah," you whine, fingers flexing against the wall. "please...please."

vince smirks and doesn't make you wait, dropping to his knees before his hands trail up the backs of your thighs, rounding over your ass and hooking into the waist pants of your pants. he roughly yanks them down, exposing your skimpy underwear and sticky arousal.

you thank god for choosing sexy underwear tonight.

he groans, palming your ass and exposing your core further, which is barley covered by the fabric anyways. vince nips the skin of your ass, before smoothing the sting with a open mouthed kiss. "fucking god, y/n."

you moan, pushing your hips back as you search for some much needed friction. vince is in a trance, fingers squeezing your thighs and ass as he admires your pussy. there's really no reason for your underwear at this point, he thinks, because there's not enough fabric to cover half of your pussy, never mind all of it.

you're glistening, practically dripping. you can feel vince lean in closer, breath fanning over your slick folds. he nudges your spread thighs further apart, hooking his index finger into the crotch of your lacy paintes and yanking them to the side.

vince licks his lips. "so messy and pretty." he doesn't waste anymore time, and he dives in, licking a wide strip from your clit and back to your leaking entrance.

"oh god." you sigh shakily, eyes fluttering once again at the feeling of vince's mouth on your needy heat. vince has the perfect combination of sucking, licking and kissing that has your knees going weak. "you're so good at this...holy fuck."

vince smirks against you and then sucks your clit perfectly, his nose running along your entrance perfectly. "never tasted something this good."

you gasp, one of your hands leaving the wall and reaching behind you, threading your fingers through vince's thick brown hair. "i'm close." you admit breathily, squeezing his roots in an attempt to keep him close.

vince hums, but much to your dismay he pulls away from you, leaving your pussy to throb and flutter around nothing—searching for more. you pout, but the sight of your arousal soaking vince's lips and chin has you moaning again.

vince smacks your ass as he gets off the floor, flipping you around to face him.

"why'd you stop?" you pout, pushing your boobs against his chest, fingers relaxing over his biceps teasingly.

he smirks. "relax, you'll get it again." vince kisses you again, and you can taste yourself when he slips his tongue into your mouth. the next few moments are a flurry of hurried movements. you pulling off vince's shirt and unbuckling his leather belt—vince practically ripping your tank top off and exposing your tight nipples and heavy tits.

his calloused palms slide up your ribs and cup your tits, giving them a quick squeeze. your head falls back against the wall as vince's thumbs swipe over your nipples, a back and forth motion that has them getting impossibly harder.

"your place is nice." he says lowly. his casual scentence is contradictory to his actions—pinching your nipple between his thumb and index finger.

you mewl, arching into his touch desperately. "thanks...ugh-lots of..mhmm. lots of places to fuck me on." your words are broken by your own moans and sighs of pleasure. it's kind of pathetic but vince thinks there's nothing hotter.

he face dips down to your chest, inclosing his warm mouth on your nipple—tongue swirling and prodding the bud like it's his profession. your hands are in his hair again, carding through the locks and tugging when he sucks just right.

vince switches to your other nipple. "where do you want me to fuck you?" he asks before taking you into his mouth, repeating his movements on your nipple while he palms your now unattended one.

you lick along your bottom lip and watch through lidded eyes as vince sucks your tits. you're pretty sure your arousal is leaking onto the floor and puddling between your heels. "you could take me on the floor and I'd be happy."

he releases your nipple with a quiet pop. "don't say that....because I will."

you grin softly, bringing his face back to yours for another kiss. vince's hands slide up the backs of your thighs, and then in one quick movement he's hauling you off the ground, wrapping your legs around his hips.

you gasp lightly against his lips, your soaking core bumping his lower stomach and sliding over his defined v-line. vince doesn't stop kissing you, walking you over to the new couch in your makeshift living room. there's still a few boxes pilled on top of your coffee table, and there's loose clothes thrown over the back of the chair from when you'd been sorting through suitcases earlier.

the room is casted in the moonlights glow and the warm light under your microwave. it makes everything feel soft—makes it feel private and hot. vince drops you against the plush cushions, and you squeal happily.

vince smirks, "how's the couch?"

you take your bottom lip into your mouth, watching with lustful eyes as he begins undoing his button, tugging down his zipper and releasing some of the confinement against his hard bulge. "it's perfect."

his brow quirks up in amusement. "perfect huh?" vince asks, pulling of his jeans completely. he retrieves his wallet from his back pocket before throwing the pants behind him—making you giggle.

you hum in response as vince pulls out a square foil package from his wallet. a condom.

he smirks, leaning over your body. "wanna know what else is perfect?" vince asks lowly. your mouth opens as a quick breath leaves you, but vince isn't actually waiting for a response. two of his long, thick fingers trace over your collarbone and brush against your pulse point. "your skin is perfect."

then those two fingers flow down to your sternum and tease around your breasts—tracing over your nipples with just enough pressure to have you whining. "and these tits." vince trails down to your belly, passing over your hip bones. "and these hips." next is your core, his fingers slipping through your wet folds. "and god this pussy is perfect."

and with the cherry on top, vince slips the same two fingers he's been running along your body into your entrance. the squelch your walls make sound his fingers is intoxicating, and you practically scream out. "tell me what feels good baby." he tells you, eyes reluctantly leaving your pussy where you take his pumping fingers, and flickering to your warm face.

you begin babbling, making a mess around his hand— dripping off his fingers as he continues to thrust into you. "god," you let out a sharp gasp, walls squeezing his fingers and stopping him momentarily. "this...your fingers feel really good."

vince smirks, and he thrusts his fingers into you a few more times—each time rougher than the last. he feels like he's going to combust with the sight of you under him, withering and whining like you've never been touched like this…maybe you haven't been touched like this before. pride swells in his chest at the thought.

vince’s impossibly hard cock twitches uncomfortably in his boxers—if he doesn't get inside you soon he's going to die. in a fluid motion, he is pulling his fingers out of your warmth.

you mewl in protest, but vince is too busy ripping open the condom package and then pulling himself from his underwear to hear your cry. his dick hears the sound though, and it throbs—ready.

vince rolls the latex on expertly, and he lines his red tip up with your slippery entrance. your hips shift, and his head slips inside your entrance—both of your groaning loudly at the feeling.

vince pulls back out, and a devilish smirk grows on his face as you huff all horny and frustrated. "what happened to the shy vince from earlier?" your tone is slightly whiny, but he can tell you're teasing him—your small hands wrapping around his ribs and torso.

"he's not feeling so shy with your pretty face under him." with that, vince pushes his cock into you. the stretch is heavenly, and your walls mold against him like second nature. you moan, nails digging into his pale skin as he comes to a hilt—balls resting against your ass and tip brushing your cervix.

"that okay?" he asks you breathlessly—dazed eyes flickering over your blotchy skin and puffy, parted lips. he can't help but let his gaze fall between your bodies, right down to where you're connected. vince's hips jerk involuntarily at the sight of your creamy walls holding him in, and you whine pathetically at the feeling.

"so good, vince. oh my god." you probably look like a pornstar on your couch right now. vince buried into your dripping entrance with your legs spread wide, heels still on because you'd been too horny to remember to take them off. but as vince begins rolling his hips into you, all thoughts die out, and you can only focus on him.

his pace picks up quickly, much to your satisfaction, pounding you into the couch like he knows nothing else but your pussy. vince's breath fans over your neck and ear, sending shivers down your spine as you hold onto him.

"fuuuccckk, that's—yeah that's good baby." vince groans deeply, hips snapping against yours loudly, the sound echoing in your otherwise quite apartment. "that's right, taking me so well."

his cock rams into you quickly and perfectly, ilicting another round of ridiculously loud moans from you. you're too wound up to even respond properly, your words coming out in a jumbled string of curses and groans. the couch squeaks under his unfaltering thrusts.

your eyes pinch shut, and the grip on vince tightens as your walls begin to flutter—an all too familiar pattern as you near a desperately needed orgasm. "please." you whine breathlessly. you don't even know what you're asking him for, but it doesn't matter—not to you and not to vince.

his thrusts don't stop or slow, his balls smacking your ass as he continues to pound you into the cushions. vince curses, pushing one of your legs against your chest to open your pussy up even further. "you gunna cum, y/n?"

you nod quickly, your head pushing further back into the couch pillows as your walls clamp down on his cock. "yeah! oh my fuck, yes. i'm cumming."

vince hisses at the feeling of your release— gooey, warm walls squeezing and fluttering over his length. "holy fucking—ugh." it has vince following suit, stilling as he groans into your neck and shooting his sticky load into the latex protection.

it could be 2 minutes or 15–you're not sure—but vince's body is so heavy and warm on top of you that it has your eyes closing. he presses a kiss to your jawline, lifting himself off you. "you okay?"

you nod sleepy, a lazy grin on your glistening lips. "mhmmm. i'm tired now."

vince chuckles, pulling out of your spent pussy. you whine for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, watching through tired eyes as vince ties off the used condom, padding into your kitchen and tossing the latex in your garbage. he tucks himself pack into his boxers as he gets back onto the couch—kneeling between your legs and slipping of your heels.

you wrap your arms over his shoulders, and he kisses you. this kiss is different—softer and sweeter, but just as good as all the others you've shared tonight. you pull away, "stay the night."

he grins, "i'll stay as long as you want me too."

he's so fucking cute, you think blissfully.

vince pulls the throw blanket off the back of your couch, tossing it over both of your bodies as he tucks himself behind you on the couch. his torso is warm and wide against your back—it's so comfortable and soft, and your eyes begin closing soon after.

—

your phone is ringing.

that's the first thing you register as your eyes flutter open. you squint at the harsh morning light streaming through your windows, looking around for the pesty ringing device to silence it.

behind you, vince's arm tightens around your waist, his semi-hard cock rolling against your bare ass instinctively. memories of the night before flood your mind, and you feel hot all over again.

he groans, tucking his head into your shoulder.

your phone is still ringing. you sigh, locating it on the floor beside the coffee table. you pick it up, and your eyes widen at your brothers contact photo lighting up your screen—it's some goofy .5 picture you took of him at christmas. you were supposed to be at his place for breakfast 10 minutes ago.

"shit!" you curse.

vince's eyes flicker open at your panicked tone, and he catches sight of the incoming call before you answer it—jumping off the couch, stark naked and nearly tripping over your heels as you dart into your bedroom.

you throw on the first thing you can find as matty's voice filters through your speakers. "did you fall off a cliff on the way here?"

"I overslept," you say, dragging your ratty hairbrush through your sex messy hair. it gets caught on at angle and you wince. "i'm just about to leave."

matty says something else that sounds like see you soon, but you're too distracted by everything to hear him properly. you hang up the phone with a rushed goodbye, shoving it into the pocket of your jeans. you spray an unhealthy amount of body spray over your clothes and hair, hopefully masking the scent of sex.

you dart back out into the living room. "i'm so sorry, I have to meet my brother for—why do you look like you're about to puke?"

vince is sitting up, posture ridged. his complexion in pale, more so than usual, and he's got his hands cupped over his mouth in a prayer like position. "he's your brother?"

your brows furrow in confusion. "yeah, i'm supposed to meet him for breakfast." the look on vince’s face contorts into what looks like pain, and it has you faltering, stomach dropping to your ass. "why?"

vince's eyes flicker to yours, and he drops his hands from his face. "we play hockey together. i'm matty's roommate."

for fucks sake.

374 notes · View notes

ysrjune · 3 months ago

Note

Could u please do a dallas x childhood bsf/first gf where she moves to tulsa, totally clueless to the fact that thats where dallas ran off to. And at the end they get back toghether n some smut maybe?? :) Oh n btw they were each others first kiss n allat, until dallas turned hood.

[ “I WAS ONLY 17 WHEN WE FIRST TRIED THINGS #📍

#🕶 WHEN SHE FIRST MADE ME FEEL LIKE A MAN ” ]

[ I lowkey forgot like half of dallys lore, sorry that I got a few things wrong (I think) im deadass too lazy to get my book out and read it to get my stuff right rn </3. I didn’t add smut cause I haven’t been feeling it lately, sorry anon 😞 hope its still good enough though! + I dont really like this I rushed it cause I had it in my drafts 4 so long.. ]

ENJOY ! ♡

Dallas Winston, your first boyfriend.. sort of. You two had been really close ever since you met when you were 10. By age eleven, he was your first kiss. Dallas was such a flirt, and you couldn’t resist when he asked for a kiss after a long day of hanging out. For the next two years, the both of you were seen everywhere together when he wasn’t getting into trouble. Regular trouble. Before he became a hooligan. Talking back to his parents, Bad grades, Pulling pranks.. that kind of stuff.

One day, he just dissappeared. You were looking around for him in the places he'd usually be in, but nothing. You even worked up the courage to go and ask his buddies if they had seen him. The older boys were tough and mean looking, but they were decent in attitude with the ladies. "Naw. he didn't tell ya?" One of them with shaggy brown hair and green eyes with a scar next to one of them asks you. "Police are after him. He fleed last night, little lady." The boy brings a cigarette to his mouth.

"That's rough," a boy you were familiar with, named James chuckles. "Dally, just up and left without telling his girl. What a shame." He shakes his head. That was the last time you ever heard of Dallas.

You had forgotten about it quick. Well, not forget.. but never thought about it again unless someone would bring up stuff like "who was your first kiss?" or "have you ever had a boyfriend?" answering those questions didn't hurt, either. Dallas wasn't even a real boyfriend. He was just a friend. Not even a great one, either. He was just a funny guy who kept you company.

"Forgetting" about him was easy because now that he was gone, guys had the guts to ask you out. They never did before because they knew Dallas. They knew he liked you and if they tried anything, he'd probably try to fight them or something. One boy in particular named Brandon Lawrence caught your eye. He was a little bit taller, black hair and green eyes, pale with rosy cheeks. He was handsome and really nice.

Brandon was your boyfriend of 4 years before you had to move.

"Tulsa?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Ain't that in Oklahoma?" Brandon asks with a hint of worry in his tone. "Yeah, it is.." You say in a gentle tone, smoothing out the wrinkles in your long skirt. "Baby, that's like a thousand miles from here! How am I gonna see you? You can't go!" Brandon didn't mean it in a 'you can't leave me, I won't allow it.' kind of way. He wasn't like that. "Well, that's what I wanted to talk about.. we have to break up. It’s not gonna work out."

—

When you moved to Tulsa, everything seemed so.. boring. There wasn't much to do.. especially since you knew nobody there. The first couple of weeks, you stayed in the house, watching tv, reading, cleaning—literally anything but going outside to socialize. Your family would be classified as 'Socs'. Your parents weren't filthy rich, but they were nowhere near as poor as the Greasers.

Men that your father worked with warned him about the Greasers. How they were hoods and no good. "It's best for you to stay inside," your father told you one day at dinner. "A little lady like you has no buisness being out in the street with those low-lifes." Whatever, you thought. It's not like you had any desire to go out anyway.

But unfortunately one day your mother sent you to buy a few things from the nearby mini-mart. With no fuss, you obey. It had been a while since you've been in the sun, so why not? Plus, it wasnt that far of a walk.

On your walk, a few other Soc guys your age hit on you while you made your way. A few girls judged, others smiled, thinking you were so pretty. You felt self conscious even if there were a few girls who thought you were gorgeous. Maybe it really is better to stay inside instead of going out and making a fool of yourself.

You were only a crosswalk away from the mart when you heard a group of men laughing. But there was one guy who had an awful laugh. Annoying, loud.. was it? Theres no way. You look over at the men walking across the street. Yup. It was exactly who you thought it was: Dallas Winston.

He was so much taller and muscular than the last time you saw him. One of the guys he was with noticed you staring, and what did he do? He told Dal. The brunette looks over, not recognizing you. But he did think you were pretty. You cross the street, passing by them and into the mart without looking at them.

Oh, how you hoped he wouldn't follow you in.. but he did. And he was quick with what he wanted to say. "You from 'round these parts, sweetie? Never seen you before." He checks you out while you pick out a few oranges. "I just moved here," you respond gently. "Moved from New York. How come you never wrote me?" You look back at him, meeting his confused expression. "What?" He asks.

"Its me, Dallas." He stares at you like your crazy, but he was also trying to figure out who you were. Finally, he gets it after a minute. "Oh my God," He shakes his head. "What're you doing here?" He smiles and punches your arm in a friendly manner. "Never thought I'd see ya again."

"Yeah, neither did I." you respond.

You spent the rest of the day catching up.. privately, of course. He told you why you couldn't be seen together. "Im a dirty Greaser, and you're a squeaky clean Soc." he explained. You didnt exactly understand, but you guessed it was a class thing.

He told you that the reason he flew was because he was going to get arrested again. He had done something really bad, but he didn't want to say what it was. "Mm," you nod your head. "Well, atleast I didn't go my whole life without seeing you again."

"I thought about you a lot." He confessed. "I wanted to say something before leaving, but I couldn't. I didn't have the time.. and I didnt write cuz.. I dont know. I dont have a real reason." He shrugged. "Sorry." He had a soft touch to him. Definitely not normal. Dallas had already told you about how he's big trouble and gets IN to big trouble. How hes a big tough guy and doesnt need anybody.. and you believed him.

"Hey, she needs to go, man." Two-bit, his friend calls out. "Cant have her here too long, pal. Darry don't know she's here." He says and goes back inside the house. "Shit, he's right.. Darry gets off of work soon. Gotta get you outta here." He walks ahead, expecting you to follow.

"Look, I know you probably expected more, but I dunno what to say. Nice to see you again?" He tells you. Yes, it upset you, but how could you blame him? He's always been a little awkward, and he probably had stuff to do. He has a life here, and you don't. "Yeah, okay.." You nod. "I should be going." You clutch your bags full of stuff a little tighter. "I'll see you around."

"Maybe."

239 notes · View notes

vamp0rivm · 1 year ago

Note

Can u do a drabble or hcs on cuddling Ellie?

Ur writing is so good I love everything U write :>

WREATHE

warnings: not much, mostly fluff, basically the rq, mdni with my account tho😏

a/n: IM SO SORRY THIS HAS BEEN IN MY INBOX FOR I KID YOU NOT LIKE HALF A YEAR IM GENUINELY SO SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME 😰 thank you so much for sending the rq even though i took the piss responding, also this is a drabble bc i don’t think i’d be good at doing hcs 😭 i have some shit coming up at uni so i prolly won’t put anything out for a while but i have an idea for a new fic in the drafts !!! very excited…

ramadan has started which means israel’s violence against the Palestinian people will worsen as it does every year, purely for the sake of inflicting even more psychological torture on them. please, now more than ever, pray for them if you’re religious, talk about palestine, boycott, protest, strike, donate if you can, contact the people in charge. don’t let people forget. here’s a link to some details on the situation. everybody stay safe 💗.

10:47 - you return from a strenuous day of patrol and odd jobs around Jackson. You’re slightly tipsy, a drink or two from the Tipsy Bison churning a pool of warmth within your stomach.

The place is stagnant when you push the door open, as if coming home to nobody.

Ellie must’ve gone to bed early today.

You drift to the bathroom despite the fact that the house feels apocalyptic, and sit in the gentle rush of water, scrubbing your skin weakly with aching arms.

When you enter your room, everything is still, except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Ellie’s figure beneath the covers on the bed backed against the wall.

You throw the dampened towel that is slung over your shoulder carelessly and walk over to the bed, gently settling beside her.

For a while, you feel content. Sleep is lulling you in, the room is shadowy, the bed is warm, and the sound of Ellie’s deep-sleep-breaths (totally not snores at all, she swears) are soft like TV static in the back of your mind.

Your eyes are on the verge of fluttering closed for the last time tonight so you turn onto your side and nestle into yourself.

Then, there’s a harsh jolt and the bed shifts. You can feel Ellie’s puzzled gaze raking over you, the realisation that you’re home setting in, and your lips twist into a smile subconsciously. The night rarely ends without the inebriating buzz of affection.

A quiet sigh escapes the enclosure of her blush-pink lips before she reclines into the pillows once more, eyes never leaving the still curvature of your figure. Not a moment passes and her arms encircle your waist, warmth embracing your torso and pressing against your hair like a wreathe of absolute comfort.

A barely audible mumble tickles the helix of your ear,

“Hey, babe,” accompanied by the phantom touch of her lips against your cheeks in her half-asleep state. You scrunch your nose before turning into the love she offers you.

“Hey, Els.”

You begin to mumble butterfly details about the happenings of the day as you feel the surface of her skin raise with goosebumps under the delicate tracing of your fingertips - down her bare thighs, along the round of her hip, along her stomach and under her boobs - easing airy chuckles out of her.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Hm? Nothin’…”

You can already picture the smirk on her dazed face,

“Ya sure there? You want somethin’, babe?”

A playful scoff and she’s looking at you with feigned shock against the weight of tired eyelids,

“Can’t I feel you? I just wanna be close to you,”

“I’d say we’re pretty close, ya know?”

“Never close enough,” you clarify and the rasp of her laugh fades into silence and she presses a kiss onto your head, and then another, straining her neck till she’s face to flushed and grinning face, stringing a blizzard of soft, dewy kisses across it.

“Alright, alright!”

“One more- mwah,” she smacks her lips against your scrunched up mouth aggressively, leaving a gross patch of saliva, and smiles dumbly to herself, tightening the hold of her arms around you to which you groan.

Tight against her gentle sway, she mutters a quiet confirmation,

“Never close enough,” and then runs the rough pads of her fingertips along the expanse of your skin, lingering a moment on your thighs.

It’s like the rustle of a spring breeze and it draws your eyes to a close.

As you drift further from the surface, you feel the soft tingle of Ellie’s foot nudging your ankle and the distant haze of her voice whispering,

“You sure you don’t want anything, baby?” and you’re asleep.

also, absolutely no one asked for this but here are some pictures of my fat ass cat (cutest patootie evah 😆😆):

442 notes · View notes

airplanelanding · 2 months ago

Text

r/tifu

u/scrapgege • 21h

TIFU by planning a wedding for myself, my husband, and our "fiancé"

(L)

I know the title sounds weird, but I promise it gets worse.

For a little bit of background and context: I (32M) am married to my incredibly doting, amazing husband (26M) and have been for 5 years as of last month. We have both been engaged to Fiancé (24M), an old friend of his, for just about half a year now. We'd been dating for a year prior to our engagement, making our relationship a year and a half in total.

Since we got engaged about 6 months ago, I've been diligently planning the wedding.

My husband has been stressed as of recent, so I took it upon myself to handle all the details, hoping to surprise him with a day that would make his heart sing — just like he did for me on our wedding.

I've picked a venue, drafted invites for our closest friends, and even coordinated with my husband's personal assistant to develop the menu for the reception. It's been a long, arduous task, but I'm devoted to making this the best day of their lives.

The problem?

Last night, my husband pulled me aside to have a "very serious" conversation with him. I was concerned, of course, because he's seemed increasingly restless as of late. So, we sat down with some warm tea and after a little hesitating and a lot of reassurances he loves me...

My husband suggested the idea of inviting Fiancé into our relationship.

That's right. You read that right.

Our fiancé? NOT our fiancé.

In fact, come to find out, we haven't even been dating!

My husband hasn't been stressed because of wedding planning, contrary to my belief. No, he's been stressed because he didn't know how to approach the topic without it coming across the wrong way.

Apparently, I'm the only one who thought we were already together!

In the end, my husband got a good laugh out of it, deeply amused by the whole situation.

I, on the other hand, am mortified.

Looking back on it all, I really should've known sooner. However, it's not as if I was hiding my planning!

We went cake tasting! I took them (individually) to the tailor! I can't even begin to imagine what my husband and our (Not) Fiancé thought was going on.

And to top if all off, his personal assistant — the one who was helping me plan? Apparently, he knew everything the entire time and was just waiting for us to figure it out. (He is now very conveniently busy with work my husband did not assign him whenever I try to speak with him.)

I don't think I'll ever be able to live this down.

TL;DR - I planned an entire wedding for myself, my husband and our fiancé, come to find out we weren't even dating said fiancé, and my husband has actually been trying to figure out how to ask if we can be, the whole time.

edit: we are asking him out this evening.

⬆ 8.2k | ⇩ 💬 934 🏅 ➥ 492

────────────────────────────

u/forthenight 20h

OP, how do you imagine an entire relationship?

••• ⤶ ⬆ 641 ⇩

u/deleted 20h

deleted

••• ⤶ ⇧ -234 ⬇

u/scrapgege OP • 20h

I do understand your perspective, if you

are coming from a place of actual care.

However, my husband and I are very

happy and deeply in love.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 302 ⇩

u/masterofthewinds 19h

WAIT omg hold on is this abt who i think it is???

••• ⤶ ⬆ 37 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP 19h

Oh, oops. Forgot you have Reddit.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/masterofthewinds 19h

TEXTING YOU.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/carefulplanner 17h

edit: we are asking him out this evening

OP!!!! Don't leave us hanging, we need to know what he says!!

••• ⤶ ⬆ 529 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 4h

we are dating :-]

••• ⤶ ⬆ 797 ⇩

u/eternal_sleeper 16h

I took them cake tasting! I took them (individually) to the tailor!

Okay but what DID they think was going on?

Also props to the PA for having the chance to clear this all up & instead choosing to watch it all devolve.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 281 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 15h

According to my husband, he thought

the cake was me hinting that I wanted

more sweets while simultaneously

treating out Not-Fiancé, 2 birds 1 stone

style. As for the tailor, he says, and I

quote, "I had no idea what you were

planning, I was just happy to indulge

your whims." So...

edit: Not-Fiancé (now actual boyfriend)

was apparently "just along for the ride

and free food."

••• ⤶ ⬆ 440 ⇩

u/oneman-army2 12h

"just along for the ride and free

food"

he is so real for that tbh.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 24 ⇩

u/west-south17 10h

I think we're all ignoring the fact that this presumed relationship went on for 1.5 YEARS.

Our fiancé? NOT our fiancé.

How do you do that? Genuinely, how? What about the proposal? How does one make this error???

••• ⤶ ⬆ 127 ⇩

u/covermyblow 7h

No way this is legit. Did you just not think there was anything weird about your relationship? Like, did you kiss "as buddies" or something?

If not, how do you go 1.5 years without thinking it's weird or there's something strange about the fact that your partner has never been physically affectionate with you?

OP is either a liar or wayyyy oblivious.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 71 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 2h

Well first, kissing isn't by any means

a requirement for a relationship. But, I

just figured we were moving slow. He's

not always a very touchy-feely person,

and my husband and I respect his

boundaries. In fact, it would have been

fine even if we weren't just moving slow

and he simply didn't want any of that. As

long as he's by our sides, we'll be happy.

That's all that matters, really, is knowing

we love and care for each other, and will

always be there. Kissing is a bonus, not

a necessity.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 94 ⇩

u/masterofthewinds 1h

AWWWWWWW!!!!!!

••• ⤶ ⬆ 4 ⇩

u/fallingtree 23m

this is nauseatingly sweet i hate

couples

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/fu--yao 2h

this is sickening I'm never speaking to you again.

In fact, come to find out, we haven't even been dating!

I HAD TO LISTEN TO YOUR LOVESTRUCK RAMBLINGS FOR NOTHING???

I planned an entire wedding for myself, my husband and our fiancé, come to find out we weren't even dating said fiancé, and my husband has actually been trying to figure out how to ask if we can be, the whole time.

Do you just not talk??? HOW DID YOU DO THIS???? I'm never talking to you again.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 64 ⇩

u/nanfengfeng 1h

I told you.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 5 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 49m

??? You helped me pick the venue.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/fu--yao 43m

why didn't you ask me.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 1 ⇩

[Read More...]

u/northern-general 11m

OP, when's the wedding?

••• ⤶ ⬆ 9 ⇩

65 notes · View notes

kattomei · 10 months ago

Text

Fic where insecure!reader who strives for perfection keeps accepting other people's requests at the expense of her health and Sebastian is left to follow her around everywhere because he's concerned and worried half to death, lol.

Wordcount: 4,874

Warnings: none. Just tooth-rotting fluff and a very stressed out Seb.

(this is my first ever fanfic pls be nice...I do appreciate any constructive criticism tho- and I'm also in the process of writing a few others, i alr have a crap ton of drafts so stick around if u happen to like this one! ☺️)

Sebastian noticed a gradual shift in your once-lively demeanor.

Your usual sunny disposition, which seemed to consistently lift the spirits of those around you, was now tinged with a growing exhaustion of some sort.

The usual bounce in your step was replaced by a slightly slower, lagging stride, and your typical bright smile that could instantly push away any dreariness out of a room was now feeling subtly gloomier.

The changes were miniscule at most, but Sebastian pondered internally that, had he not been watching you so closely, he would've otherwise thought nothing was amiss.

Even your conversations had become disheartening, as his recent attempts had only been met with a sense of detachment.

... He had grown to long for your usual, easy flow of banter and witty remarks.

Despite Sebastian's best efforts to keep your exchanges the same, that had only served to make it feel even more forced and one-sided as he observed you in classes, your gaze seeming to frequently be unfocused and your mind, lacking of any coherent thought.

At first, Sebastian dismissed the changes as nothing out of the ordinary, as everyone had all been preparing for the approaching N.E.W.T.'s exams.

He simply reasoned that similar signs of fatigue could be observed in his fellow sixth-years, attributing to the stress that comes with these events.

----

As morning brightness streamed through the Transfiguration's classroom windows, You, Poppy and Natty sat side by side, engaged in silent contemplation, having an almost unspoken agreement on not to converse as the looming threat of exams has all but drained you three completely.

Mrs. Weasley's rather authoritive voice encompassed the otherwise silent space.

Though most of her words seemed to lack any coherence as you actively fought the sleep taking over your slumped form.

You hadn't even realised when the exhaustion had won your silent battle but you're quickly awakened by Poppy's warm palm on your shoulder, fluttering your eyes open to be met with her concerned gaze

"Are you okay?"

The hufflepuff noted the unusual darkness circling your undereye, peering behind you to share a troubled expression with Natty.

"I'm fine, no worries."

You quickly dismissed her and shook your head enthusiastically, ignoring how the action had all but made the room spin.

Natty's worried voice spoke up from behind you,

"Are you sure? It is not like you to fall asleep, and during class hours no less." she insisted.

"I assure you both, I'm feeling quite alright."

You piped, rather frantically and curse at the slight waver in your voice, certain that both girls had noticed it.

You straightened your shoulders from it's slouched position, as if to further prove your point.

Natty's scrutinizing gaze made it clear that the feeble attempt hadn't convinced her, however.

The minutes ticked by slowly, each of them feeling like an eternity.

The class seemed to last significantly longer than usual, further adding to your mild frustration.

However, your clouded thinking, or rather lack thereof, was eventually interrupted by the booming voice of Mrs. Weasley..

"Now, I would like all of you to repeat after me, AH-viss."

Her command was followed soon after by echoed choruses of the incantation from the class.

"Very well. Now, Kindly try it for yourself. Do remember the meticulous 'M' movement, lest you find the idea of being faced with countless squawking, flightless creatures compelling."

She grimaced as though an unsavoury memory flashed in her mind, before shortly replacing it with her usual assuring smile.

Even without paying close attention, you heard enough to know that the spell's purpose was to conjure several, flying medium sized birds.

You Steadily pulled out your wand, and point it upwards, you steel yourself... then tensed.

Pausing for a moment, you rack your brain to recall the incantation.

Just as your worries began to mount, Poppy's clear words suddenly piped from beside you, looking over you see her apprehensively whipping her wand

"Avis!"

Despite the timid attempt at casting, her incantation rang out with such clarity that you questioned briefly if she had noticed your silent struggle.

You silently thanked her eitherway, and with a steadied hand, you took a small breath before casting,

"Avis!"

With a swift flick of your wand, a loud boom reverberated through the air, like a shot from a gun.

As the smoke cleared, your gaze settled on the small, twittering bird now infront of you.

It's wings fluttered clumsily as it heaved it's body afloat with visible effort.

Looking to your right you see Natty with her assortment of conjured birds swiftly circling around her head - a stark contrast to your own haphazardly flying bird.

It was clear that was how the spell was supposed to work, an array of birds instead of the lone creature you had conjured.

Natty directed her gaze towards you as her eyes flicked down and noticed your meager creation.

She tilted her head to examine your chubby aviary.

Her expression turned visibly worried as she noted the sorry state of your conjured bird.

She knew that, normally, your class performance was held to a high standard, often even rivalling her own.

However, observing the stuttered beating of your bird's wing only deepened her concern further.

When class had finally ended, you wasted no time in quickly pushing yourself off your seat and striding out the door, knowingly avoiding your friends' impending interrogation.

You slipped out into the hall, and maneuvered around the sea of students with practiced agility.

As you strode down the corridor, you were keenly aware of the presence of Poppy and Natty trailing behind you, their footsteps growing nearer with each passing moment.

This thought had only caused you to hasten your hurried pace.

Quickly rounding a corner your forehead slams against someone's firm chest.

Two calloused hands perched itself onto your shoulders to help keep you steady, the familiar scent of books and pine fills your senses.

As you look up to confirm your suspicions you see that it's none other than the subject to most of your budding affections since the past year.

Sebastian's shocked expression shifts into one of fondness as he realises that it's you.

He then presents you with his usual charming grin.

Sensing your distress shortly after though, his face drops, and his warm hand tightens it's hold against your shoulder blades.

"You alright? You look like you've just sprinted through an angry horde of diricawls."

He masks his growing concern with humour in attempt to alleviate your tension and he can't help but crack a small smile as he feels you relax under his palm.

"Merlin, why does everybody keep asking me that.."

You groan loudly infront of the boy, and he rolls his eyes in response, smiling fondly.

"I don't know, It might be because you more or less resemble a pesky raccoon with how dark your undereyes have gotten."

"Oh, bugger off, will you?"

You merely huff out indignantly and cross your arms in response.

The action only serves to make him laugh, his boyish charm radiating off of his echoed laugher, and you unconsciously melt against his hold.

Sebastian's laughter fades as his gaze dropped back to study you intently, causing you to squirm subtly under the intensity of his stare.

His amusement quickly gave way to concern as he asked with more seriousness, his tone softer than before,

"No, but seriously, you've been looking a bit worse for wear these past few days. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"Been keeping a close eye on me, have you?"

You chimed, your lips tugging upwards into a slight smirk before you could stop yourself.

Sebastian merely quirks an eyebrow at your insinuation, and you shift uncomfortably under him when his signature charming grin slowly made it's way onto his face.

He had to admit that he missed your rather flirty banter and snarky remarks

(Not sure if you ever meant to make it seem that way, but he liked to think you did.)

Sebastian's voice came out casual and nonchalant, almost playful, as he continued,

"Despite your usual, slow judgement, I can see you know. Besides, who could possibly resist keeping their eyes on you? "

His words were spoken casually, yet held a hint of flirtation, a slight jab at your obliviousness to his observation.

Before you could even question what he meant, Poppy's voice rings throughout the hall calling out your name, making you look over your shoulder to see her and Natty steadily closing the distance between the four of you.

Without sparing the boy a reply you swiftly duck against Sebastian's hold and hurriedly jog away from his tall frame.

Not looking back, you beeline to your next class and silently pray that nobody else bombards you with the same queries and worried glances that had been plaguing you all morning.

Sebastian was left to stand alone, shock evident on his face as his arms are left frozen midair where it had once been grasping your slender shoulders, his form unmoving and mind still reeling from your abrupt departure.

Snapping out of his daze, his head snapped from your steadily distancing frame to your friends' approaching figures.

Both girls had finally managed to reach him, and the duo were left slightly breathless.

Sebastian, being the ever courteous lad that he was, waited patiently for the two to gather their bearings before shooting each of them a questioning look.

"That girl does not know when to take a break!"

Natty heaved slightly panting, whereas Poppy slumped over herself from beside Natty, her hands perched on her own chest as visible distress plastered itself on her usual calm and serene face.

"She's been performing quite poorly in class and has even been dozing off. 'Suspect she's exhausted.."

Poppy said, frowning and continued

"It's nothing outrageous for a student of course, especially now during N.E.W.T's... But you know better than anyone how she normally is, Sebastian. She'd sooner lick the floor rather than let her grades drop.."

She mused worriedly.

Sebastian did, in fact know better than anyone that you would strive for the best grades you could possibly get, seeming to brighten with the validation you received from professor's whenever you performed particularly well in classes.

He couldn't help but sink deeper into concern when he realised that at this point, it wasn't just him who noticed your peculiar behaviour.

He worried what kind of predicament weighed your otherwise steadfast bright and energetic demeanour and cause it to dimmer significantly.

---

This tiring game of cat and mouse continue as the trio fight tooth and nail to try and drag you into resting.

And as another day passes by, more of your mutual friends start picking up on your recent oddities.

Garreth confessed that while he usually did respect you dearly, he couldn't resist the fits of laughter bubbling from his chest at the sight of you, covered in black soot.

You were brewing a batch of Wiggenwald and it all but exploded into your face.

The dark substance had coated your normally otherwise pristine and spotless skin.

After a while even Ominis, despite lacking the significant bodily sensation of sight, managed to notice your tired energy contrasting the usual sunny girl he's come to know.

Everyone tries everything they can to make you rest, but for someone who possesses a considerably fragile disposition you owned a rather steel hard stubbornness

(Much to your friends displeasure).

Normally, Sebastian would think this trait of yours quite endearing, but these days between everyone including him trying to force you to rest and only having you huffing and rejecting is just proving to irk him more and more.

You've been trying to ignore the dizzying sensations badgering you in random hours the entirety of the day.

Afternoon arrives and you're walking with Sebastian and Ominis towards the Potions wing.

Striding rather abruptly, your vision blurs in an instant and the room starts spinning, stumbling slightly you steady yourself in a frenzy and attempt to mask the growing throbbing of your head, hoping to Merlin that both boys had failed to notice.

Purposely avoiding their line of gaze you hurriedly continue to walk forward, missing the deep scowl now etched onto Sebastian's lip and Ominis' visible agitation, the latter's wand pulsing a radiant red.

***

As Sebastian spots you in the hall the next day, you seemed to look worse than ever before, skin ghastly pale and your usual vibrant face lacking any of it's normal vigor.

You looked ready to pass out at any given moment, before he could stop himself he followed you out of heavy concern, purposely sticking to you at a safe distance, intent and ready to catch you when you inevitably fainted before you had the chance to even hit the floor.

He trailed behind your form as quietly as he could (though he doubted there was any use in that since you looked as if your mind held no coherent thought whatsoever.)

You turned a corner and he stalked silently over to the wall to peek his head out.

Taking in the view just in time to see a Hufflepuff walking over to greet you, stopping abruptly and leaning his back against the wall he hears the girl say

"I'm Adelaide Oakes, you're that sixth year everyone's been talking about since last July aren't you? I've heard about your... endeavours through countless others and I've been hoping to get some time alone with you..."

Sensing where this was going Sebastian leans forward to hear better into the conversation, hoping, praying that you wouldn't even entertain the idea on accepting whatever this girl was going to ask of you.

The aforementioned said something about suspecting her dear uncle had gotten himself in a band of goblin's bad favours, and she continued by expressing the worry it had all caused her for the past week.

Sebastian mentally cursed as he saw your tired eyes softening at the troubled girl's words, knowing full well that you were going to accept the moment the girl finished talking.

Sebastian suspected you were planning to sneak out the moment classes were over, and his mind was already whirling with ideas on how to prevent you from doing so.

With your last class of the day being Arithmancy, Sebastian had already decided that he would intercept you the second you stepped out of the classroom, determined to stop you from carrying out your plan.

As the Slytherin made his way towards his next class, his thoughts drifted off, and he couldn't help but mull over why you seemed to be so willing to help someone else in such a state.

Sauntering along, he found himself puzzling over your decision.

He arrived at his designated seat in class and settled down, resting his chin on his palm as his brows scrunched together in thought.

Sebastian found himself lost in contemplation, mentally tuning out Professor Weasley's lecture.

Sebastian reached his conclusion as the class continued, realizing that your willingness to help stemmed from your ridiculously kind nature.

He thought that you simply couldn't bear the thought of saying no to anyone, and he silently lamented this thought throughout the remainder of the class.

***

But of course, something just had to go wrong.

The second Professor Weasley dismissed Transfiguration classes, Sebastian bolted upright and ran straight through the door before most had even gotten the chance to take a few steps from their desks.

'Why does the castle's halls have to be so darn crowded this particular time of day?'

Sebastian thought bitterly to himself, shoving his way into the cramped cluster of students.

Reaching his destination infront of the open classroom door, Sebastian cursed again, his eyes darting from side to side as he scanned the room, desperately searching the area for any sign of you.

Spinning quickly, he anxiously scoured the corridor, but you remained nowhere to be seen.

After glumly kicking the nearby doorframe, Sebastian stalked away with a deep frown, opting to wait for your return instead.

He overheard the general direction the girl had pointed you in and thought you would most likely enter through the north exit, passing by a grandfather clock, he noted the time:

5:30 in the afternoon.

With a huff, he sat himself down in front of the giant double doors, stilling as he prepared to wait for your return, ready to tend to you the moment you entered.

----

Weakly striding up the Hogwarts ground's north entrance you reached a hand up to push open the heavy, double door.

The sun peeked out of the horizon, steadily rising as some birds started to chirp, all while the cold morning air nipped against your flushed cheeks, Your palm perched on your forehead as a deep gash on your shoulder prevented you on making use of both hands.

Trudging upwards, you swayed under the dizziness and fatigue.

Besides the crimson slice across your upper arm, your body was littered with bruises and other minor injuries, your mind, foggy.

Wondering how you'd even managed to escape alive and rescue Adelaide's uncle considering your already pitiful state - you had no idea.

Pushing open the large entrance, you stepped inside, your head throbbed painfully as the heavy door slammed shut with a deafening thud.

----

Sebastian's slouched form jerked awake from the echoing sound of the door closing.

Rubbing his eyes, his vision focused on the figure now standing at the entryway.

Hastily standing up to squint at the figure, he's greeted by a clear view of your disheveled appearance infront of him.

Sebastian observed you taking a few steps forward, and he slowly started to stride towards you.

You seemed to be in such a daze that you failed to have even noticed his approaching presence.

Sebastian's concern escalates as he watches you waver and wobble on your feet.

Unconsciously, he transitions his stride into a jog, and then a sprint, quickly closing the distance between you- just in time to catch you right before your body collapsed, preventing your unconscious form from hitting the cold marble floor.

***

Waking up to the view of the hospital wing's pristine white ceiling you gingerly blink a few more times in attempt to try and refocus your vision.

Turning your head to the side, you're greeted with Sebastian's slouched form sitting on a stool beside you. Dark circles encompassed his undereye and his hair seemed to be messier than usual.

He seemed to be in deep thought, both elbows on his knees and chin resting on his palm, brows furrowed while he chewed on his bottom lip, staring intensely at a corner of the room.

His gaze wandered until it locked with yours, without warning he swiftly straightened his body and clutched your unmoving hand positioned on your side.

He seemed to be in an internal debate with himself as his mouth closed and opened repeatedly.

Finally, after silently confirming that you seemed to be in a steady enough condition, he yelled loudly, making you visibly flinch in response to the sheer volume and intensity of his voice.

"How could you have been so utterly daft!? You've been out doing who knows what, running around the highlands doing favours while being in such a state!? Imelda had been going at it in my ear for the better part of the morning reprimanding me for ever letting you get away with all of it in the first place-- And honestly I can't blame her! Merlin , If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were intentionally trying to get yourself killed!"

You were speechless, you had expected some sort of lecture, but definitely not something that heated.

You stupidly stared at him with wide eyes paired with a slightly agape mouth, until finally managing to sputter something out.

"I-I'm...sorry...?"

You were surprised at his outburst because you hadn't ever witnessed Sebastian being this emotional, except when it was something that had been related to Anne.

Unbeknownst to you, the sight of your bedridden form, pale complexion, cracked lips, and labored, shallow breaths had all but hit Sebastian with a gut-wrenching familiarity.

He simply couldn't bare the concerning resemblance you momentarily held of his cursed twin, and without thinking, he had lashed out the emotions of his revelation to you.

Letting out a shaky exhale he rested his gaze back onto yours, his eyes round and forehead wrinkled.

"You.... I don't understand. Why on Merlin's name, would you do something so foolish? "

Wincing at the sharp edge in the last word of his question, you averted your gaze, shame washing over you as you instinctively pressed your lips together in a thin, tight line.

"I...I'm sorry, I just, I-.."

Mentally cursing at your pathetic stammering, your face steadily grew hot, and your eyes brimmed with tears.

"u-uhm-...."

Your voice cracked, forcing you to briefly clench your eyes shut to contain the tears threatening to spill over.

Sebastian instantly softened and unconsciously rubbed his thumb over the back of your clutched hand.

"I apologise, I... While I daresay this wasn't an overreaction on my part, eitherway I'm still sorry."

A few seconds of silence pass before he continues.

"I get that you find it difficult to reject favours... But is it truly that hard to say no for you?"

Swallowing heavily, you slowly shake your head, denying his prior assumption which, in turn earns you a confused stare from Sebastian.

"...I don't do it because I find it difficult to say no to others."

Pausing, you hesitantly look back at the boy and he replies, slowly.

"Then why..?"

Inhaling a sharp breath you continue,

"I do it to feel like I'm a better person than I actually am.. I'm just constantly worried about what others think of me. This image of being the almighty 'Hero of Hogwarts' It's...It's like a shadow that follows me everywhere, and... I'm scared of the day when everyone realises that I'm really... nobody special."

"Bollocks."

Sebastian firmly speaks out, making you stare at him with wide eyes.

Brief silence envelopes you both, the slytherin pauses to sigh deeply before looking at you with furrowed brows paired with wide, round eyes before giving your hand another gentle squeeze.

"Where on earth have you been getting these ideas?"

He asks, before his expression of gentle concern shifts to one of anger

"Has someone been planting these absurdities into your head??"

Hastily, you shake your head and it takes a moment for Sebastian to recollect himself before directing an incredulous stare at you.

(as if it was hard for him to comprehend that you could even think you weren't deserving of your reputation and title.)

Because truthfully, he thought you of all people deserved it most, and he would sooner dive fifty meters off the edge of a cliff before letting you think differently.

He rubs his thumb over the back of your palm again before raising his unoccupied hand onto your upper arm and slowly sliding it onto your shoulder.

"You're absolutely unreal. I mean, the least you could do to appear more human is to grow an insufferably large ego- to match all the things you've managed to do. I mean, of all the thick-headed prats I know... none of them could even begin to compare with all the things you've accomplished."

Suddenly, the room feels considerably warmer, the thick hospital blanket draped down your lower body suddenly becoming more unbearable as the seconds ticked by, you're avoiding Sebastian's gaze as he addresses you with the utmost gentleness you've ever heard someone speak.

"....Think about it, you started late into hogwarts-- fifth year, where OWL's and every heavy workload starts piling up when you were running behind in five years worth of education."

"-And yet you managed to pass through considerably one of the hardest exams in hogwarts being only second to N.E.W.T's in difficulty- and all the while fighting trolls, poachers, goblins and ashwinders and who knows what every other day like they were child's play, WITH your limited duelling knowledge."

Sebastian retracts his hand from your shoulder and launches it onto his messy hair, pushing the strands back with his fingers before abruptly leaning his head back to let out an unbashed laugh and dropping it back down to lock eyes with you.

"Bloody hell, don't even get me started on your duelling. I mean, you managed to beat me! Reigning duelling champion with Levioso! A damn first-year level levitation charm! On your first day, no less!"

The brunette scoffed and rolled his eyes as you giggle, feigning annoyance while he secretly feels himself melt at the sound.

"Yeah, you're probably feeling quite pleased with yourself now, aren't you?"

His scowl gradually faded into an endearing smile as he gazed back at you.

"Good."

Your laughter falters as you're caught off guard by the look of fondness his gaze held as he stared at you.

He continues his verbal tirade, but this time he looks to the side, opposite of you, unable to meet your gaze as he blurts out the last of his confession.

"I don't know how you ever came to the conclusion that you're somehow undeserving of everything you've rightfully earned. Well, I'll even go as far as disagree and say that you deserve more... But- that's not the point"

He falters for a brief moment, stuttering slightly as his ears flush a delicate shade of red, and you can't help but bite your lip, suppressing a giggle at the sight.

He inhales sharply, before continuing speaking, his tone filled with conviction.

"But... I know you better than anyone else. And I can say this with absolute certainty, you are far from a nobody. You're strong... kind,- and one of the bravest people I know. You may not see it, but trust me, you're anything but insignificant."

Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly turns his head back to look at you .

Silence hangs in the air as the two of you lock eyes for a while.

You take a deep breath and summon your courage, raising your free hand, you gently rest it on his, the one that's grasping your own.

His eyes follow the movement closely, then he snaps his gaze back to your face. A demure smile graces your lips, unknowingly making his heart stutter at the sight.

Then, you give his hand a firm, reassuring squeeze, and he swears he felt his soul ascend for a brief second.

Your shared little moment is quickly dissolved as the hospital wing's doors slam open, the familiar view of your friend group marching in.

Instinctively, you tug both your hands out of his grasp, momentarily pulling your conjoined hands, and in turn, Sebastian- forward from the sudden action.

Imelda's familiar rumbustious voice fills the quiet room. "Nice of you to rejoin the land of the living."

She announces, whereas Poppy quickly makes her way over to your side, opposite of where Sebastian was situated.

"Does your head hurt?-" Not giving you any time to reply, she hastily grabs both your shoulders.

"Your shoulders are so tense- I'll ask Nurse Blainey to prepare you a calming draught right after this."

She coos, before swiftly raising a hand over to your forehead.

"Oh my, you're heating up...Your face is unbelievably red- Oh, poor you-"

"Merlin, let the girl breathe Poppy." Imelda barks out a laugh from the foot of your mattress.

You manage to flash a weak smile to the worried hufflepuff before she reluctantly leans back and steps away from your bed.

Sneaking a quick glance back over to Sebastian, you're greeted with the view of him unmistakably pouting, his hand left on the spot ontop of your bed where you had pulled away from him.

Your train of thought is interrupted by the sound of Ominis' musing.

"I can't say we didn't tell you something like this would end up happening if you didn't stop, but you're just as stubborn as our dear Mr. Sallow, here."

Everyone collectively shares a laugh before Natty steps over to your side holding up a pile of parchment.

"It's some of our classwork you missed throughout the day, we all decided to help out in gathering it.... To make sure you wouldn't miss out on any of the lessons."

The girl smiled before putting the assortment of work on your bedside table.

Garreth confesses, effectively causing Natty to rub her neck, and she looks over to you, bashful.

"Thank Natty, She thought about the idea first, she deserves most of the credit."

"Well, I don't share all the same classes with you, so none of this could have been done without everyone's help."

As the group steadily starts talking between themselves, You slowly slide your hand over to Sebastian's, your touch tentative as you shyly maneuver to link your pinky with his, keeping your gaze fixed on your chatting friends.

He's initially caught-off-guard by the gesture but quickly responds by shifting his finger to press gently against yours, his pout transforming into a subtle, tender smile.

In your mind, you made a mental note to talk to Sebastian after your friends left, with the intention of continuing your prior conversation to where it had been left off.

#sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow x reader #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #hogwarts legacy #imelda reyes #poppy sweeting #natsai onai #insecure reader

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macknshift · 5 months ago

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THE ONE WHERE . . . I INTRODUCE Y'ALL TO LEO!

SOOOO…i have mentioned leo in like, 90 different posts atp and never actually made a "leo intro" (mainly bc i have weird feelings ab sharing him heavily to the rest of the world lol) but! i figured now would be the best time to get into explaining him to y'all.

LEO , commonly given the last name SCOTT (depends on the dr!) is actually originally the main character's love interest in a hockey romance book i've been in the process of writing. after getting #sickandtired of annoying ass book men i gave up and began drafting one of my own. the main character is literally me (i mean, for christ's sake her name is sloane mackintosh,) and eventually, i began thinking of him in other "au"s (i used to do this a lot on wattpad - i mean DRs but the term AU is usually more digestible to ppl that may not be aware of reality shifting. Anyways.) and began kind of placing him in everything. a list of the drs he is my love interest in is follows;

BETTER CR : (fc silasj2004*) the hockey romance book pretty much as a dr. small changes occur but basically he's the exact same as leo in the book lol

PARENT DR : (fc jack schlossberg. yes. i am one of those girlies. i am not ashamed! at least he has morals + a backbone y'all this could be much worse) the "backstory" is my better cr dr. i'm now a mother of 3 (amelia or mimi, aged 5, giselle or gigi, aged 4 and i'm pregnant with vincenzo, our final kid,) and it follows our life after what would be the events of the book. i sort-of made it also as like a WAG dr in a sense bc leo is a professional hockey player! (but he retires 2 years before this point in time so idk where my thought process is w this lol)

FORMULA 1 DRIVER DR : (fc pato o'ward MY!!!! mclaren man ln4 U ARE NOTHINGGGGGGG) leonardo dempsey, son of actor patrick dempsey (my forever celebrity crush ugh he's so fine) and driver for aston martin aramco f1 team under #99. i essentially took l*nce str*ll's daddy's boy backstory and gave it to leo bc he is indeed a daddy's boy. the only dr leo and i are enemies to lovers bc i'm too obsessed w him otherwise LMFAO

MARVEL DR : (fc marcello hernandez (MY MAAANNNN)) leo scott, secretly the speedster superhero 'comet'. hired by my dad as essentially a bodyguard (leo's not intimidating AT ALL idek how the hell this is supposed to work LMFAO) as comet and knows me out of costume as his sister's roommate (mj is also in every dr ever and actually is here in this cr. i can never leave her out i love her DOWN) basically marichat vibes (god i miss marichat)

POP STAR DR : (fc marcello hernandez, again) leo sinatra, nepo baby great-grandson of frank sinatra (there's a whole, incredibly large bit of lore ab this LMFAO + he's also a great-grandson in my better cr dr too bc i need my man RICH!) and Saturday Night Live cast member. basically i go on snl and immediately fall in love. i've stolen the 'unlikely couple' weekend update sketch for us & he does domingo, which is my song lol we're funny for it idk

THE FCS, in color photos:

i'm missing like, 18 other drs that i can think of but some important info about him;

he's half oaxacan mexican. i've tried my damnedness to find a way to make it obvious but when i was 'designing' him (aka drawing him out) i used jack, silas (*NOTE: he is leo's typical fc if i don't have an designated one for him) and marcello as references to make him look the most like him as i can. the fcs are kind of loose for him but i need a way to like fully visualize him. so. yeah. his 'color palette' (weird way to put it but idk how else) makes him tanner than all three of them i fear. all of the fcs i use (other than jack schlossberg but like. idk his main celebrity lookalike in the better cr is him so i kind of had to) are latino, but i feel like it never ever properly translates when i talk about him bc his name is fucking leopold scott. like. huh.

he's also tall AS FUCK lol and built like a tank lowkey (think tom welling clark kent GOOD GOOGLY MOOGLY) but it's mainly bc he's a hockey player. in every vers he's like. 6'3. shortest he is is w marcello as his fc and even then he's 5'11. (note in pop star dr he gets a lot of comparisons to jacob elordi for some reason??? idk my fans are weird)

he's got big brown baby cow eyes. every. single. time. like that is this man's defining trait and you know what? i would not change that for the world lol

his position in hockey is a goalie! he uses the number #29 and plays for our college and later for the new jersey devils before being traded to the anaheim ducks. after he retires he becomes a firefighter!!!! (which is sooo hot btw)

#mack yaps #(about shifting)#mackleo #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting diary #shifting motivation #shifting things #shifting antis dni #mack's better cr #mack's parent dr #mack's f1 dr #mack's pop star dr #writeblr #writers on tumblr #leo is of course the mmc of the book i'm writing so #writeblr it is LMFAO

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saleeba · 1 year ago

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the baby-making manual ; william saliba

summary ♡ baby fever hits the salibas full force.

pairing ♡ william saliba x fem!reader

content ♡ 18+, smut, husband!william, kissing, p in v sex, cunnilingus, reader & wilo are so broody & so in love with each other, missionary, doggystyle, riding, lotus position (yes i’m fucking depraved don’t look at me like that 🤕), soft romantic vibes, breeding kink, praise, body worship, size kink ofccc, clitoral stimulation, titplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it unless ur name is y/n and ur starring in this fic 🥸), creampie(s), a smidgen of cockwarming, blink and u miss the one french word in here, talks about having kids, aftercare included !!

a/n ♡ the title is so goofy & nobody asked for this but the concept has been eating at my mind since the end of summer + i've had this in the drafts since oct so i gotta put me first lucius 😫😩😫😩😫 anyway this is day one of converting you all into wilo girlies hehe WAKE UP WORLD‼️ pls lmk how u all find this fic btw!! ik it won’t get as much attention as my jude ones bc there prob aren’t as many fans but i rlly would appreciate anything u have to say about it !!! 🫶🏽🥰 enjoyyyy mes chéris!! 😌❤️

an unexpectedly warm spring’s saturday had given cause to an impromptu barbecue held by your parents, and you and william had found yourselves in the company of most of your relatives for the day. how your mother had convinced half the family tree to be present on such short notice you will never know but you were grateful nonetheless, extremely happy to especially see the loved ones you haven’t seen since getting married to your now-husband a couple of years ago.

it’s close to eleven in the night now, your arrival at home being so belated due to the clash between your insistence that you and william had to go home as he had training the next morning and your father’s greater insistence that the two of you stay a little longer for another cup of tea, another plate of food, even the whole night if you wanted to. in the end, you had to put a politely firm foot down, more for william’s sake who can’t say no to your parents for the life of him, and who was on his way to accepting your dad’s invitation to stay the night before you spoke up. you knew the events of last night would repeat for the morning, your parents in a tug-of-war with you to make you guys stay for breakfast but you supported your case with the argument of the long drive home and the fact that mikel wouldn’t appreciate william’s tardiness the next day, especially at such a significant time in the season.

you’re sitting in bed by yourself right now with a novel in hand – william having gone to take a much-needed relaxing shower – inwardly laughing to yourself over your husband’s people-pleasing antics and your mind meanders to the scenes of this afternoon, the sounds of children’s laughter and adults’ gossip in the air accompanied with the smokey scent of grilled food taking over your senses. you reencounter images of william chasing your little cousins, nieces and nephews around the garden — small, sweet giggles mixed with william’s deeper chuckles as they’re all engaged in an exhilarating game of tag, little feet and large padding around the property.

your thoughts are pulled back into reality when the ensuite door clicks open, a cloud of steam puffing into the bedroom before it reveals your husband clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, droplets of water dotted on his toned chest and abdomen. it’s a sheer sight for sore eyes and one that you will never tire of so you shamelessly watch as he smiles at you before gliding across the room, moving to his vanity to apply generous amounts of body lotion to bring back moisture to his skin, the action making his skin glow so prettily under the warm lighting of the bedroom.

it’s these moments of silent appreciation that have you feeling like the luckiest girl in the universe; an adonis of a lover in your bedroom, one that would move heaven and earth at your beck and call, and there’s denying that you would do the same for him.

in all your daydreaming, william’s moved on to pulling his pajamas on for bedtime, a pair of dark grey boxer shorts acting as said pajamas as he opts to go shirtless in fear of overheating on such a toasty night. you place your novel down, the previously read page distinguished with a bookmark, as william places a soft kiss on your forehead before tucking you both in under the thin sheets.

“mum was really bad with the baby talk this time, wasn’t she?” you turn your body on its spot, head propped up by a bend of your arm as you face william who lifts his head at your rhetoric question. “i mean, you did look so fucking adorable with the kids today so i don’t know if i should say sorry on her behalf.”

“not at all,” he only lets out a breathy laugh, now mirroring you in the shift of his own body. “i’ve had most people asking me about it now.”

“really?”

you’re quite shocked to learn that there are indeed a lot of people who are eager to see william and yourself have a family of your own and that it’s not just pestering from your mother in particular, who has asked about when she will be seeing grandchildren from her daughter and “favourite son-in-law” from the moment the two of you had just about exchanged rings. you’ve grown accustomed to answering with the same old ‘we want to focus on us/our careers/our freedom’ response but there’s a little curious something that’s pulling the two of you to consider everyone’s requests.

“mmhm, i think i could count the number of people at the club that have asked me about it using my hands and my feet,” the pair of you laugh at this, a shake of your head over how believable that comment is despite it sounding so silly since the environment of your husband’s workplace is so close-knit and everyone is comfortable with each other. “it’s not just that, though, is it?”

“no?” you question his tone turned serious now.

“when i see the guys and their kids, i can’t help wondering what i might be like in those sorts of situations, y’know?” you sit up at his words, heart racing a little faster with the way he looks at you; looks into you as he again copies your movements, taking your hands in his after leaning his shoulder against the headboard. “can’t help wondering what it would be like seeing you and a mini version of us in the stands during a match… wanna see our baby matching shirts with their papa, wanna hear their tiny voice cheer my name…”

you swear you feel your heart stop as soon as his lips form the words ‘our baby’.

“oh, william,” you sigh over his thoughts spoken aloud, a slight pang of guilt hitting at your heartstrings and causing your eyes to tear up just a little. “why didn’t you tell me about all this, hm?”

you had no idea of his desire to have children, always assuming his response to everyone’s questions to be the same as yours and believing that he wanted to prioritise football over starting a family with you for at least a couple more years.

“it’s not your fault, sweetheart, not at all.” his fingers swipe under your eyes in precaution against any spilt tears. “having a baby, hell, even wanting a baby... it’s a big deal; it’s hard to just drop it into a conversation if that makes sense.”

“of course, that makes plenty of sense,” his hands grip yours in a tight embrace, placing a kiss on the slightly trembling digits in an attempt to soothe you. “you really want to have a baby with me?”

william laughs softly at your words and the way you sit with your mouth gaping, starry-eyed with a million thoughts racing through your mind.

“no, i want to have a baby with mrs khan next door.” he deadpans, referring to your elderly neighbour, before you shove at his shoulder, a blush overcoming your cheeks as you realise how daft your question is, disbelief over how much william wants to be a dad seeping into the way you’re thinking right now. “you’re the only woman that i want as the mother of my children, y/n, the only one.”

his eyes look even more beautiful in the peek of moonlight through the curtains and you fear your heart may give out tonight, squeezing so hard in your chest with the love that you feel for your husband.

“can i kiss you, baby?” he asks so politely, thumb running over the plumpness of your bottom lip. even after so many years together, he’s always the gentleman but still, you tell him that he doesn’t need to ask anymore — you are his to have as he is yours.

his lips descend upon yours with a gentle force, hands clasping over your waist where the black silk material of your short nightdress stops him from touching the warmth of your soft skin. instead, william decides to pick you up and place you on his lap, the urge to feel your body as close to his as possible controlling his actions, your knees dropping to either side of him as your clothed chest meets his bare one.

as the kiss deepens on what seems like its own accord, you feel yourself growing wetter, thankful for your earlier decision to forgo underwear for the night as you grind down onto william’s lap, the cotton of his boxers creating delicious friction on where you need it the most.

breathless sighs turn into light moans from the two of you as william tightens his grip on your waist with the same strength your core presses down onto his hardening length before he turns you both over to have you on your back, his form hovering over yours, lips ghosting over the nook where your neck meets your shoulders, leaving an eruption of goosebumps in its trail.

in the pleasured shutting of your eyes, you can feel william’s hands pull down the loose straps of your nightdress, then a kiss on each shoulder and then the heat of his breath over your exposed breasts.

“so beautiful, darling,” he looks up to your blushing face, the compliment painting a shy smile on it before his lips wrap around your left nipple with wasting any time. a whine is pulled from your lungs over the way william suckles on the nub, a tiny tug of it between his teeth causing you to arch your chest further into his mouth. of course, he doesn’t forget to pay attention to your right boob, taking his sweet time in kissing and swirling his tongue around the stiffness of the other side. “how did i get so lucky, hmm?”

you whimper in response as he brushes his lips down your body over your nightdress; from under your breasts, over your navel and arriving at the base of your tummy, where he places the firmest kiss of them all atop of the lustrous material.

“william…”

“gonna take care of you, baby, i promise.”

his hands now come down to your thighs, where the inner parts are sticky with arousal, and he hoists the hem of your dress up past your bellybutton, the pressing together of your legs to soothe the ache of your core as a light breeze hits it inciting your husband to part them and find home in the self-made gap. his head lowers to where your pussy lays nearly leaking onto the sheets and your breaths quicken, reaching an all-time rapid high when william plants a kiss on your clit, one so soft that it would’ve been deemed innocent had it not been in the midst of an action so filthy.

in the ‘o’-shapedness of your mouth, amorous sighs escape as he starts his attack on your wetness — mouth open, tongue out, lapping at your juices as you sing his praises in the form of high-pitched moans. his tongue slips past your drenched folds to find your sopping hole, the tip of it poking past your entrance as he’s full-on eating you out now, open-mouthed moans from the simple pleasure of your pussy on his lips almost drowning out your sounds.

there’s a particularly lusty moan from you when his thumb finds your tense clit, a couple of rubs on it releasing a string of cries out of the confines of your lips as your legs tremble from their position on his shoulders. from the very beginning of your married life, william had made it his mission to become well-acquainted with you in the bedroom, and you think he’s succeeded as the way he knows which buttons to press to get you to cum at his mercy is very telling, fingers working expertly in toying with your sensitive nub as your walls clench around nothing but the conjured-up image of cumming all over his mouth and pretty face.

“william… i-” you start but are soon interrupted by the intense sucking of your already pounding clit between his moistened lips. the wail you let leave your body is almost pitiful, the feeling so fucking good but so sudden and unexpected that you fall head-first into your orgasm, crashing into it with a spasm of your thighs around william’s head, pawing at his dark hair for some inkling of relief and grounding since you truly believe you’re about to lose all sense of reality with how strong this orgasm has hit you.

william doesn’t relent despite your convulsions, placing kisses over your clenching pussy and shaky abdomen. you manage to still your involuntary motions to catch a glimpse of his face in all its glory; his lips glistening wet with your release and his eyes darker than ever, impossible to distinguish the colour of his pupils from the colour of his irises, an unfolding plan of what’s to come for you both behind his soft gaze.

“did so, so good for me, my love,” he praises, kissing you through panting breaths from the both of you. “want to feel you around me, fuck, need to feel you around me, baby.”

you go to deny him at first, nestling your hand against the bulge of his boxers but he’s quick to deny you in turn.

“no, baby, tonight’s for you, ok? just wanna take care of everything— take care of you.”

you nod in acceptance, knowing that arguing with him would be futile, a gentle flame in his eyes telling you of his determination to do nothing but be at your service until the sun comes up.

“how do you want me first, amour?”

you almost swoon at the question, unable to believe that you essentially have this man at your mercy now, getting dizzy over choosing whether you want to ride him into oblivion first or save that for later and have him take you from behind to start with. either way, you know that tonight was no night for a meagre one round.

“how about as we are right now?” you suggest, the current arrangement of you on your back and william on top proving perfectly convenient for you guys to start with your favourite position in bed.

“sounds perfect, baby,” he smiles before getting up to rid his body of those grey boxers and then almost leaning over you to pull a condom from the nightstand before he stops himself midway, the both of you realising that this is a habit that will need to be unlearnt now. a pair of giggles erupts between you and a silent agreement to forget the condom for the whole purpose of tonight is sealed with a rerouted kiss from william. he then prompts you to lift your hips so he can slot a pillow underneath them and have you as comfortable as you can get. you can’t resist biting your bottom lip at the pulsating anticipation between the two of you, the sight of his bare cock admittedly making your mouth water.

now back on the bed and parting your legs, william resituates himself in between, this time with his cock in his hand running down your increasingly dripping slit, the occasional dip past your folds making you wince in an addictive combination of overstimulation and urgency.

“shit, angel, i’m sorry,” his apology is sincere as he searches your eyes for signs of discomfort. “we don’t have to do this right now, we can take a break, do you want me to ge–”

“babe, i’m fine, okay?” you huff out a laugh, your husband’s honestly innocent face tickling your tummy and making your core ache even more. “j-just fuck me, will, please?”

his answer comes in the guise of an assured smooch against your swollen lips, taking the quiet opportunity to sink into your wetness, completely raw for the first time, with a loud deep groan that makes your stomach feel like it’s gloriously folding in on itself. you revel in finally having the naked thickness of his cock inside you, experiencing every ridge, vein and inch of smoothness directly between your gummy walls with a hushed fuck before he gets to work on setting a moderate pace — slow and savouring it seems, his way of saying that he wants this to last as long as it possibly can.

"william… so big..." no matter how many times you've been under him and how many times you say it, it will always ring true; the initial stretch and burn that his cock creates for you will always light a fire of delicious friction, tonight being a million times more special than every previous encounter put together. and no matter how many times william hears it, it will always set his mind ablaze, hips now pistoning at an unfathomable speed as he can’t hold back anymore, moaning and groaning about how good you feel uninterrupted around him, how there'll be no one else for him, how you're everything to him. it all has your pussy gushing around him to no end.

your whimpers warn him of another impending orgasm, the tightening clasp of your cunt and the way you’re clawing at the softness of his lower tummy in sheer desperation make william’s movements falter just the slightest, a whine leaving his throat as he can feel his own climax catching up to him.

“close, baby,” he warns in sentences incomplete, brain whirring on pure pleasure and nothing else but the desire to have you cumming around him. he’s afraid that he may finish a fraction too soon and leave you disappointed so his fingers find your stiffened clit again, the caressing of his thumb a little harsher this time around as part of an effort to get you both to cum at the same time.

the pleasure you’re receiving from the touch of his thumb and the stroke of his dick is almost too much, hands willing their way to pull his off of you but the speed at which your second orgasm hits you beats any other competition to the finish line, pussy barely squeezing to trigger william’s first orgasm of the night; your lover climaxes inside of you with a sound so guttural, it has him almost collapsing against your shaking form but you invite him to do so, a tender hand on the back of his head guiding him to a safe haven in the crook of your neck as the strangely comforting feeling of thick, white liquid streams down your inner thighs. heavy breaths saturate the dimly lit room as you lay with your lover for a moment, warm bodies basking in the aftermath of a shared orgasm.

after a comfortable minute or two, william speaks up, his voice dropped to an octave so deep it relights the fire in your seeping cunt before your head can even process his words.

“how does round two sound to you?” he’s asking amidst the plotting of a few kisses up your jawline.

you’re ready to jump his bones again on your own accord so when you hear the request fall from your husband’s lips, it’s an immediate “yes please” from you, not even bothered to feel shameful about the reeking desperation of your response.

a knowing chuckle and another kiss seal the deal, william pulling your now-creased nightdress over your outstretched arms, leaving you completely bare but free; accessible to his every touch. he asks you to turn around onto your hands and knees, setting the pillow down underneath your lower abdomen as a precaution.

“there we go, angel,” he places a tender kiss at the bottom of your spine, running a hand up the natural curve of your back while you anticipate his next action. “gonna make my pretty girl feel so good tonight, she deserves it all.” your thighs divide instinctively in response to his voice and the sight of his cum glistening on your skin has william choking on a moan, needing to stroke his cock on the white-stained slipperiness.

“william, don’t tease,” you beg with a shake of your ass against his crotch to get him to hurry and slip his length inside of you. “can’t wait anymore.”

your husband obliges immediately, having lubricated his dick enough with his own release off your thighs, pushing into your hole with so much more ease and a filthy squelch as the realisation that the majority of his cum from the previous round is still inside of you hits him. oh, it sends william’s entire being into a lustful frenzy.

“f-fuck, baby, listen to how well i filled you up,” he gasps out, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as the dirtiest noises he has ever heard emits from where his cock is connected to your pussy.

you’ve done this position more times than you can count but the raw state of his dick plus the way it definitely plunges deeper from all the lubrication william has created inside you has you growing wetter beyond belief, another layer of arousal helping him reach damn near a whole new dimension of your cunt. you don’t want to lend your name to porno-fuelled incorrect biology but you swear he’s in your cervix right now, the pillow now playing its part in hoisting your bottom half up, back arching so beautifully, making it the perfect setup for william to split you in half with every thrust of his length.

between a melody of cries of his name from your worn lips and his deeper moans, you surprisingly cum without a word of warning; it’s fast and it’s hard and it’s white-hot, almost launching your body off the bed entirely. it’s not so surprising, actually, given the speed of william’s pounding inside of your creaming pussy and the resulting splat-splat-splat noise his actions make, all of it way too much, way too depraved and addicting to try and avoid.

“good fucking girl,” your husband grunts out at the sensation of yet another round of your pussy walls spasming around him, another round of hot cum spurting into your hole as he fills you up with an animalistic fuck! marking the round so differently from the last one, which was so full of love, this one in a tone that is much more lewd and untamed.

you’re still on all fours, moaning softly at the flood of cum that spills out of you from around william’s dick and onto the sheets below, cunt still clenching his shaft which doesn’t seem to get any softer despite the two of you having been at it for nearly two hours without a break. your husband, sheathed still in your core, runs a series of kisses up your back, reaching the back of your ear to leave praises of how good you were for him just then and how pretty you look while he’s balls deep inside of you. eventually, he pulls out with a throaty moan, leaving you panting as you fall onto your back to look up at his fucked out expression.

william’s standing there with his hands on his hips, chest heaving, face all smiley and flushed, an image not too dissimilar to one where he’s fresh off a victory on the pitch. you wish you could take a picture of the scenery in front of you but you trust your memory to sear it into place for you instead.

“fucking hell, if i’m not pregnant by now then i don’t even know what to say!” you laugh out at the mess you’ve both made of the sheets and yourselves, and william joins in before quipping in with a “hmm, we should make sure, just in case, of course.” a cheeky tone in his voice as he snuggles his mouth against your neck, the hair on his chin tickling your skin as you squirm on the bed out of ecstatic amusement.

“okay, okay, but first we have to take a break, babe!” you manage to squeal out before william ceases his tickle attack on you, letting you go to the bathroom while he fetches a glass of water from the kitchen.

by the time you’re finished and clean, william has the bed remade and the glass of water held out by the hand upon your return to the bedroom. you shake your head at him, bemused at this butler act he’s now performing.

“your refreshment, mrs. saliba,” he mocks what you assume to be a posh british accent, his own french one adding so much charm to it.

“i thank you, mr. y/l/n,” you smirk back and take a sip, careful not to choke as william pushes your shoulder in jest with an oi before sitting down on the edge of the bed and watching you set the empty glass down on the nightstand.

“so, about that making sure thing,” you pounce on his lap within a split second, settling your hands on the warmed skin of his shoulders.

william throws his head back in a hearty chuckle. “fucking hell, what was in that water?!”

“shut up and kiss me, saliba.” you command and he doesn’t dare to do anything but oblige, lips catching yours in a heated kiss that reinstalls all elements of hunger and lust inside of the pair of you. running your hands down and over the expanse of his chest has william parting his lips in a low groan, you taking the opportunity to slip your tongue inside his mouth and swallow all of his sugary sweet sounds, not wanting any ears other than your own to hear them. the resumed grinding of your naked crotch on william’s has him hardening quickly, another order from you to go lay himself down on the pillows moving scenes on as rapidly as you like.

“good boy,” you admire the way he’s displayed himself for you, long athletic body sprawled out in all its glory, the moonlight a little brighter now that the night has really settled in. “you look so good like this, william, fuck, need to have you inside me now, baby.” a couple of tugs on his stiff cock and you’re sliding down onto it, william’s hands – slightly sweaty from excitement – holding you in place as you begin to rock and raise your body.

there’s a harmonised whine from the two of you as you’re filled with his thickness once again, william encased in your snug, plush walls, and the swivel of your hips atop him makes his teeth grit in euphoria. seeing this spurs you on more, momentum picked up from the way william throws his head back, leaving his neck at your mercy and you of course can’t help but nip and kiss and lick over it, the sounds being pulled from his throat so saccharine and tuneful.

he pants out with a vice-like grip on your hips, the skin white with the extreme grasp his fingers have on it. “s-slow, baby, slow…” he pleads while you rock and grind and bump into his crotch like a woman gone mad, chasing a high that is just at the tips of your fingers… just a little more.

you whine out his name, scratching at his chest where you had previously been resting your hands for leverage, and he finds a little leeway before taking a gulp of courage and sitting up to meet the stirring of your pelvis with his, cock sputtering up into your cunt as he supports you with his large hands behind your back.

the position is possibly the most intimate you’ve been in — naked chest to naked chest, your nipples rubbing against the softness of his pecs, your knees on either side of him as his are crossed underneath you, body so much smaller than his, lips so close to touching with every jerk and bump but never really kissing, always teasing. it’s all so fucking hot and there’s nothing you want more than for him to fill you up once more.

the knock-knock-knock of another orgasm has you pulling him so close against you, practically forcing him to shift his entire weight on top of you. you feel the need to bury him inside your skin. to be bound entirely and irrefutably. his lips, just now attached to the mounds on your chest, start rambling in his native tongue. you're not quite fluent in french but you've been with william long enough to pick up some things; the important things. through his wanton panting and sighing, he's spilling all his desires to you — telling you that he can't wait to see you swollen with his child, can’t wait to see if they’ll have his hair or your smile, can’t wait for you both to finally be the parents you had dreamed of being. there’s a fire in his words and it sets your whole body alight, scratching down his back in vicious streaks that will surely be present for the next week.

“w-william, please,” you wail, legs burning in their effort to capture your awaiting high. “put a baby in me, fuck, please, fuck a baby into me.” freshly hot tears are fully spilling down your cheeks now, the ecstasy of his cock pounding into you and the promises he’s made to you proving too much and you need relief from it all, desperately.

“gonna do just that, angel, gonna fill you up nice and good,” he moans out, pulling you in closer to his gyrating form. “gonna fill you up over and over until we get that baby.”

and that’s the tipping point for you, your husband’s words, so sincerely sweet yet sinful, being the thing to push you over and have you cumming with a thunderous scream of his name. your pussy gushes around his rigid length, walls fluttering around it so forcefully you’re scared they’ll be stuck like this forever. william soon follows with his own orgasm, a few throaty moans that sound so pretty coming from his plump limps as they match the rhythm with which he spurts his sticky cum into you. your legs tremble in both exhaustion and bliss around william, and he’s quick to soothe them over with his hands, mouth landing kisses over your face and your chest.

there’s only a symphony of heavy panting from you both now, and the occasional whimper or soft moan, as william lays on his back with you on top of him, large hands running up and down your back to steady your breathing, his dick still firmly in you. you're pretty sure you've forgotten what it feels like to be empty and without him.

“you okay?” he mumbles into your hair, a loving kiss left on your forehead before he tilts your chin up to look at him, your eyes weary and ready to doze off. you can only muster up an mmhmm but william is determined to end the night perfectly for you.

“hang on, baby, okay?” he requests before slowly pulling out of your heat and dashing to the bathroom where you can hear the din of him rummaging through cupboards and running the bathtub’s taps, leaving you to laze around with a pool of cum leaking out of you. the sudden crash of something metal followed by a shit! is enough to pull you out of the clasps of sleep, however.

your husband reappears swiftly, a boyishly guilty look on his face to which you raise an eyebrow.

“everything’s fine!” he assures your silent questioning. “i want to take care of you right now, though. please?”

you flash him a tired but teasing smile in affirmation and he picks you up bridal-style, giving a quick kiss to your lips before walking you over to the bathtub and gently placing you in the comfortably warm and bubbly water where you feel your muscles instantly relax. the calmingly fragrant scent of chamomile fills your nostrils as you sigh up at your lover.

“thank you, honey,” you speak, a slight croak to your voice from honest exhaustion. william nods at you before plotting another sweet kiss on your temple.

“room for a little one?” he asks with a beautiful grin on his face, teeth all out in his signature style.

“always.” you scoot forwards to make room for him and he slips his much larger frame behind you, instantaneously pulling your back into his chest, hands delicately soothing over your tummy as he delivers a bunch of kisses across the plane of your shoulders.

“sounds stupid but i already have a list of names that i wanna go over with you.” he says shyly after a moment of quiet.

you giggle and set a devoted kiss to the wedding band on his ring finger.

“i’m all ears.”

#MAH DICK FELL AWFF #guys it’s not even funny anymore i NEED him to put a baby in meeeeeeeeee 😫😫😫😫😫😫#literally the only french person that deserves rights EVURRRRRRRR he can put his oui oui baguette right inside this pu-#the only man i would cook and clean for i promiseeeee you #william saliba #william saliba imagine #william saliba smut #william saliba x reader #william saliba x you #william saliba x y/n #football imagine #footballer imagine #footballer smut #˗ˏˋ 📝 ˎˊ˗

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