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everlastingserenitys · 2 months ago

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SMILE FOR THE PICTURE <3

summ. you asked the best photographer in your school to help take pictures of you for your project, not take a video of you guys doing it!

pairing. Caleb x f!reader cw. nerd!caleb, p in v, fingering, masturbation, recording during sex, creampie, dirty thoughts, kissing, handjob, college au, petnames, dirty talk, kitchen sex, 3.7k wc (wtf omg) a/n. hello yes this is kiindaa based off this post ... I just added a tiny switch up hehe

“Is that all you need help with?” Caleb asked, his eyes darting around the library and back at you.

“Please Caleb?”

A tired sigh escaped his lips, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head in disbelief, “So what you’re saying is that you want me to take pictures of you for your project?”

You nod.

“I don’t believe it, why do you need me?”

An annoyed sigh escaped your lips and you leaned in closer, being just centimeters away from his face.

“I heard you’re the best photographer and editor, so I need someone to help me so I can pass the class… so, please, just help me this one time?”

Caleb lightly rolled his eyes and stared at you before agreeing, “fine I’ll do it—but I’ll need something in return.”

“I’ll give you anything, Alright? I’ll email you some of my photos and then we can move on from there.” You say, sliding over a scrap piece of paper with your email displayed on it and walked off.

You didn’t even let him speak the second you skipped away from him and headed over to your little friends, giggling and loudly walking yourself out the library, practically announcing to everyone that you’re leaving.

Caleb glared at your figure already leaving the library and sighed against his seat, at least he’ll have something to do for the night.

As the day progressed Caleb was already in his dorm, studying for his other subjects. It was late in the evening and he had totally forgotten about the little deal you made with him, until he heard a crackle sound beneath him.

An exasperated sigh left his lips and he reached in his pocket for the tiny piece of paper with your email on it, he rested it in front of him as his fingers instinctively started typing away on his laptop.

Without realizing or reading over what he had written, the email had already been sent to you. Caleb panicked and tried to find out how to edit, or even delete to send it again, but when nothing was popping up he closed his laptop and attempted to distract himself before you responded.

A few minutes passed and a ding blared through Caleb's laptop. A shaky sigh escaped his lips before he carefully opened up his laptop and checked his emails. He refreshed countless times until, finally your response loaded up.

Caleb read the reply out loud and hovered his cursor over the pdf files of multiple photos you sent, “‘hey these are the photos’, yada yada…mmh alright.” After a second of hesitating he finally brought the courage to click on the photos.

And they were…beautiful.

Caleb was starstruck. He scrolled through the five photos you sent and inspected every single one, eyeing every perfect curve, your pretty eyes, practically just admiring you.

He never really talked to you, mainly because he thought you wouldn't talk to him if he tried talking to you first, but when you stepped up and spoke to him first, Caleb felt like it had to be a prank. Whether it was for the project or not, he didn't mind it, in fact, he’d probably want to work with you again, if he could.

He exited out of the pictures, getting ready to write his reply when he noticed you sent something else. Only captioning the file with ‘and a little surprise for you <3 you look like you’d be into this so i hope this gives you a little motivation !!’

Curious, Caleb clicked on the file without thinking and immediately regretted it. Well, was it regret? Definitely not. Caleb’s perverted eyes scanned at every part of the scandalous photo you sent. He brought his shaky hands to his mouse and instinctively started zooming in on every part.

“Damn it.” he murmured, squirming around his chair as he tried to hold himself back from touching himself, even though the last time he actually masturbated to someone was years before his third year in college, he didn't want to just break the streak when he knows damn well you will leave him once this project was over.

But one time wouldn't hurt, right? I mean, he was practically aching down there.

Caleb brought his fingers to the waistband of his shorts and played with it as he imagined different dirty scenarios with you. He eventually slid his fingers under his shorts, grabbing onto his hard, searing length, wrapping his cold fingers around it. He pumped his fist in a quick motion, staring at your picture through his already teary eyes, captivating every pixel he could see through his blurry vision.

“Ah-shit..” he whined, bucking his hips forward and soon brought his other hand to his cock, pretending it was yours. That thought just turned him on even more and he was practically trying everything to hold himself back from coming too early.

He glanced back at the picture, his glasses were slightly slipping off his nose but he didnt care. He yanked his head back, his pace going even quicker on himself and he was so, soo, clo–

“Fuck..”

Spurs of white pellucid mixture dripped out of Caleb, most of it getting on his desk and papers all over the desk. He breathed heavily as his violet eyes stared into in the ceiling, rethinking his fucking choices.

A few minutes passed and Caleb took a cold shower and eventually cleaned up himself, and the desk. He sat back on desk, reopening his laptop and quickly went to reply to your email. God, he was worried how he was going to face you the next day.

His fingers hovered over the light keys illuminating through his laptop, a response was stuck somewhere in the back of his head but he couldn't bring it back to him. He pondered for a moment, his mind spiraling with many, many thoughts, none of them were recollecting what he was going to say.

Caleb let out an annoyed groan and hit his head on his desk repeatedly. He’ll just respond tomorrow, when his mind was cleared out.

The next day after his classes were over, Caleb headed to the library to study for a bit. He put his ear buds in and started reading his book. But as he was too distracted by the gibberish of numbers and letters that somehow keeps him captivated the whole time he's studying, he didn't notice a presence in front of him.

A minute passed, and he still didn't notice. That was until someone yanked his earbuds off which caused Caleb to flinch dramatically. He looked up to see who disturbed his peace, about to stand up for himself until he realized it was you.

“What..”

“Why’d you not respond last night?”

Caleb's face flushed in a light pink tone, but he remained calm, a small smirk rested on his lips as he was trying to think of an excuse on the spot. He couldn't just tell you that he got off at the seductive picture you totally sent to rile him up with.

“I was too tired to, sorry. But I saw everything you sent.”

“You did?” you grin, leaning in closer as you stared into his eyes.

“Mhm, everything.”

“Did you like the surprise picture?” you said, a hint of teasing laced in your voice as you watched for Caleb's reaction. He was trying to act tough so badly, but you noticed how difficult it was for him to keep up the tough act and that just made you want to push his limits even further.

“Caleb?” you whisper.

Caleb’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down the second you whispered his name and he avoided your gaze, “..yeah.” he mumbled, his voice dropping five octaves deeper. You smile and pull away from him, looking down at him before shrugging.

“If you read the email–which I doubt you did–I told you to come over to my place tonight to take some practice pictures.”

“Practice? Wait, when did you even say that?” Caleb frantically started typing on his computer and pulled out the email. Embarrassment washed through his whole face when he read the first email which he totally ignored.

“I see…”

“Uh huh, the pictures I sent you last night were for reference, you know? How you’re going to take them and etcetera.” you fan your hands at him and Caleb stared at you for a good minute before nodding and closing his laptop, notebook, everything lying on the desk.

“Why’re you packing up right now?”

“Well? Why don’t we start early? I have studying to do and I don't want to spend the whole night taking pictures of you.”

You open your mouth, hesitant to say something but when no words could get out, you zipped your lips shut and turned around, walking yourself out of the library. You took small glances to see if Caleb was actually following you, when you noticed he was just a few meters away, you nodded to yourself and continued to walk to your place.

A ten minute walk later both you and Caleb end up at the front door of your apartment. You grab the keys from your purse and turn around, looking at Caleb while the key is shoved deep in the keyhole.

“Wait here, and do you have your camera?”

Caleb nods and rests his shoulder against the wall next to him. You nod and head inside your place. Caleb assumed you were cleaning it up so he leaned back and patiently waited as the sounds of shuffling and stuff moving around were getting louder and louder by the second.

A few minutes pass and you open the door letting Caleb in. Caleb looked around your whole place, his eyes darting on every piece of furniture that was definitely your style, and soon averting his gaze to the large window that showed off the view from outside.

It was already close to sunset and the lighting looked amazing to take pictures with. Caleb brought out his camera and tried turning it on when his worst nightmare happened.

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

A minute of silence echoed through the room, you and Caleb looked at each other before awkwardly chuckling at each other.

“I have a charger, be right back.” you say.

Caleb nodded and sat against your kitchen counter, fidgeting the camera around his fingers before you came back and slid the charger to him. He nodded in appreciation and quickly went to put his camera to charge.

“What should we do now?” Caleb asked, glancing at you then back at his camera.

You ponder for a moment then an idea lights up in your head, “Come, i’ll show you more of my photos so you can get an idea on what to do.” you unwillingly grab onto Caleb's wrist and drag him to your bedroom.

Which looked fairly normal, a little basic. Just a desk consisting of two monitors lying on it, a bookshelf, and your bed. You drag Caleb to your desk and you plop on the chair, unlocking your monitor in a quick movement and pulling out your camera roll.

“Some pictures may be weird so don't mind it, okay?”

Caleb nodded and glued his eyes to your monitor.

As the time went on and you were showing dozens upon dozens of photos to him, that's when your camera roll started to look a little too explicit and Caleb swore you were doing it on purpose.

“Oh whoops!” you giggle, letting Caleb quickly look at the explicit pictures of you, and at this point he wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t going to show that he liked it, but something else was about to shatter him from this nonchalant persona.

He watched you scroll through the pictures as his bottom half felt numb. Caleb looked at the bottom of the camera roll and noticed you were almost at the end of it, just a few more pictures to go and he could go to the bathroom to fix the problem down there.

When you finally showed the last picture Caleb nodded and enthusiastically told you how he knew exactly what he was doing and started backing away from your desk. You raise an eyebrow and get up from your seat walking behind him.

“Where's the bathroom?” Caleb asked, looking left and right at the two different hallways that could lead to anywhere. You peered your head up and brushed past him, but mistakenly stumbled over his shoelace and grabbed onto his thigh to catch yourself.

“Cal–uh..”

Your eyes widened and you looked up at Caleb's flushed look and down to your hand which was not on his thigh.

“Don’t move, please…” he mumbled, covering half his face with his hand as he carefully stepped back, but he was too much in a haze to even focus. He tripped on himself and stumbled against you again, making your hand practically rub on his boner.

“Shit…”

“You said you wanted something in return, why don’t I give you the favor right now and then you could take my pictures, how’s that?” you say, looking up at caleb who was still flushed bright red at the situation happening at the moment.

“I- fine..” he nodded and you smiled, sliding your fingers under his pants, slowly pulling them down and stare at his leaking bulge imprinting his boxers. Eventually, you pull his boxers down and let his cock spring out and, Fuck.

You wrap your fingers around his length and pump your fist in a slow, rhythmic movement, letting Caleb savour the time. Loud whines filled the room and you continued the same pace as you watched his reaction.

“Mo–ngh”

“Hmm?”

“More..” he breathed, Caleb's fingers slid in your hair and he pulled your head up so you could look at him. “Please.”

You smirk and fasten the pace on him, after one hand starts getting tired, you bring your other one and do the same movements to his cock. Both your hands were on his hard, sticky length. With one hand circling around the tip and the other pumping his full length Caleb was practically moaning like a virgin.

You slick your thumb on his tip and leaned in closer, about to make your mouth get put to use but Caleb stopped you and shook his head, “not yet..,‘m close” he groaned, his voice echoed through the room which sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re close? Then why don’t you hold it in.” you challenge, pulling your hands away from his cock and staring up at caleb who looked like he was going to die without the feeling of your hands on his.

“Hold it in, can you do that?” you whisper, getting up from your knees and leaned in closer, your hot breath ghosted against Caleb's skin. But Caleb couldnt even spit out any words, his eyes flicker on yours and before you could tease him further he crashed his lips on yours.

Caught off guard, you reciprocate the kiss and push him further against the wall, grabbing onto the sides of his face as you push yourself closer against him. Your bodies were practically molded together and Caleb lightly bit on your lip when he felt you grinding yourself against him.

His fingers made their way to your waist and soon snaked down to your pants, toying with the edges of it before pulling them down. His fingers slid lower on your body and soon reached your soaking, dripping cunt.

He slid a finger inside you and stroked a slow, deliberate pattern, stimulating and stretching you out before he put his cock inside you. He was holding himself back so bad but he lets the last drops of self control drip down him before he rams his cock inside you.

“Let me…” Caleb whispered, pulling his fingers out of you and stared at the mess coated on his fingers. You grunt and press yourself against him, he takes it as an indication that he can put himself inside you and without thinking he does it right away.

“urgh w-wait–” before you could tell Caleb to go to your bed or another room he lifted you up and pressed his tip against your soaking entrance, slowly pushing himself inside. He wasn't even a quarter in and you felt like you were full, you cling onto him as he lifts your body up and down on his cock.

“K-kitchen” you moan, burying your head on his shoulder. Caleb nods and effortlessly walks towards the kitchen with half his length inside you. You felt him press you against the counter and slightly pull himself away so he could see your face.

Caleb stared at you with love and lust filled in his eyes, his glasses were barely on him, his eyes were teary, and fuck he still looked like a beauty. You yanked your head back when you felt him sink deeper inside you, his tip practically hitting every right spot, and you felt like you were in heaven.

You wink your eyes open and get used to your surroundings again and notice the camera was still charging next to you. Caleb watched your every move as you picked up the camera and flicked it on. It beeped for a moment and flashed unlocked.

When the camera was on you smiled and glanced at Caleb who was too much in a daze to know what you were doing and angle the camera directly at his beautiful face. You coo his name and he averted his gaze to the camera that was in your hands.

“Smile.” you manage to get out and notice Caleb smirk before you flash a picture. Your eyes widened as you clicked the picture and he looked heavenly. Caleb chuckled as he continued to ram himself in and out of you, using one of his hands to grab the camera.

“Let me see.” he murmured, resting his fingers on yours which were still on the camera. You carefully gave him the camera and he examined the photo, a menacing chuckle escaped his lips and he shook his head, “don’t I look great?” he chuckled.

“Mhm”

“Yeah?”

You nod again and Caleb angled the camera to you, his hands, which were once shaky weren't shaky anymore and he looked at you before looking back into the camera screen.

“Smile for the picture.”

Before you could let out a smile you felt Caleb shove his full length deep, deep inside you. A wave of shock went through you and you heard the camera shutter when you noticed he took a picture of an expression you made that was most definitely not a smile.

“That’s a good–mmph��e-expression! Shit, do it again.” he whined, continuing to ram himself deep inside you, the impact of his hard tip abusing your cervix sent you to a spiral, you stared at Caleb through teary eyes and shook your head.

“Come on, baby.” he begged, still having the camera aimed at you. A loud moan escapes your lips and you roll your hips against Caleb’s. Caleb let out a low whistle and lowered the camera to the view of his cock buried balls deep inside you.

“Look at t-that..” he chuckled, slowing the pace down. He was already close to release and he didn't want to pull away. Caleb kept the camera at the same angle it was at before and brought his other hand to your stretched out cunt, placing his thumb against the clit as he stretched it out and watched the mess pool out of you.

“You’re recording? A-and you-?!” you couldn't even get any more words out. Caleb nodded and apologized repeatedly.

“I'm sorry.. It was on a-accident” he coughed, shaking the camera around as he slowly started pulling himself out of you. The sounds of the slick seeping out of you filled the room and it just turned Caleb on even more, when he was just almost the tip out of you, Caleb angled the camera from your lower half to your face and thrusted himself back into you.

His pace was quick and his moans grew louder at every thrust he gave. Caleb was practically over the moon and the feeling was just something he wished to experience again. Caleb placed the camera down on the counter and aimed it where you both were in frame.

“Can you handle one more–y-yes? Or no?” he asked, leaning in closer to your face, his breath tickling on your warm skin, you nod and Caleb chuckled, lifting your legs over his shoulders and thrusted himself one more time.

“That's good, might as well go until the camera dies again, should we, baby?”

You didn't know how many rounds you both did, you were almost going to pass out midway through sex but Caleb somehow calmed you down and you stayed awake, didn’t pass out once no matter how many times he filled you up, it was like he was magic.

Both you and Caleb just finished getting cleaned up and you both were back at the kitchen. He held onto his camera as he went through the multiple photos and videos he took, the longest video being about an hour and a half long, which resulted in the camera dying just the second before you were going to cum.

Caleb smirked as he looked through the photos and one photo caught him by surprise, he inspected the photo and flipped the camera towards you. “You look good in this.” he said, as a death piercing gaze was locked on you.

“I’m practically clothless in that, what's so special about it?”

“You can keep it for your album of those types of photos…” he shrugged, turning the camera back towards him and looking at the photo again. You shrug and that's when you realized.

“We haven't taken my practice pictures yet!”

“Well, can you still do it, or should I come back tomorrow?” Caleb grinned, stepping towards you and stared into your eyes with a teasing look.

“Let's get it over with, today.”

Caleb frowned, “Okay one second,” He said, angling the camera at you again.

“Smile.”

part 2 of fly into your heart -> next work

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #caleb x reader #caleb smut #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb #xia yizhou #caleb lads #xia yizhou smut #caleb fluff #lads smut #lads x reader #caleb x you #lnds caleb

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cloudtransprncy · 5 months ago

Text

wyd?

IVE Yujin x Male Reader | 8094 words Tags: Exes, Car Sex, Rough & Messy, Face Riding, Overstimulation, Ass Teasing.

Six months apart, and it’s always the same—one text, three letters: wyd? You could pretend it doesn’t matter, but when it comes to Yujin, you never resist.

You're mid-round in Marvel Rivals, playing as a tiny shark that blows bubbles to heal your team. Ducking behind cover, you wait for your cooldowns to refresh while your boys call out plays and hurl mild insults in your ear. Just another night, same as always.

Then your phone buzzes. Once. Then again.

You ignore it at first, barely glancing. But something makes you check. Yujin.

wyd?

You sit back in your chair, staring at the screen. The game noise fades. You’re still, quiet enough that your homies notice. You could ignore it. Maybe you should.

It’s always her reaching out first. Always her making the move.

And you? You just… wait. Maybe that was the problem in the first place.

“Yo! Where’s my heals?” one of your friends yells as he gets mauled by Venom.

Another beat. Then you move.

“Bro, don’t tell me—”

“Man, again?”

“We’re really gonna lose our healer to his ex.”

“You know she does this on purpose, right?”

Laughter. Some exasperation. Someone sighs, everyone already know how this ends.

Your hands hover over the keyboard. The cursor blinks. Your team is mid-fight, and Jeff is already out of bubbles. Someone’s health bar is flashing red.

Another buzz.

You exhale, slow.

Then, without a word, you click out of the game, disconnect from the call, and push back from your desk.

You move through the next steps without thinking. It’s muscle memory at this point. Shower, cologne, fingers through your hair. You grab the basket from your closet—pillows, blankets, washed. You don’t need to check; you always make sure they’re clean.

It’s routine. The same every time.

For a moment, you pause. The hesitation is brief, barely even there, but it exists.

You know exactly how this night will go. How it always goes. She texts, you come. And after?

You don’t think about that part.

Your fingers tighten around your keys. You could still stay home..

Maybe this time, you don’t go. Maybe this time, you just say— "I'm tired. Cant."

The words come back too fast, too easy. The way she got mad. The way it escalated. How a stupid thing turned into six months of this.

Then your phone buzzes again.

You grab your keys.

The drive to Yujin’s place is always the same. The same route, the same practiced motions . If she ever thought you weren’t around enough, then why does it feel like every street in this city leads back to her?

Three days together. Then one missed night. That’s all it took?

The afternoon sun filters through the windshield of your mom’s SUV, the sun glaring against your eyes. The city blurs past, the same roads, the same turns. And every time, you think about it—why did you even break up in the first place? It felt dumb then. It still feels dumb now.

Maybe if you had just texted first, or if you had just said the thing she was waiting to hear, you wouldn’t be here six months later, pretending this was still casual.

You pull up in front of Yujin’s house, engine idling, the warmth of the afternoon settling over the quiet neighborhood.

The sun hits the pavement, the air thick with that mid-day stillness.

That same familiar house—its windows dim, the curtains drawn, the driveway exactly as you remember it. You stare at it for a moment, the weight of memory settling in. Then, the front door creaks open, just enough for her to slip through.

She moves carefully, pausing to nudge the door shut with her foot so her dog doesn’t slip past. A practiced motion. Something second nature by now. She scans the street, spotting your car. No reaction, just a small exhale.

She’s wearing a fitted pastel pink long sleeve that rides up just enough to show a sliver of her midriff and loose grey sweatpants, the fabric pooling over her Crocs. Her hair falls naturally past her shoulders, a few loose strands framing her face. Glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, slightly oversized, making her look softer in the afternoon light.

Effortless.

Casual.

Like she didn’t think twice before stepping out. Phone in hand, she walks down the driveway.

She slides into the passenger seat without a word. The door clicks shut, sealing you both inside the familiar silence.

Her fragrance fills the car instantly—lychee, rose, vanilla, and something undeniably summer. It lingers in the air, familiar, the kind that sticks to your clothes, your skin, something you used to know too well.

Without thinking, you reach over and pull her seatbelt across her, clicking it into place. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react—it’s rehearsed, something that no longer needs permission. Her fragrance lingers in the small space between you, sweet and warm, and for a second, it’s like nothing has changed. She exhales softly, a quiet hum, her usual way of saying thanks.

Your eyes meet for half a second. No greetings. No small talk. Just routine. She shifts, tucking one leg up onto the seat, sitting cross-legged like she always does, settling in like she never left. It’s unconscious, effortless, like muscle memory. You don’t say anything, but you notice.

Before you even reach for the gear shift, she leans forward, grabbing your phone from the dash.

Without hesitation, she unlocks it—still remembers your password. A flick through Spotify, a song queued like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She leans back, satisfied, as the opening notes play. The sunlight slants through the windshield, catching on her features as you ease onto the road. The city hums around you, strip malls and quiet residential streets stretching under the afternoon sky.

The air between you is thick, filled with everything unspoken.

Six months since the breakup. Countless times in this same car.

The silence is comfortable. Or maybe just necessary. Either way, you don’t break it.

The drive is automatic, familiar. The streets, the turns, the stretch of road leading up to the overlook—it all blends together, like a loop you’ve never broken. The city fades behind you, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over quiet streets, and ahead, the ocean stretches out, shimmering under the golden light.

The ocean stretches out before you, endless and bright, the water catching the sun’s soft haze. The sky, still blue, deepens with hints of orange, the afternoon slipping into something softer.

You step out just long enough to fold the seats down. Neither of you speak. You don’t need to. The ocean breeze rushes in as soon as the doors open—salty, heavy, wrapping around you. The seats creak, metal clicking into place. Blankets rustle as you spread them out, fabric settling into familiar folds.

And then you’re inside again, the doors shut, the world locked out. Blankets and pillows surround you, cushioning the space you’ve built in the back of your mom’s SUV. A makeshift bed, one you’ve laid out too many times to count.

Yujin exhales beside you, sitting cross-legged, her glasses now set aside, forgotten. One hand scrolls through her phone while the other idly toys with the hem of her sleeve. The soft tapping of her long nails against the screen is steady, rhythmic, filling the quiet between you. You watch her for a second longer than you should, something restless curling in your stomach.

Then she moves.

No hesitation. No preamble. She swings a leg over you, her crocs slipping off in the process, leaving her in just her socks. Her phone falls somewhere beside her, forgotten. Her hands find your shoulders, sliding down your chest, fingers curling into fabric. Her nails, cool against your skin even through your shirt.

She kisses you first. Hungry, teasing, her lips parting just enough to make you chase, to make you want. As she deepens it, her hips shift, her weight pressing against you. She’s already shimmying out of her sweatpants, lifting her hips just enough to kick them aside. Her long sleeve is still on, her legs now bare, her body pressing closer. Your hands slide down, resting against the curve of her bare ass, her skin warm under your touch. Everything shifts—heat rising, breath hitching, hands gripping skin, fabric pulling.

"You always let me do this," she murmurs against your lips, breathless but smug. "So easy for me." Another kiss, deeper this time, her teeth catching your bottom lip before she pulls back, just enough to look at you.

"What if I stopped reaching out?" she taunts, her fingers trailing up your chest. "You’d never text me first, would you?"

Her nails scrape lightly down your torso, fingers catching on fabric. She tugs at your shirt, not pulling it off yet—just toying with it, teasing. "No one fucks you like I do."

Her fingers slip beneath your shirt, nails grazing over your stomach before she pushes it up, just enough to feel your skin against hers. Then she pushes you back, guiding you down onto the blankets, crawling up towards your face with purpose. Her hips roll against you, teasing, her breath warm as she lingers above you.

She doesn’t bother taking off her panties—black lace, delicate, pressed against you. Instead, she hooks a finger under the fabric, pushing it to the side. For a moment, you see her—slick, smooth, her folds glistening in the dim light filtering through the SUV. The sight makes your breath catch, your fingers twitch against her thighs.

Then she lowers herself onto you, slow, deliberate. The heat of her, the slick press of her skin, makes you exhale sharply. Her scent is thick, dizzying, filling your lungs as she settles above you. One hand still braced against the ceiling, the other sliding from her panties to your hair, fingers threading through, tugging with just enough force to make sure you’re exactly where she wants you.

"Open up," she murmurs, her voice low, breath hitching. "Come on, make me fucking lose it."

Her thighs tense against your cheeks as she settles onto your mouth, her heat pressing against you, her scent—heady, intoxicating—filling every inhale. Your fingers dig into her skin, keeping her steady as she gasps, barely audible, before bracing herself. One hand shoots up, pressing against the ceiling of the car to keep balance, while your fingers dig harder into her thighs, your nails pressing into soft flesh, marking her there, leaving behind faint red streaks.

Her other hand keeps her panties pushed aside, a fleeting hesitation, as if teasing herself with the idea of restraint. But it doesn’t last. The pleasure builds too quickly, and soon, she abandons the fabric entirely, fingers slipping into your hair instead, gripping, using it for leverage as she rolls her hips against your mouth.

"That’s it," she breathes, half a moan, half praise. "You know how to use that mouth, don’t you?"

Your hands grip her thighs, keeping her open as your tongue glides over her. When you suck just right, she shudders—sharp, uncontrollable.

You pull her closer, tongue pressing, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud, and she whimpers, her body giving the first sign of unraveling. You feel the shift in her, the control slipping, her thighs twitching as she tries to keep herself steady.

Then you suck harder, your teeth grazing just enough to leave a spark of pleasure, and her breath stutters. Her head tilts back, the sound of her moans filling the car, swallowed only by the thick afternoon air. She tastes like salt, like something warm and familiar, like something you’d get drunk on if you weren’t already drowning in her.

You know what she likes. You know how to pull those breathy little gasps from her throat, the way her thighs twitch when you flick your tongue just right. So you give it to her. Slow at first, teasing, dragging your tongue along her folds before pressing in, sucking at her clit just enough to make her shudder.

"Fuck, yeah," she breathes, her fingers twisting in your hair, her hips rolling down against your mouth. "Just like that. Don't stop."

You don’t.

You nip at her, a sharp little bite to her folds, then another to her clit, knowing she loves it just rough enough to make her squirm. She jerks, gasping, and you feel her hand brace against the ceiling again, her other gripping your hair even tighter.

"Holy shit," she pants, voice dripping with pleasure, with something wicked and teasing beneath it. "You love this, don’t you? Bet you’d fucking live down there if I let you."

You groan against her, the vibration making her moan louder, her hips grinding down against you, using your mouth to chase the high building inside her. You can feel it in the way her thighs tremble, the way her breath hitches, her body tightening, straining, needing more.

So you give her more. You grip her thighs harder, spreading her open as your tongue works faster, hungrier, dragging her closer and closer to the edge.

She’s wetter now, the slickness coating your lips, your chin, the sounds between you growing filthier, wetter. You flick your tongue over her clit before pressing in deeper, letting yourself sink into the heat of her. You suck, pull, letting her ride the sensation, letting her lose herself against you.

She whimpers, breath stuttering, her nails digging into your scalp. "Fuck—" she gasps, her voice ragged. Her hips stutter, like she’s caught between wanting to grind harder and losing control entirely. "You’re—god, you’re making a fucking mess."

You groan against her, the sound vibrating through her, making her jolt. She gasps, her thighs clenching, and you use that moment to grip her tighter, dragging her down against your mouth. You keep her there, force her to grind against you, matching the rhythm of your tongue. The wet sounds between you grow filthier, obscene, each flick and suck making her shudder harder.

She jerks when you sputter against her folds, your breath hot and heavy, the mess between her thighs smearing against your jaw. Her fingers twitch in your hair, but then she lets go—her hands leaving your head, reaching forward instead, gripping onto the back of the seats in front of her as she steadies herself, her body arching as pleasure overtakes her.

"Shit—" her voice wavers, fingers tightening in your hair. "You love this, don’t you?"

You only answer by sucking harder, wrapping your lips around her clit and flicking your tongue in quick, insistent strokes. She lets out a sharp moan, her entire body shuddering as she fights to keep herself steady, one hand still bracing against the ceiling, the other yanking at your hair, desperate and needy.

She’s losing it now, panting, her thighs trembling around you, her slickness coating everything between you. You feel her breaking, her voice going breathy, whimpering curses spilling from her lips, and you know she’s right there, right at the edge, ready to fall apart.

Then you attack her clit, alternating between sucking and flicking your tongue over it before dipping back down to her folds, teasing her, drawing out every shaky breath. Her thighs clench around your head, her grip on the seats tightening as her back arches.

Her lips part, breath stuttering, and for a second, she fights it—bites down on her lip, eyes squeezing shut, her body tensing. "I'm—" she chokes out, voice breaking. "Gonna—fuck—" But you don’t let up. You suck harder, press your tongue flat against her clit and flick in rapid strokes, pulling a soft, desperate scream from her throat.

Her whole body tenses, her stomach tightening as she crashes into it, hips jerking against your mouth as pleasure rips through her. Her fingers slip, barely holding onto the seats before she gives up entirely, body shaking, breath coming in broken gasps as she rides out every wave, every pulse, every sharp aftershock that makes her legs tremble around you.

Her body is still shaking when you pull her down, her legs weak around you, her breath coming in slow, uneven gasps. She’s wrecked, undone from the way you just had her, but you don’t give her a chance to recover. You guide her down onto the blankets, the weight of your body pressing against hers, and she lets you, pliant beneath you.

Her panties are a mess, soaked through, sticking to her skin from where you had your mouth on her. You hook your fingers under the lace and pull them down, dragging them over her thighs, her knees, tossing them somewhere behind you. She shivers as the cool air hits her, still sensitive, still throbbing. Your hands settle on her inner thighs, spreading her apart, your fingers teasing, stroking lightly over her slick folds. She twitches, her breath catching.

"Sensitive?" you murmur, rubbing slow, just barely grazing her clit. She jerks, biting her lip, trying to suppress the reaction. "Still so wet for me."

She exhales shakily, half a glare, half anticipation. "Then do something about it." She’s bare beneath you now, except for her top, still clinging to her frame, pushed up slightly from where she’d been grinding against your face. You could take it off, but not yet. Instead, you shift back onto your knees, pushing your sweatpants down, kicking them off until they’re lost somewhere in the mess of blankets. Your cock springs free, aching, flushed, and heavy in your hand. Yujin’s eyes flick down immediately, her lips parting, a quiet hum of approval slipping from her throat. She licks her lips, reaching out, fingers brushing against your length—

You catch her wrist before she can wrap her hand around you, pushing it away. Her eyes flick up to yours, a challenge in them, but you don’t waver. Not this time. "Not right now," you murmur, your voice firm, your grip on her tightening just slightly. "I’m in charge now."

Your cock is already aching, flushed and heavy in your hand as you settle between her legs, pressing the tip against her entrance, dragging it through the slick heat of her.

She exhales sharply, her fingers flexing against the blankets. "Fuck—"

You don’t push in yet. You drag the head of your cock against her, teasing, smearing her wetness along your length. She squirms, her hips shifting, her body already responding.

"Don’t tease," she mutters, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown. "You know I can take it."

She gasps at the stretch, her nails scraping against your shoulders.

You don’t respond, just grip her hips, pushing in slow, deliberate, feeling the way she stretches around you. The heat of her is overwhelming, the contrast stark between the cool air against your skin and the wet, pulsing warmth surrounding you. Her breath catches, fingers tightening on your arms, her back arching instinctively.

"Fuck—" she gasps, nails digging in deeper as you fold her legs up, pressing her knees toward her chest, opening her up more. The shift makes her whimper, her body clenching around you, pulling you in deeper, tighter. The pressure is unbearable, intoxicating, her slickness making every inch of you ache as you fill her completely.

"God," she whimpers, her fingers twisting into the blanket beneath her. "You’re so deep—"

You bite down against her neck, hard, sucking at the skin there, not enough to bruise but enough to make her squirm beneath you. She moans, tilting her head to the side, giving you more, her body shifting, arching up against you.

"You love this," you murmur against her skin, dragging your teeth over the flushed heat of her throat before biting down again, harder this time.

She gasps, nails digging into your back. "Yeah," she exhales, breathy, wrecked. "But you love this more."

She’s teasing, but you can hear it, the slight break in her voice when you pull back and thrust into her harder. Her body jolts beneath you, her thighs tensing around your hips as she struggles to keep up with the pace you’re setting.

Her hands find your arms, nails biting into your skin, holding on tight as if grounding herself. It only makes you go faster, makes you push deeper, makes her moan louder.

"Fuck—" she gasps, her legs trembling. "Harder. Don’t hold back."

You don’t. You grip her hips, hold her down like you’re trying to leave something permanent, like you want her to feel this for days. The sound of skin against skin fills the air, loud and messy, her moans breaking between sharp, breathless gasps.

She reaches for you, drags you down into a kiss, messy and desperate, her tongue pressing against yours, her teeth catching your bottom lip before she pulls away, panting.

"Knew you couldn’t take it slow," she murmurs, half-laughing, voice shaking.

You tug at her hair in response, pulling her head back slightly, making her gasp. "Shut up," you mutter against her throat before sucking another mark there, another place to remind her of this later.

She just smirks, but it melts into something softer, her breath stuttering when you hit just the right spot inside her, the one that makes her moan louder, makes her nails claw at your shoulders, her body clinging to yours, desperate, wrecked.

You shift, angling deeper, pushing her knees higher, folding her into herself. She gasps, her back arching, her hands gripping onto your forearms, holding tight as if you’ll slip away. Her shirt is still on, bunched up beneath her ribs, exposing the taut lines of her stomach, the soft ridges of muscle tensing beneath you. You drag a hand up her body, palm pressing flat against her neck, feeling the quick, frantic beat of her pulse beneath your fingers.

"Oh f—" she whines, breath catching as you thrust harder, deeper, grinding your hips into hers. She’s trembling, her body taut beneath you.

You shift too far back, the heat of her slipping away as your cock accidentally slides out, leaving you both gasping at the sudden loss. "Please," she whimpers, her voice breathless, raw. Her hands tighten against your arms, her body arching up, desperate to pull you back in.

But you don’t give in right away. Instead, you slap your cock against her soaked pussy, the wet sound sharp and obscene between you. She jerks, a sharp inhale, a full-body shudder, her thighs twitching. Then you do it again, dragging the head of your cock against her clit before pulling back and doing it once more. One hand stays firm on her hip, keeping her in place, while the other slips down to toy with her clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles.

Her body tightens beneath you, her breath stuttering, her fingers clawing at your skin. "Fuck—" she gasps, her voice breaking. She’s almost folded over at this point, her knees pressing against her chest, fully open, fully exposed to you. The sight alone makes your cock throb.

Finally, you give in, pushing back inside in one hard stroke, knocking the air from her lungs, pulling another sharp gasp from her lips. As soon as you're buried deep again, you shift your grip, pressing her left leg down while keeping the other folded high, trapping her beneath you. The angle makes her moan, high and shaky, her hands grasping blindly at you.

One of your hands moves up, cupping her face, thumb brushing over her parted lips as you thrust into her again. The other stays between her legs, fingers rubbing at her clit, teasing, pushing her further into that desperate, needy space. She's almost folded in half, her body giving beneath you, her moans turning into broken gasps.

The heat inside the car is suffocating now, sweat slicking both of you. Her shirt clings to her body, damp, sticking to her skin, darkened in places where the fabric is soaked through. Strands of her hair stick to her forehead, damp with sweat, and her breath is hot against your face, panting, uneven. Every time you thrust into her, a soft whimper spills from her lips, her voice high, desperate, shuddering through each gasping exhale.

You lean down, pressing your forehead against hers, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. She tilts her chin up, catching your lips, kissing you deep, messy, her nails scraping lightly against your arms. It’s all hunger, all desperation, neither of you slowing down, neither of you wanting to.

You thrust into her a few more times, each movement deep, precise, shifting your angle with every stroke to watch how she reacts, how her breath stutters, how her body grips you tighter. Her moans turn guttural, almost a growl, her fingers gripping at your arms, her body arching against yours.

For the last few thrusts, you bring your hand to her throat, gripping firmly, not just to hold her but to claim her. Her breath stutters, a strangled moan slipping out, her body tightening beneath you. Her eyes flutter, her mouth parting as she surrenders to it, to you. Her moans turn guttural, almost feral as her body clenches around you, desperate, overwhelmed, lost in the sheer force of it all.

Then it hits you—the burn in your muscles, the weight of exhaustion creeping in. You push in one last time before pulling out, panting, sweat dripping from your brow onto her collarbone.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is your breathing, heavy, uneven, filling the small space between you as you both lie there, gasping in silence. You shift back, sitting on your ankles, thighs burning from exertion. Yujin just lays there, boneless, her body slack against the blankets, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Her arms are sprawled out at her sides, fingers twitching slightly, as if she’s still processing what just happened.

The silence lingers, heavy with the weight of everything that just happened, bodies still humming with heat. Yujin is the first to move. Her breath is slow, measured, before she finally tilts her head up, eyes still half-lidded, and murmurs, "Come here."

She reaches toward you, fingers curling slightly, and you don’t hesitate. You help her sit up, hands firm but careful, steadying her as she adjusts. Then, before you can react, she shifts forward, pushing you back until you’re leaning against the interior wall of the SUV. The blankets beneath you are damp with sweat, the air inside still thick, still heavy. She kneels in front of you, her legs folded beneath her, her gaze dark and unreadable.

She starts with her top, but there’s no rush, no fluid motion. She’s still catching her breath, her movements slow, deliberate. Her fingers grip the fabric at her shoulder, tugging at one of the sleeves, pulling her arm free. Then the other, sliding her limbs out one at a time before finally peeling the tank over her head and discarding it beside her.

Your eyes track every shift, every subtle flex of her muscles beneath sweat-dampened skin. Her bra is next. She reaches behind her, fingers fumbling slightly, and you move to help, undoing the clasp with ease. She lets the straps fall down her arms, and you brush them off her shoulders, sliding the fabric down and away until she’s fully bare before you.

She shifts slightly, adjusting her position without thinking—one leg bent closer to her, the other stretched out at an angle, her feet still covered in those white socks. Her body is tight, toned but soft in the right places, the way she carries herself effortless. Then she reaches up, arms stretching, pulling her hair into a loose bun to keep it out of her face. The movement lifts her chest, elongates the lines of her body—the curve of her waist, the soft definition of her abs, the smooth dip of her armpits as her arms stretch overhead. The tendons in her neck shift, her head tilting slightly, lips parting just so. Strands of damp hair stick to the sides of her face, and for a moment, all you can do is watch, hunger curling in your stomach. Your mouth waters.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the side of her neck, tasting the sweat that lingers there. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you in. You trail kisses lower, down to her shoulders, dragging your mouth along the curve of her collarbone. Your hands find her waist, fingers kneading into her skin, feeling the warmth of her beneath your palms.

Then lower. Your mouth finds her chest, your lips brushing over the swell of her breasts before you take one in your hand, your thumb tracing over the sensitive skin. She shudders, a quiet gasp slipping past her lips, and you revel in the way she reacts, the way she melts into your touch. Your mouth follows, lips parting against her skin, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck gently, savoring the taste of her. Your hands roam, caressing, feeling, groping—memorizing the shape of her, the softness, the heat.

She sighs, threading her fingers into your hair, tilting her head down just enough to watch you. There’s no urgency now, just this—just the feel of her, the press of your mouth, the warmth pooling between you as you take your time, exploring every inch of her bared skin.

She lets out a hushed moan before pressing against your chest, gently pushing you back until your shoulders meet the SUV wall. You barely have time to react before she turns around, shifting into your lap. Her knees slide under yours, her body fitting against you perfectly as she moves closer, her back arching slightly.

Then, slowly, she spreads herself open—her fingers parting her ass cheeks, exposing everything to you. Her pussy lips glisten, her tight hole stretching just slightly with the movement, teasing you with the sight. Your cock twitches, aching, as you instinctively reach down, guiding yourself against her folds. The heat of her, the slickness, sends a shudder down your spine.

She shifts back, taking you in slow, the stretch making both of you groan. The grip of her around you is almost unbearable, pulling you in deeper inch by inch, her breath shaky as she adjusts. You watch the way her body takes you, the way she exhales, trembling slightly as she sinks further, her hands bracing against your thighs for balance.

Then she moves. Slowly at first, lifting herself up before sinking back down, her rhythm changing. It’s not bouncing anymore—it’s deeper, slower, a deliberate grind. Each roll of her hips forces you in at a different angle, dragging against every inch of her. It’s slicker, hotter, the sound of her taking you deep filling the thick air, the obscene wetness between you making every thrust a decadent mess. Your grip tightens, your fingers flexing against her hips, nails pressing slightly into the flesh as she grinds deeper, dragging pleasure from both of you in slow, devastating waves. The muscles in her back flex, taut beneath the dim light filtering through the SUV windows. Her breath stutters, a moan slipping out between her parted lips.

You groan, gripping her hips, feeling the shift of her muscles under your fingertips, the subtle dip of her spine flexing with every bounce. Your hands explore, trailing up her back, tracing the defined ridges, the smooth stretch of skin as she moves. One hand shifts higher, fingers spreading over the back of her head, gripping, grounding her as she rocks against you. The friction, the slick heat of her, has you clenching your jaw, your fingers digging into her skin. Her head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, her lips parting with another breathy moan.

"Fuck," you mutter, the word slipping out unfiltered, guttural.

She lets out something close to a whimper, her body shivering from the way you're holding her, guiding her down harder each time. Sweat beads along her spine, her muscles shifting beneath her skin, the dip of her back deepening as she tilts her body forward, adjusting. Strands of her loose bun begin slipping, stray hairs sticking to the back of her damp neck. She keeps one hand planted on the blankets to steady herself, the other lifting to the back of her head, holding her hair up—displaying herself for you. You know she’s doing this for you. She knows it too.

Her back, arched, muscles shifting under sweat-damp skin, the flex of her stomach tightening with every movement. Your cock twitches inside her, and she gasps, breath catching, body momentarily tensing before sinking back into the motion. Your own shirt clings to your skin, soaked through, suffocating in the best way. Sweat drips from your temple, slides down the curve of your jaw. The windows are fogged, the air so thick with heat and breath and lust that every inhale feels like a drug. And still, you can’t get enough. You can feel the sweat pooling between your shoulder blades, the fabric growing heavier against your skin, but you don’t care.

You don’t give her a chance to adjust. One moment, she’s grinding against you, taking everything you give her, the next, something surges through you—your body coming alive again, energy surging back into your limbs, your need for her taking over completely. You grip her waist, lifting her slightly before pushing her forward, pressing her down onto the blankets. Her breath stutters, her body folding into itself, her knees sliding apart as she falls into position—ass up, face down, her cheek pressed against the damp fabric beneath her. It’s different now. You’re not catching your breath anymore. You’re in control again, and you’re going to use it.

The shift is seamless. You’re still inside her, still buried deep, and you don’t stop moving. The new angle makes her whimper, her fingers curling into the blankets, gripping them like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded. She’s already trembling, her thighs quaking from the force of every thrust.

You pick up the pace. Rougher now, deeper, urgent. Each thrust has her jolting forward, her body pliant, wrecked beneath you. Your hands roam, running up her bare back, her waist, gripping her hips, keeping her right where you want her. Sweat rolls down her spine, the slick heat of her skin under your palms intoxicating. She’s so open like this, so exposed, and she moans like she knows it, like she loves it.

You know exactly what to do next, exactly how to unravel her completely.

You bring your thumb to your mouth, wetting it thoroughly, dragging it across your tongue, coating it in spit before pressing it against her puckered hole. The slickness makes her jolt, a shudder rippling through her spine as you circle slow, teasing, pushing just enough to make her gasp. Her entire body tenses, a sharp cry ripping from her throat. You keep fucking into her, keeping time with the way you play with her, pressing, circling, easing her into it. Every motion makes her squirm, her moans growing louder, breaking into desperate whimpers as she pushes back against you, needing more.

""Oh—fuck—oh my—please—" she chokes out, voice catching on every syllable, her body trembling like she’s unraveling at the seams. Her fingers claw at the blankets, grasping for something, anything, but it’s useless. She can’t ground herself, not when you keep working her open, not when every slow press makes her shudder, makes her walls flutter around you. Her legs twitch under you, every muscle taut, waiting, wanting more.

You push a little more, not inside, just enough to make her feel it, and she screams, her body shuddering, the sound raw, helpless. Her muscles tense, legs trembling, and then she lets go, completely, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. You press your hand into her lower back, keeping her down, controlling the way she takes it. "Take it," you murmur, voice low, firm, the heat in your words making her moan even louder.

"Play with my ass—yes—" she babbles, voice high, wrecked, her mouth hanging open, drool slipping from the corner of her lips. She’s almost crying, her body shaking beneath you, lost in it, falling apart in your hands. Her fingers dig into the blankets, nails scraping, her moans breaking apart as she pushes back against you, desperate for more.

You grip the back of her neck, pressing her further into the blankets, keeping her exactly where you want her. Then you slap her face—light but firm, just enough to make her gasp, her eyes fluttering, her breath stalling for a second before she moans, louder, messier. Drool pools beneath her cheek, her body trembling, fully at your mercy.

You pull out abruptly, and she whimpers, her pussy clenching around nothing, her body instinctively pressing back like she can pull you inside again. Instead, you bring your fingers to her, slipping them in deep, curling, fucking her with them until she’s writhing, moaning in broken, incoherent strings. Her body tightens, her walls fluttering around your fingers, and then you push back into her, filling her in one hard thrust.

You do it again. And again. Pulling out, fingering her, fucking her, over and over, building her up higher, pushing her closer each time. She’s shaking now, her voice raw, nearly sobbing into the blankets.

"Fuck—you’re gonna make me cum again," she gasps, her words slurring, nearly lost in her moans.

"Then do it," you murmur, gripping her hip, slamming into her harder.

"Faster—please—" she begs, her entire body convulsing, her arms writhing against the blankets. You obey without hesitation, thrusting into her as hard and fast as your legs will let you. Your muscles burn, your thighs trembling from exertion, but you don’t stop, not when she’s begging, not when her voice is breaking apart.

Her pussy clenches around you, gripping you tight, sucking you in, the wet heat dragging you deeper with every stroke. The sounds between you are obscene—slick, messy, the sharp slap of skin against skin echoing inside the vehicle, mixing with her breathless, desperate cries.

She jerks beneath you, back arching, her entire body locking up as the tension snaps. "Oh—fuck—I'm—" Her voice cuts off into a strangled scream, her pussy fluttering, spasming around your cock as she cums. You don’t slow down. If anything, you fuck her harder, driving into her through the unbearable sensitivity, through the overwhelming rush that has her shaking beneath you.

Her body writhes, her moans dissolving into helpless whimpers, her fingers clawing at the blankets. She’s sobbing, wrecked, unable to form words, her body so lost in it that she’s barely holding herself up. The car rocks with the force of your thrusts, windows fogged, the air thick with sweat, heat, desperation.

You tighten your grip, fingers pressing into her hip, into her throat, into her ass—claiming every inch of her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows there’s nothing else but this, but you. She whines, twitching, sensitive and overwhelmed, yet still pushing back against you, still taking all of it.

The car rocks with the force of your thrusts, the air thick, humid, the scent of sweat and sex drowning you both. You feel it then—That familiar heat curling in your spine, the pulsing, aching pressure that tells you you’re close. Too close.

And so you stop.

You pull out, panting, your cock throbbing, aching, but you don’t let go. Not yet. You want to drag this out, savor it, enjoy her fully, completely. You want to make this last.

And yet, as you look down at her, something inside you tightens—not just from sex. The blankets are twisted beneath her, damp with sweat, her ass still arched, her back curving like something carved from heat and hunger. But it’s her breathing—ragged, slow, mouth parted against the blankets—that freezes you. The way she trembles, wrecked yet impossibly beautiful.

Your hands twitch, wanting to pull her back in, but you don’t. Not yet. Instead, you just watch—every shiver, every unsteady breath. She’s a mess, undone beneath you, and somehow, that feels inevitable.

You shouldn’t be thinking like that. But fuck, she’s still so hot. And she’s still Yujin.

You swallow it down.

She stirs, shifting slightly, her breath still shaky. Then she turns her head toward you, her eyes woozy, hazy, her hair sticking to her damp skin. She blinks slowly, lips parted, breath uneven.

"You… cum next," she slurs, her voice soft, cock-drunk, barely able to form the words. Her body still trembles, wrecked and used, but the way she looks at you makes your stomach twist, heat curling in your chest. For the first time all night, the air feels different.

She shifts, moving with a lazy kind of determination, and before you can react, she flips herself over, swinging a leg over your waist, straddling you face-to-face. Her body still trembles, breath still shaky, but her eyes lock onto yours, something heated, something unspoken passing between you.

She doesn’t give you a choice. Her hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging at it, dragging the damp fabric up and over your head. You let her take it, barely breathing as she tosses it aside, her hands already back on you, tracing the sweat-slicked lines of your shoulders, your chest, your neck. Then she leans in—teeth grazing your skin, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, your jaw, your throat. She sucks at your skin, bites, her nails scraping lightly over your ribs, down your stomach, leaving you raw under her touch.

You groan, hands finding her waist, holding her close. She’s burning against you, skin against skin, the heat between you unbearable in the best way. The windows are fogged, the scent of sweat, sex, and her filling your lungs. Her lips brush your ear, and then she whispers something teasing, something possessive, something she doesn’t quite mean—but maybe she does.

She sinks down, slow, taking you in inch by inch. A sharp inhale leaves both of you as she takes you in, her fingers digging into your shoulders, clutching at you like she needs something to hold onto. She exhales, forehead pressing against yours, her breath warm, shaky. You can feel everything—the way her walls flutter around you, the way her nails dig into your skin, the way her thighs tense as she adjusts to the depth.

And then she moves.

It’s different like this. No frantic pace, no desperate urgency. Just this—her, guiding the rhythm, rolling her hips slow, dragging you deeper into her heat. Her hands trail over your chest, fingertips gliding through the sweat beading along your skin, tracing the sharp lines of your torso like she’s memorizing you. Then she leans forward, pressing her lips to your neck, kissing, tasting, sighing against you as she moves.

She takes your hands, guiding them over her body—up her sides, over the curve of her breasts, down to her waist. She shudders when your palms spread over her back, pressing her closer, her chest flush against yours. Every slow rock of her hips forces out a shaky breath, a soft moan into the humid air between you.

Her lips find yours. A deep kiss—nothing rushed, nothing sloppy, just deep. She kisses you like she wants to drown in you, her fingers tangling in your hair, her body tightening around you, her breath uneven as she pulls away only to come back again. And again.

She smiles, lazy, breathless, her lips just barely grazing yours. "You’re close, aren’t you?"

You swallow hard, your grip tightening against her waist. She knows you are. She can feel it.

"Where do you want it?" you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice.

She doesn’t hesitate. "Inside."

Your body tenses. For six months, you’ve never done this. Always pulled out, always left it on her back, her stomach, her tongue. But this time—this time, she doesn’t let you. Her hands curl against your shoulders, her body pressing down harder, holding you there.

"Inside," she repeats, her voice softer now, but firm. No room for argument.

She leans in, lips brushing against your ear, breath hot, sticky with everything between you. "Fill me up."

Your stomach tightens, your grip on her waist flexing. She knows exactly what she’s doing, how to draw you deeper into the feeling, how to make you lose yourself in her completely. Her sweat mixes with yours, bodies slick, the air thick, humid, unbearable. She’s so close, her forehead pressing against yours, the wet strands of her hair sticking to your temples. Her voice—low, honeyed, almost teasing—sends a deep, primal pulse through you. "I want to feel you. All of you."

She rolls her hips, slow, deep, dragging the moment out, making you feel every inch of her around you, gripping you, milking you. Your whole body tightens, heat flooding your spine, pooling low in your stomach, curling tighter with every deliberate grind of her hips. It’s not just sex anymore. It never was.

"Fuck—," you choke out, barely able to breathe past it, past the weight of her around you, the way her walls squeeze, coaxing you closer, making it impossible to hold on.

"Do it," she murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, voice dripping with something dangerous, something sweet. "I want all of it."

Your stomach clenches, heat rising sharp and fast, spiraling through your spine like wildfire. It builds, unbearable, rolling through your muscles, making your breath hitch, your grip on her tightening like you’re trying to hold onto something slipping through your fingers. Your whole body seizes, every nerve burning as the pleasure crashes through you. It explodes in sharp pulses, radiating outward, drowning you in the moment as your hips jerk up, pushing deeper, filling her completely. Your jaw clenches, your hips snap up, burying yourself as deep as you can go.

"Shit—I'm—" The words barely make it out before you shudder, the release hitting you so hard it nearly knocks you out. But before you can even finish saying it, she grabs your shoulders, pulling herself down against you, her lips crashing into yours. She kisses you through it, deep, needy, like she wants to consume every last sound, every breathless moan spilling from your throat.

Her arms wrap around you, her nails digging into your back as her walls clench down around you, milking every last drop, her body pulling you in like she never wants to let go. She gasps into your mouth, her breath stuttering, her whole body trembling as she takes everything you give her. Your mind blanks, everything narrowing to this—the slick warmth of her wrapped around you, the way she shivers, the way she feels, completely, entirely yours. It lingers—hot, overwhelming, raw. Different. Deliberate. Something neither of you acknowledge, but both of you feel.

Your body is still pulsing with aftershocks, but your mind is clear. Maybe clearer than it’s been in months.

Her lips are still on yours, the kiss deep, unhurried now, like neither of you wants to break it first. Like neither of you knows what happens when you do. Her hands stay on your shoulders, fingers light, trailing over your skin, and your own hands settle against her back, keeping her close, not yet ready to let go.

She’s still sitting on you, still holding you inside her, her breath shaky against your mouth. She exhales through her nose, her forehead pressing against yours, and for the first time all night, the silence between you is loud.

She’s warm, slick, sticky against you, the sweat between your bodies making it impossible to tell where you end and she begins. The SUV is stifling, the windows fogged, the scent of heat and sex thick in the air, but neither of you moves to break away.

You swallow, your throat dry. Your hands flex on her waist, gripping, grounding. The weight of her is still there, her warmth sinking into you, pressing into places you don’t want to acknowledge. Then, because you always do, you ask—“Was it good?”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, heavy-lidded, unreadable, and for a second, she doesn’t answer. Then she exhales a laugh, something soft, shaking her head slightly.

“You always ask,” she murmurs, and it should be dismissive, the way it usually is, the way she usually just brushes past it. But this time, she lingers. Her fingers skate up, push damp strands of hair from your forehead, her thumb brushing lightly over your temple before pulling away, but not completely. Her other hand stays against your chest, her palm flat, feeling your heartbeat, like she’s holding onto the moment itself.

“Yeah,” she finally says. Then, quieter, more real: “Yeah. It was.”

It shouldn’t feel different. But it does.

Her body shifts slightly, and you can still feel her around you, still tight, still there, and you realize you don’t want to move. Not yet. Maybe not at all. Your hands slide down to her waist, grounding yourself, feeling the warmth of her, memorizing the way she feels against you.

For the past six months, it’s always been like this—hooking up, fucking, leaving before it could turn into anything else. Before either of you could say something real.

But now she’s still here, looking at you like she sees something she hasn’t let herself before. Like maybe she doesn’t want to leave either.

And for the first time, you don’t want to let her.

The air outside is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers on your body. The trunk of the SUV is open, airing out the lingering humidity from what just happened inside. You both sit on the edge of it, the makeshift bed in the back still rumpled behind you. Yujin has her legs folded beneath her, knees drawn close, wrapped in your zip-up hoodie—the one you’d left in the car weeks ago, the one she threw on without asking after cleaning up.

Your drink sits between you, condensation dripping down the sides, untouched. A crumpled napkin rests beside it, damp from where she’d pressed it against her palm earlier, like she needed something to do with her hands.

Yujin stirs her drink absentmindedly, straw scraping against the plastic lid, over and over, rhythmic, almost like she’s trying to drown out the weight between you.

This is part of the routine. Sometimes it’s ice cream, sometimes it’s boba, but there’s always a buffer spot—a place to sit, to let the heat cool off, to pretend the ending isn’t creeping up on you. But tonight, it feels different. The usual buffer doesn’t seem to be working. The silence isn’t settling—it’s stretching, pressing between you.

She hasn’t said much since you parked outside your favorite boba place. Neither have you. The neon glow of the shop sign flickers against the pavement, catching the light off the curve of your drink. The hum of passing cars, the occasional murmur of voices from inside, the faint bass from a stereo down the street—it all fills the space between you, but none of it breaks the weight of the silence.

The sun is setting now, washing the street in soft gold, the sky burning orange and violet. You both just sit there, watching cars fly by, the city moving around you like it always does, like it always has. A streetlight buzzes to life beside you, casting a dim glow over her skin. Somewhere in the sky, a lone star flickers through the haze, barely visible, like something trying to push through.

You glance at her, expecting something—some offhanded, teasing remark to ease the tension, a snide little smirk, maybe even a cocky joke about how you always get attached. Something easy.

But then she stops stirring.

She exhales, slow, deliberate, like she already knew she was going to say this before she even got in the car today. Her fingers tighten around her cup, just slightly. Like she already knows the answer but still needs to hear it. She looks at you, and then—

"Do you want to get back together?"

Your stomach pulls tight.

You blink, caught off guard, the words settling heavy between you. She’s never asked before. Never even come close. And yet, it doesn’t feel like a question she just thought of. It feels like something that’s been sitting in her chest, waiting for the right moment to spill out. It’s the way she says it—serious, expectant, none of the usual bravado or games, none of the usual ways she brushes past real things before they can land.

You sit with it, six months pressed into your chest, thick as breath. Picking her up. Folding down the SUV seats. Fucking her like it meant nothing. Pretending it meant nothing. But you always ended up here—parked outside some late-night spot, coming down from it all, sitting next to each other like nothing had changed. Except it has. You can feel it.

She watches you, unreadable, but you take in the details—the way her hair is still tied up, loose strands slipping free near her temples, sticking slightly to her skin. The glow of the streetlights catches on her glasses, masking her eyes for half a second before they flicker, searching yours. Her lips, the ones she had redone after you cleaned up, press together like she’s holding back more words.

You think about how you’re supposed to answer.

You always waited. Let her text first. Let her reach out first.

But she’s looking at you now, waiting, expecting.

And this time?

You don’t wait.

You know the answer.

AN: Anotha one. Hope you guys enjoy. I got a fun one comin soon, just finishing it up ;) I always appreciate kind words n feedback.

#malereader #yujin smut #malereader x yujin #Ive smut #kpop smut #kpop fic #cloudtsmut

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sun-lit-roses · 2 years ago

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Farewell Sweet Crabs 👋 🦀

I summoned 33 🦀, captured 6 💰, befriended 2 🌼, and 26 fell in love with me 💜. I will miss you my sweet crabs.

#i will miss my tiny crab army following my cursor

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dollerinna · 1 year ago

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WOULD YOU LIKE AN ALMOND JOY .ᐣ

( black noir x gn!crime analyst reader )

summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)

wordcount: 2k

tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3

It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.

Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?

With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.

As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’

First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??

Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.

“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.

As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.

You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.

“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.

With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)

When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.

Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?

Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.

And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.

Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.

Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.

Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.

Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.

Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.

But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.

The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.

You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.

Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.

Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.

Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?

With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.

Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.

Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.

With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.

Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.

Just. Peachy.

One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.

Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.

─────────────────

As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.

Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.

You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.

Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.

Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.

You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.

-------☆-------

Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

-------☆-------

a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:

a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭

also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗

♡ divider credits: @/ianrkives

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i3utterflyeffect · 11 months ago

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cursor selkie sc (due to some unlikely plot contrivance) in god with a bag of groceries au would be so funny...bystanders watching god pass by with a bag of groceries, followed by tiny god with a packet of cookies. adorable.

ANON... YOUR MIND..........

#tommy's foolery #selkie sticks au #tommy's stickmen tag #tommy's aus #pitch's art #i can only imagine what bystanders must be thinking. just. big scary cursor followed by the littlest of guys #i imagine that knowledge that humans aren't just cursors isn't too common #(or at least not something the average stick who hasn't looked into would know)#so it's confusing but weirdly cute?#any stick who knows that humans aren't just cursors though would be like '??????????????? THE FUCK?!?'#i think they'd only visit the outernet if they had the CG with them tho #it's really funny to imagine the CG sneaking onto a computer in hopes of getting to a safe place‚ making friends with SC #and then refusing to leave when alan tries to shoo them out #sorry sir. your child adopted these random kids as their siblings #god. that only makes it funnier because chosen wouldn't see him in the outernet until he's already adopted everyone #chosen follows him to the desktop and a bunch of kids pop out and hug him #as well as this tiny little cursor who is just. munching(?) on a cookie #just. What The Fuck #furthermore when you ask them if he's been mean to them at all they go '? no he's our dad'#and the cursor proceeds to squeak in mortification (they can do that?) and grab whoever said that and begin (gently) shaking them #because DON'T CALL HIM THAT HE'S NOT YOUR DAD........ STOP THAT #the cg all think alan reacting like this is very funny even though chosen is extremely concerned #anyway SORRY this is just so funny to me. thank you anon for blasting me with this image

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lvrclerc · 29 days ago

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✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company.

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised.

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute.

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger.

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.”

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look, “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment.

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x you #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto fanfic

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shinig6mis · 1 month ago

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you never should've clicked that link.

but curiosity had its claws in you, and that night, while you were alone in your dimly lit room, you let it win. just a quick look, just to see what was really lurking on the dark web. that's what you told yourself.

one wrong click and your screen glitched. blacked out for half a second. then a text box popped up with white letters against a pitch-black background.

???: cute pajamas

your breath caught in your throat. the cursor blinked, waiting. you didn’t type anything or move at all. you simply stared as your heart hammered against your chest. your fingers twitched toward the laptop lid.

another message.

???: go ahead and close it

???: i’ll still be here

your skin prickled. and then, at the top of your screen, you noticed the tiny, glowing green dot. the camera light.

without thinking, you slammed your laptop shut so fast it nearly slid off your desk. scrambled back, stomach twisting. no way. no fucking way.

on the next day, you took your laptop to a repair shop. paid extra to have it cleaned, reset, scrubbed of whatever digital parasite had burrowed into it. but then the guy behind the counter just frowned, clicking through your system. “there’s nothing here,” he said. “no malware, no viruses. your laptop’s clean.”

all that really needed to be repaired was the tiny crack on your screen after you shut it so fast.

tomura was bored.

he had planned to fuck with you, that was all.

another dumbass poking around where they shouldn’t, clicking shit they know they're not supposed to. he almost closed out after the first few days of watching.

that was until you started talking to yourself when you were alone, making little noises when you stretched, humming under your breath while working on assignments. the way you’d pause videos to read comments, or sit cross-legged in bed while scrolling on your phone.

it was stupid. pointless, really.

but for some reason, it was hard to look away.

so he didn’t.

he watched you like a habit he couldn’t quit.

and eventually, you started leaving your laptop open more often. but the paranoia still lingered, coiling in your stomach when you were alone too long. that feeling of being watched never really went away.

a couple nights later, your screen lit up again on its own.

there it was again.

???: how long r u gonna keep ignoring me?

you glared at the webcam, hoping he could feel it through the screen, as your fingers hovered over the keyboard and typed.

y/n: how long are you gonna keep watching me, creep?

tomura laughed at that.

???: so she does talk

what the fuck was going on right now? your hands were sweating. you wiped them on your thighs, forced yourself to keep your eyes narrowed at him.

if he could still message you, still access your screen, then he knew everything. your files, your passwords, your location.

the realization sent a cold shiver down your spine.

y/n: what do you want?

this time, the reply was almost instant.

???: already got what i want

tomura wasn’t sure what exactly had changed. watching had been enough, at first. knowing he could listen in on your rambles, see the way you chewed your lip while concentrating on a homework, the absent-minded way you twirled a strand of hair when you were bored—it was all pretty amusing.

but he wanted more.

you fascinated him. the way you blushed when you saw a cringey scene in a show, the way your brows knitted when you felt troubled. all your unfiltered reactions.

people were so fake, so performative, but you—alone in your space, forgetting he was right there—you just felt so real and right to him.

and while tomura has seen plenty of people, it was rare for him to actually see the real version of someone and continue to grow attracted to them.

he wanted to see you up close. wanted to make you react to him.

it was a crowded café near campus. you had been staring out the window absently, hands wrapped around your drink as your eyes focused on whatever reading you were trying to dissect on your laptop.

you looked so at peace that tomura almost didn't want to ruin the moment for you.

but he couldn't help it as he lifted his phone and typed on his screen.

your device buzzed with one new message.

???: found you

author’s note ♪ 　 ͙ㅤ 　(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) i love my boy tomura so bad yall don’t understand :< p.s. honestly can’t remember when i wrote this ?? i just found it in my drafts ermmmm…

#𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐒𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ꩜ .ᐟ #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #yandere x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura #yandere shigaraki #yandere mha #yandere fic #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki smut #tomura x y/n #tomura x you

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artdcnaldson · 1 year ago

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Tie Break || Art Donaldson x Reader ; Patrick Zweig x Reader

this can be read as a sequel to changeover or as a standalone :) enjoy <3

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v smut x2, f!recieving oral, handjob, creampie, cum eating), angst with a happy ending, infidelity, toxic relationships, everyone in this is kind of a horrible person, language obviously

Summary: It’s summer in Atlanta, 2011. For the second time in your life, you’re the clear second choice. When the opportunity arises, you find a temporary distraction in Art Donaldson.

A/N: FINALLY here it is! The 2011 Atlanta fic. They’re back, they’re older, they’re even more toxic. Let me know if you’re interested in a part 3!

It was hot, even though the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon. It was a cloying, oppressive heat that made the stupid, business-casual top you wore stick to your skin.

The article you were working on was halfway written, something you could knock out in the next hour if you really tried. Your drink was watered down from the heat, weak when it hit your tongue. A frown turned your lips, but you really shouldn’t have been drinking anyway.

"Working late?”

The voice was so familiar that you could’ve recognized it anywhere, any time. Art Donaldson was one of the most recognizable men in the country, but to you, he seemed so different. The boyishness was still there, but it lay beneath a new level of confidence.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to appear nonchalant, like it hadn’t been four years since you last spoke. “I’m on deadline. I’m writing a feature on Anna Mueller heading into the US Open next month.”

Without asking, he sat down across from you at the small bistro table. He was so close you could smell the minty gum he had been chewing. It nearly made you smile. Old habits die hard.

“So you write about tennis?” He asked, meeting your gaze.

“I write about athletes,” you corrected. “I was going to be here anyway, and since Anna is heading for a Grand Slam, I thought it would be easy enough. Grab a couple of interviews, watch a few matches.”

He nodded, leaning back in the chair, trying his best to be causal in a situation that definitely wasn’t. You sipped again at your drink, peering at him over the edge of the glass.

“You have a match tomorrow,” you said, as though he needed reminding. “Shouldn’t you be listening to shitty pop punk to get yourself psyched right now?”

A smile spread across his lips, and he looked so much like the guy you knew from college that it made your chest tug uncomfortably. Same hair, the same smile, the same crinkle at the edges of his eyes when he was amused by something. You couldn’t help but smile along with him, like the past four years were nothing. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said with a laugh. “Do you want another drink?”

You looked down at your glass, mostly water and thin ice cubes. “Rum and coke?” You asked, giving him a tiny smile. He nodded and disappeared towards the bar.

It felt strange, sitting there in the quiet, your article the furthest thing from your mind. Four years. It felt like yesterday and an eternity ago that you’d last spoken with him. He was a familiar stranger, nearly unknowable.

Your cursor blinked a few more times before you shut your laptop and slid it back inside your beat-up work bag.

“Running off?” He asked, catching you in the act of packing your things. You shook your head and accepted the fresh drink with a smile. “You said you were going to be in Atlanta anyway,” he said as he sat, spreading out, making himself comfortable in the shitty bar seating. “When you were talking about writing about Anna.”

You nodded. “Mhmm, I did,” you replied, chewing the inside of your lip nervously. His gaze was intense, falling just on the other side of casual. You felt tiny under that gaze, like you were guilty of a crime you didn’t know you’d committed.

“And you’re here for Patrick?” The words were nonchalant, but you could hear the accusation beneath them, the history of the two of them just in one sentence. It turned something in your stomach, the possessiveness in his voice. You could hear it, even four years out.

The new drink was strong, but it was the perfect way to hide the distaste in your expression. The burn of liquor into your chest grounded you back in reality instead of the easy allure of nostalgia. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I try my best to go to all of his matches.”

Art narrowed his eyes, just slightly. There was still an element of exaggerated friendliness, the casual smile on his lips, the open body language. All of it masking the lingering resentment and hurt that was buried beneath mountains of nostalgia. Deep enough that neither of you had realized it was still there until you found yourselves face to face. There was an unspoken question, one that he didn’t want to ask, one that you didn’t want to answer.

How long?

You took another drink.

“Where is Patrick?” He asked, glancing around like he might materialize out of thin air.

“He went out for a smoke, or to walk around and clear his head, or something,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper. Where’s Tashi?”

His jaw clenched and he looked away— a sore spot. A scab you wanted to pick at until it bled, dig your nails in. Maybe that was your eighteen-year-old self talking.

“You never used to let her get too far away from you,” you noted, mirth dripping from each syllable. “Bet you came down here looking for her. Your leash must’ve been just a little too loose this time and she slipped it.”

You took a long drink, nails tapping against the glass as you considered your words. Tashi wasn’t the type of woman who let a man hold her back. If you were trying to be more accurate, rather than just piss him off, you might’ve fixed the analogy. Art was the sad little puppy following her around. She tied his leash to a lamp post for a fucking break.

“Do you remember the day Tashi got injured?” He asked, changing the subject suddenly.

You blinked slowly, appraising him. But his expression gave nothing away. “I do.”

A wry smile spread across his lips, and he met your gaze with a coldness that you didn’t recognize. Mean in the way injured animals like to snap at the nearest hand. “It was Patrick in your room that night, wasn’t it?”

Your brows furrowed, face falling at his words. “What?”

He made a face, something akin to skepticism, but crueler. It made your stomach turn.

“You were fucking someone in your room,” he said plainly. “And I’ve always had a suspicion that it was Patrick. Was it?”

That didn’t do much to clear up your confusion. “You were there?”

He laughed, mirthless, and nodded. “I was, uh, sitting by the door like an asshole. I came to apologize, to beg for you back, but instead, I spent the night listening to my girlfriend getting fucked on the other side of the door.”

Annoyance flickered in your gaze. He knew of a wound of your own, and he relished in picking at it the way you’d relished in digging your fingers into his. “I wasn’t your girlfriend, Art.”

“Right, you weren’t. But you’re Patrick’s girlfriend now, is that it?”

Heat burned in your cheeks. Your relationship with Patrick was… tempestuous to say the least. Most of the time he was your boyfriend, but others he was just a friend that you could count on for a good fuck, sometimes not even a friend. At the moment, he was the former, but that could always change.

It wasn’t easy, being with someone whose emotions ran on an equally short fuse. You’d sound too much like his parents, or he’d devalue your work, or Patrick would forget to take out the trash in your apartment and you’d snap, or you’d mispronounce a word one too many times and it would drive him crazy. Insignificant things could feel big with him, because of him. For better or worse.

“At the moment, yes.”

“At the moment.” He echoed, laughing like he was in on some joke you were painfully unaware of.

”That’s amusing to you?” You asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged, picking at his jeans. “Your choice of words is interesting.” He lets that hang in the air before he meets your gaze again. “Do you think Patrick would’ve even noticed you if it hadn’t been for me?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Does it matter?” You asked. “You realize that we’ve been together going on four years now, right? Broken up, dating, fucking, whatever. You realize that there may be more important things in our life than you?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you know that whatever you have, it’s built on the fact that you were a warm body when he needed it. Just like you were for me.”

That arrogant expression, like he actually fucking knew anything about you anymore was the last straw. You stood suddenly, grabbing your bag. You weren’t Art Donaldson’s little lapdog anymore— you didn’t have to sit there and take all the shit he doled out.

“Goodnight, Art. Thanks for the drink.”

It was funny, how your weaknesses were still so exposed. Art’s was Tashi, and it probably always would be. His desire to be seen, to impress, painted upon every lovely feature. And yours, raw and bleeding and obvious— the unbearable, visceral need to be wanted.

You made it to the elevator before you felt his presence behind you. Wordless, but so close it was suffocating. You jabbed the up button over and over in frustration, knowing it wouldn’t speed anything up.

Art stepped into the elevator with you, so close you could feel the body heat radiating off of him. He always burned hot, like a human furnace.

It was silent as the lift lurched upwards. You pressed against the back corner, watching the number of the floor increase one by one.

“Patrick is with Tashi,” Art said without looking at you, just as the elevator opened on the floor of your room. You froze, swallowing hard. “I saw them in the hotel bar, then they left together. What do you think they’re doing right now?”

You shook your head dumbly, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Go fuck yourself, Art,” you said weakly, because what else was there to say? You stepped into the hallway— lit with dim yellow light so you couldn’t see where the wallpaper peeled and the carpet was stained.

“If you need somewhere to wait them out, and you will, I’m in room 13 on the seventh floor.” The elevator doors closed, and you were alone.

The hallway was winding, and you felt a bad sort of anticipation of what you might find, like a sick feeling in your gut. You stood in front of the room, 306, and froze.

The door to your room was closed, no light shone from beneath the door, but you could hear them. Muffled, but clear enough. A pretty voice and breathy moans. Patrick’s laugh, the thud of something falling off the dresser.

Your room key was in your purse— you could’ve gotten it out and stopped it, but what good would that have done? You’d still spend the night humiliated, facing opposite walls as Patrick, lying in the same sheets he’d just fucked her in.

You dropped the bag by the door and took a slow, shaky breath to calm yourself down.

Tashi Duncan. She had lingered on the edges of your relationship with Patrick too. She was Patrick’s first choice, just as she’d been Art’s. You’d never blamed them for that, you knew where you stood, and you chose them anyway.

It was easy to choose them when you thought that the threat was nonexistent— when distance made you feel safe. You could hear her and him, but it felt like mere static in your brain.

You knew how Art felt, back at Stanford. Sulking outside the door, unable and unwilling to stop what was happening on the other side.

You were in the elevator before you realized you’d walked away. Shitty soft rock played over the speakers, and a poster on the wall advertised a continental breakfast. Your stomach turned uncomfortably.

You knocked on the door— room thirteen, an unlucky number. Maybe it didn’t bode well. As you waited for the door to open, your nails tapped a staccato rhythm against your thigh.

Art opened the door like he’d been expecting someone else. Maybe he had half-expected you to interrupt and send Tashi back upstairs, but no. He got you standing at his door with fiery eyes and an expectant expression.

Second choice, second choice, second choice.

Art kissed you for the first time in four years, and you let him. Not because you wanted to hurt Patrick or Tashi, but because you knew it would hurt you. His tongue pressed between the seam of your lips like he belonged there, licking into your mouth like he wanted to reclaim every part of you that Patrick had touched. You pushed him with a firm hand on his chest and he stumbled backward into the room. Despite everything, he smiled.

His hotel room was nearly identical to yours and Patrick’s. But you didn’t have time to really take in the details when he had his tongue in your mouth, kissing you hungrily.

That afternoon, you kissed Patrick after he lost his match. You wondered if Art could still taste him on your tongue then, if he wanted to drown out the taste of him.

It was different than you were used to. Four years with Patrick meant that you’d grown accustomed to certain ways that he did things— the intensity behind each kiss, each touch. His emotions— good, bad, in between— were never masked, never repressed.

When Patrick kissed you, when he touched you, when he fucked you— both of you were laid completely bare.

Art was different. When he kissed you it was through a certain level of performance, like he’d learned how from a searing romance film. In college, you’d believed that he kissed you like that because deep down, he did love you. Even at that moment, years out from your relationship with him, it muddled your brain.

Your sensible work heels had long since been kicked off by the door. Art’s fingers undid the button and zip of your jeans deftly, with a confidence that had only doubled since Freshman year. They wound up in a heap against the hotel dresser.

In his haste to remove your (also sensible, and very business casual) button-down, he popped about half of the buttons off completely.

“Sorry,” he said. The grin on his lips made you wonder if sorry was really how he felt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Stop talking.” You pulled off your bra and lost it somewhere across the room in your haste. Art was pulling off his clothes— his hoodie and the shirt beneath. His jeans and shoes toed off and left to be dealt with later.

He kissed you again, guiding you exactly where he needed. Your knees hit the back of the mattress and he eased you down without moving his lips from yours. When your head hit the sheets, you smelled perfume so sweet that it was nearly intoxicating. You turned your head, breathing deeply. Tashi. In this same bed, in this same spot. It made something stir inside you— right in your chest. A hint of wrongness, a hint of hurt.

Art pulled back, moving his lips along your jaw, down to the junction of your throat.

“Stop thinking,” he murmured against your skin, kissing down to your tits. “I don’t want you thinking about Patrick. Not when you’re with me.”

The words were mumbled against soft, supple skin. His eyes were intent as they looked up at you, the demand of momentary fidelity in his eyes. You wanted to slap that expression off of his face, or run your thumb along his cheek and hold his face in your hands.

How was it fair that he asked you that when he’d lingered like a ghost on the edges of whatever it was that you and Patrick had? How was it fair for him to look at you like that?

He took a nipple into his mouth and you gasped as his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin. Soft kisses before he suckled softly. “Okay,” you gasped, lying through your teeth. “I’m only thinking of you.”

His hair was still long, kept the same way he wore it in school. Your fingers tangled in his hair like muscle memory, scratching against his scalp as he kissed along your skin with wet lips, treating your other breast with the same, hungry attention.

“Still so fucking hot,” he mumbled against your skin. “Should’ve— fuck— should’ve kept you. What do you want, huh? Tell me.”

Your mind swam with possibilities, but you didn’t even know where to begin. Your mind was stuck on his previous words. Should’ve kept you. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “I don’t know,” you replied, completely honest. “Whatever you want.”

He accepted that easily— it was so similar to how you’d been for him in college. You gasped as he kissed down your sternum, then your stomach. His lips found the waistband of your panties and he grinned, tugging at the lace with his teeth, letting it snap back against your hip.

He peeled your panties down slowly, letting his hands trail down the expanse of your legs. The possessiveness of the touch sent a thrill up your spine. His lips grazed along your skin, from your ankle, up your calf, then your knee. Your legs spread instinctively, welcoming him right back where he knew he belonged. His pretty lips trailed wet kisses up your thighs, stopping just where you wanted him.

You expected him to rush. He’d seen Patrick and Tashi leave, which meant they’d finish before you two, more likely than not. There was every reason in the world to make things quick— to fuck you and make you leave.

Instead, he took his time with you. Soft, teasing kisses peppered on the supple skin of your thighs before he nuzzled into your cunt. The first delve of his tongue was slow and exploratory, tasting the arousal that had pooled at your core.

”God, you still taste so fucking sweet.”

Another thing you’d nearly forgotten about Art— in all things, he was methodical.

He started with kitten licks at your clit— light brushes with his tongue that made you whimper needily for more. His tongue circled you there, and he relished in the way your fingers tugged on his hair at the sensation.

Then he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking with more pressure until a strangled moan squeezed past your lips. Your thighs tensed on either side of his head, holding him there as he alternated between slow, soothing licks and firm suction.

It was frustrating, how wet you were. Art had brought out the worst in you, turned you into something that left you feeling genuinely embarrassed. And still, you were slick, dripping down to the sheets. A mess of arousal and Art’s spit.

When he eased a finger into your cunt, it slid in like your body was made to fit whatever he could give you. At that point, you very well could have been. What were you, if not an object orbiting in the atmosphere of his life?

He looked up at you, seeming so fucking intent on making it feel good for you as he crooked his finger. It rubbed against the soft, spongy spot within you and you cried out, eyes rolling back.

“That’s it, huh?” He cooed as he pressed a second finger inside of you. Your arm was slung over your face. You couldn’t let yourself keep looking at him when he was looking at you the same way he had in college. The same fucking expression that got your head all mixed up in the first place.

He pressed a soft kiss to your clit and you whimpered. “I know it feels good, baby, just relax.”

His fingers thrust within you with a slow, deep pressure as he continued to make out with your clit. It was always so good with him— you’d nearly forgotten how easy it was for him to bring you to the edge.

When you came, it wasn’t like what you had grown used to with Patrick— sudden and overwhelming, like it had been ripped from some secret place within you. It was intense, but slow to build, seeming to last forever as Art’s fingers and tongue worked you through it. Your breath was shaky as he pulled back, pretty mouth wet with your arousal.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked, looking up at you expectantly.

You should’ve stopped— rationally, you knew that it was best to turn back and quit before you fucked up the situation beyond repair.

But it was Art. He could’ve had anyone else, but he wanted you. Maybe not forever, or even longer than that night. But for then.

You shook your head softly. “No. Do you think we should stop?”

His fingers moved between your thighs, circling your clit. “We definitely should. You’re with Patrick.”

You sighed, eyes fluttering as he caressed you with featherlight touches. “Don’t fucking talk about him,” you said, but your words came out with no bite. How could they, when he was playing with your body like a favorite toy?

“No?” He asked. He was wearing a smug sort of expression. “You don’t want me to talk about your boyfriend, huh? Too personal?”

You moaned as he applied more pressure at the apex of your thighs, making your cunt clench and ache to be filled.

“Does Patrick know how much you’ve missed me?” He asked. Your breath caught in your throat, and he just smiled. “I bet he does. I think he knows that if he just drops my name in a conversation, your pussy gets wet.”

You moaned softly at his words, chest heaving with soft pants. You weren’t even sure if it was true, but it felt like it could’ve been then. He leaned down, his words spoken close to your ear.

“I can go slow. Make it last for you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, making you shiver.

You nodded eagerly, turning your head to capture his lips with yours. The kiss was slow, like you had all the time in the world. His tongue against yours, the weight of his body on top of you, the feel of him hard, pressing against your thigh.

He sat back to strip off his boxers, and you relished in the sight of him laid bare before you. You’d nearly forgotten how pretty he was— big and flushed nearly red with need. It made your heart hammer with nerves; your excitement and shame and need rolled into one messy, electrifying tangle.

His hair flopped into his eyes as he held himself over you, just like you remembered. You reached up, brushing it out of his eyes with a tender hand. His lips brushed against the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse thrummed in your veins.

“Tell me you’ve missed me.”

Heat flooded your entire body, as you repeated the words. “I missed you, Art.” You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, and guiding it towards your entrance. He moaned and bucked instinctively into your hand.

”Tell me you want me to fuck you, no one else.” You could hear the implications in his words. Tell me you want me, not Patrick.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Art pressed himself inside of you, sinking into the welcoming warmth of your cunt. You wrapped your legs around his waist, squeezing him closer, deeper, until his balls pressed firm against you and there was nothing else to give.

He thrust shallowly, rocking against a spot deep within you, one that made your eyes flutter with each brush against it.

“You’re so tight still,” he moaned, lips moving against your throat. “Pussy’s made just for me.”

He touched you like he hadn’t forgotten how you felt or what you needed. Spoke to you like you were one of his possessions.

You lost yourself in it— the sweet, filthy words spoken against your skin, and the rhythm of his body moving against yours. His lips captured yours with a hungry insistence, like he could convey four years' worth of unspoken words with a few brushes of his tongue against yours.

When he pulled back, lips spit slick and looking so pretty, you thought maybe there was a sort of understanding between the two of you.

His head fell back as he sped up his thrusts, chasing his release. There wasn’t time to stretch it out, to spend as much time as you could with each other’s bodies.

“Need you to cum,” he said, sliding a hand between your thighs to rub your still-sensitive clit. Your cunt was squeezing him tight, body aching for it, for him, brought to the edge simply because he’d asked for it. “C’mon— you get so tight when you cum, need to feel it again.”

It was like your body was hardwired to give him exactly what he wanted. You came with broken moans of his name and legs squeezing him closer, deeper. Your chest heaved with shaking breaths and punched out whimpers as he kept fucking into you.

He was practically crushing you with his weight, pinning you down, groaning into the junction of your shoulder.

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” his words vibrated against skin tacky with a thin sheen of sweat.

”Want you to.” Your arms slung around his back, holding him close to you. “I’ve got an IUD, so you can— you can cum.”

His lips met yours as he came, with a pretty moan into your open mouth and slow, messy kisses that made you want to just melt into him and stay that way forever.

Spent, he rolled over and turned on a lamp at the bedside. The alarm clock announced the time in a dim red glow— five past one.

You lay there, damp between your thighs from the mixture of your releases, unsure of what to do. It was cold beneath the hotel AC. He was peering over at you, wearing an expression you were scared to dissect.

When his hand touched your arm, you nearly flinched. Your breath caught in your throat as he ran his thumb along your skin, so sweetly that you felt that same discomfort tug at your chest.

“C’mere,” he said, an offer. His arm was splayed over the pillows, giving you the perfect spot to lie down and press yourself against his side. To pretend like you belonged there.

But you didn’t belong there. You belonged four floors down with Patrick. That’s where you had belonged for four years. The reality of what you’d done had set in quickly, and you knew you needed to get out of Art’s room.

”Art,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I have to go.”

He nodded and sat up against the headboard. You watched him grab his boxers and pull them back on, a strange smile on his face. He must’ve sensed your confusion, even without you saying.

“It’s funny how things change,” he said. “Here I am, asking you to stay for once.”

You didn’t say anything as you picked up your clothes from around the room, redressing as you recovered each piece from its hiding spot around the room. Your shirt was unsalvageable, so you grabbed Art’s. He had plenty of brand sponsors that would jump to replace it, and Patrick wouldn’t recognize it.

“I loved you, I think,” he said suddenly. “Back in college.”

You froze, arms crossed over your chest as you looked at him. “Art—“

“No, I did. I loved you, I just did it all wrong.”

“Art, just stop,” you said firmly. Embarrassment hit you all at once— the guilt of what you’d done, and the shame over who you’d done it with. Your eyes stung as you looked at him. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

His lips twitched, dipping into a frown, then back into as close to a neutral expression as he could manage. “I just thought you should know. It’s only fair.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “Fair? Jesus Christ, you really haven’t changed, Art.”

His expression fell completely. It looked like it had back in the hotel bar— icy. “I haven’t changed? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed as you looked at him. “It means that if this were Stanford, that would’ve made me crawl right back into bed, lay by your side, and daydream about what it could mean for us. If one day I might be Mrs. Art Donaldson. It means that you say these sweet things to me every time you can feel me slipping away, but they mean absolutely nothing. We’re not nineteen anymore, Art. I’m not leaving Patrick to be your plaything again.”

His jaw tensed, and he looked down at the bed briefly while he picked at loose threads on the sheets. “You think that’s what I want?”

You frowned. “I think you want what Patrick has.”

He scoffed. “Patrick doesn’t even want what he has,” he said, relishing in the wounded look on your face. “If he did, he wouldn’t be fucking my fiancée right now.”

Fiancée. You felt stupid for not knowing it, but you swallowed down your hurt and met his gaze. “I guess we’re both going to have to be content with being the second choice.” You slipped on your shoes and went for the door. “Good luck with your match tomorrow, Art. I sincerely hope that I never have to see you again.”

The hallway felt colder when you stepped outside of the room and shut the door firmly behind you. A very big part of you wanted to go back, to knock and apologize and grovel like you might have when you were a freshman.

Maybe you hadn’t grown up that much after all.

The elevator was playing Billy Joel. You leaned against the side of the elevator, relishing in the cold against your sticky skin. When the doors opened on your floor and you stepped out, you blinked in surprise.

Tashi stood in front of you for the first time since college, looking just as stunning as you remembered, probably more so. Her hair was pulled up, slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes flicked down to your shirt, Art’s shirt, you swallowed as an understanding passed between the two of you— wordless, because what was there to say at that point?

”You left your laptop in the hallway,” she said, skipping formalities. “I took it inside so it wouldn’t get stolen.”

“Okay,” you said, chewing on your lip. She stood there like she expected something more. You felt her surveying you, and froze as she reached forward and rubbed at your bottom lip.

“He could’ve at least cleaned you up a bit,” she said. Her fingers delicately fixed your hair, tucking it back into place. She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the side of your mouth. Once there was nothing left to fix, she looked at you one last time and nodded. “You should be fine now.”

Before you could process that, she stepped into the elevator, and you were left alone in the hallway. When you made it to the room, the door was cracked open, so you let yourself in.

Patrick was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, a towel slung low around his waist. The bed was a fucking wreck, not that he seemed to mind.

When the door clicked shut, he stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and joined you back in the room.

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked. His jaw tensed as he looked at you, like he was ready if you were going to start a fight.

“I just want to go to bed, Patrick,” you said, annoyed by how wobbly and pathetic you sounded.

He stepped forward and kissed your forehead. “Okay. We’ll go to bed.”

You kicked off your clothes, but left on Art’s hoodie. Patrick didn’t ask where it came from, or what happened to what you were wearing earlier. You knew he already knew, that he could tell the moment you walked in. He dropped the towel onto a heap on the floor, climbed into the bed, and held out his arms for you.

A stronger person would’ve told him to fuck off, but you weren’t a stronger person. You nestled into his side and felt the hot sting of tears in your eyes.

He rubbed your back soothingly and kissed your forehead. The sheets smelled like Tashi, he smelled like hotel soap, and you smelled like Art’s cologne.

“Do you want room service in the morning?” He asked softly.

“Patrick—“

“I’m serious. We can have breakfast in bed, do some tourist-y shit, maybe we’ll go watch a couple of matches, then come back and—“

“Are we supposed to just forget what happened?” You interrupted.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” He kissed your forehead, tender, sweet. “I’ll tell you everything if that’s what you want.”

You met his gaze. “Do you… do you want to know? About Art?”

He went quiet as he played with the ends of your hair. “Did it make you feel any better?” He finally asked.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Then it didn’t.”

He kissed the crown of your head. “No?”

You shook your head, sighing softly as his kisses trailed down, over your nose, to the sides of your mouth. “No. It was a mistake.”

”Tell me about it,” he said, murmuring against your jaw. “Tell me how he touched you.”

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more access. Your nails scratched softly against his scalp as he sucked bruises onto your throat.

“He was desperate,” you said, heart hammering as you began recounting it to Patrick— your boyfriend. There was no world in which he should’ve wanted to hear about it… and yet. He moaned against your throat, encouraging you, wanting to know more. “Kissed me like he wanted to taste you in my mouth, like he wanted to overpower you.”

Patrick moved his lips to yours, kissing you with a sloppy brush of his tongue against yours. “Like that?”

You shook your head and leaned in, deepening the kiss with slow laps of your tongue into his mouth. He moaned softly, matching your pace in a way that was rare, but made butterflies dance around in your stomach. He pulled you on top of him— hands roaming from the backs of your thighs to squeeze your ass as he deepened the kiss. It was just as slow and sweet as before, but you could sense the need and hunger behind it.

You pulled back, just enough to remove your lips from his. Both of your breaths came in needy pants. You weren’t sure why you were enjoying this, but you were, so you kept going. “He took off my clothes, and laid me down on the bed.”

Patrick moaned, chasing your lips. You sat back and just looked at him— lying there with still-damp curls, his pupils blown with lust. His cock was hard, resting against his stomach, precum beading at the tip.

You pulled off Art’s hoodie and tossed it across the room, relishing in the way Patrick’s eyes raked over every bit of exposed skin like it was the first time he’d seen it. “He ate me out, made me cum on his fingers first, then again while he was inside of me,” Patrick’s breath caught, just for a moment. Desire, or jealousy, or both flickered across his gaze. “He fucked me like he wanted me to fall in love with him again.”

Patrick’s chest was heaving as you moved a hand between your bodies, grasping his cock in your hand, stroking slowly. “Is that how you fucked Tashi? Like you wanted her to pick you instead of her fiancé?” He moaned as your thumb ran over his slit, smearing the precum that had begun to dribble out.

“No,” He groaned. You nodded encouragingly, squeezing him tighter in your fist. “Fuck. I fucked her like I wanted her to know she made a mistake. Made her cum until she tapped out”

You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, tugging slightly. “With this pretty mouth, huh?” He nodded, wordlessly. “And with this?” You gave a slow stroke of his dick, making him buck up into your fist. Another nod.

“Show me.”

Patrick’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Show you?”

You nodded and continued stroking him. “I told you about Art, so I want you to show me how you fucked Tashi.”

You recognized the fucking insanity of what you were asking, but you didn’t care. It was a strange form of closure— closing the circle, or whatever.

“Fuck, okay. Lay back,” he said, patting your thigh. You slid off his lap and settled atop the sheets, watching him expectantly.

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, and he slid them down slowly. “Fuck.” Your cheeks flooded with heat as he held the sodden fabric up, wet and sticky with Art’s cum. He groaned and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. “That’s… god, that’s really fucking hot, baby.”

Oh. The mix of embarrassment and desire was something new— burning hot in the pit of your stomach as Patrick licked at your pussy, tasting the evidence of your arousal mingling with Art’s release. He moaned against you, holding you so tightly that his fingers dimpled your thighs.

His tongue lapped at your entrance, pushing into your cunt as deep as he could manage, then back to licking at your clit. It was messy— a combination of spit and cum and your juices.

“Fuck!” You cried out, tugging his hair as he sealed his lips around your clit. He moaned loudly against you, encouraging you to do it again, the fucking masochist.

He redoubled his efforts, pulling you closer, moaning against your cunt. It was like he wanted to devour you, to lick up every bit of Art that was left inside of you. You wanted him to try— you wanted him to replace every part of Art that was left in your body and soul.

“Patrick,” you gasped. He murmured an mhmm against your pussy. Eyes closed, right at home between your thighs, lost in the taste of you. “Need you inside.”

He planted one, two sloppy kisses to your clit before he pulled back, his lips shiny with your arousal. He wiped the mess away with the back of his hand, smirking down at you. “You need me, huh?”

You nodded, chest heaving with each panting breath. Patrick sat down at the headboard and patted his thigh. “Prove it.”

You sat up, crawling up the bed until you were straddling his lap. “You made her do all the work?”

He laughed, running his hands up your thighs to squeeze your ass, tug you closer. “I didn’t make her do anything.” Patrick had a hand wrapped around his cock, and you moaned softly as he guided it between your thighs to notch at your entrance.

You sank down slowly, forehead pressed against his as you took inch after inch. “Fuck,” you breathed. You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his as you gave a slow roll of your hips. “Fuck. You’re so deep, Pat. Feels so good.”

His head fell back against the headboard as you began to ride him in earnest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, still wearing that fucking smirk, even balls deep inside of you. “That’s it, baby, take what you need.”

And you did. The way he was looking at him was proof enough, he was eating up every fucking second of you fucking yourself on him, using him like a toy.

Your noises were near-pornographic— Right there, fuck, you’re so big baby, so fucking deep.

The poor soul next door slammed on the wall, begging for you to just shut the fuck up. Patrick silenced you with a hungry kiss— a mess of tongues and spit. His fingers moved on your clit, pulling you towards the edge with desperate need.

“Close,” you gasped.

He nodded, moving his fingers faster. “I know you are. I’ve got you.”

You collapsed on top of him as you came— hips canting weakly as he worked you through it. He thrust up into your tight walls, groaning at the feeling of your cunt spasming around his cock.

“Fuck, you feel so perfect,” he groaned, burying his face into the junction of your throat. “Gonna cum— fuck—“

You moaned softly at the feeling of him spilling inside of you— the soft pulse of him, the warmth of his cum flooding your cunt. You stayed on his lap, kissing his freckled nose, his eyelids, his mouth.

When you finally moved off of him, you whimpered at that loss of fullness, and of the slick mess seeping out between your thighs. If you were smart, you would’ve gone and cleaned up, but there was nothing more you wanted than to lay there in Patrick’s arms and fall asleep.

Whatever. You’d leave housekeeping a very generous tip. He sighed contentedly as you lay there— like you were made to fit against him perfectly. A warm hand rubbed comforting circles on your back, and you felt so at home, even in an Atlanta hotel.

“I love you, you know that?” He asked.

You looked up and nodded. “I know. I love you too.”

You found yourself staring up over at Patrick with a stupid, persistent smile on your face. He turned to watch you watching him, wearing a matching grin on his face. It was hard to tell who started laughing first— you or Patrick. At the absurdity of it all, at yourselves.

“God, we’re so messed up,” you said, with another laugh.

He nodded. “Really messed up, but whatever. Apparently your brain isn’t even fully developed until you’re 25.”

“Great, so we have one more year until we’re normal, rational adults.” He laughed, holding you against his chest.

He reached over and kissed your forehead. You were so sticky and gross that you really needed a shower, but, again— it was a tomorrow problem.

It fell quiet, and you could feel yourself slipping into comfortable drowsiness when Patrick finally spoke up. “Are we going to be okay?”

You blinked slowly. With your hand resting on his chest, you could feel his heart thudding just beneath your palm.

When you were twenty, you met Patrick’s parents. Crowded into his childhood bed with your head resting against his chest, his heart pounded as he apologized for the intense grilling you’d received that night at dinner. It was the first time you ever felt like his bravado had been shaken, like you were seeing through to the core of him.

You always knew you would be the one to say you loved him first— it was just the way things went. “I don’t care if they like me,” you had assured him. “I love you.” His heart beat harder, faster. He didn’t say it back until two days later, when he was fucking you in that very same bed— forehead to yours, skin sticky with sweat. “I love you,” breathed into your mouth like air.

When you were twenty-two, you moved into an apartment in Manhattan and Patrick followed like a housecat— no rent, no job, just company and a mouth to feed. The tour wasn’t going well, and you were working for a shitty, clickbait news site that hardly covered the cost of your place.

Things were good, mostly. Comfortable, domestic. Patrick tried to be a good boyfriend, you tried to be a good girlfriend. Both of you were trying to figure out what that meant for the other as best as you could. Patrick would bring you flowers from the corner store and take you out for drinks and dancing on weekends. You’d drive out on holidays to visit his family and wind up leaving early to go back to the comforts and peace of your apartment.

When you could, you’d follow him out to tournaments. If he won, he’d take you out with the prize money. If he lost, you’d take him back to the hotel to cheer him up.

On rough days, one of you would come home to the apartment and pick a fight over laundry, or a dish left in the sink, or even what he’d left on TV, and the other would give it back tenfold. Your neighbors would beat on their walls in annoyance as you yelled at each other, until one of you slammed a door and sulked in another room for a few hours, or you had make-up sex that gave the neighbors another reason to bang on their walls.

The breakups were infrequent but severe. You’d kick Patrick out, he’d live out of his car, or in a motel, or fuck off to some tennis tournament that you’d previously promised to go to. One of you always broke first, returning to the other with promises of love, and to do better.

You did love each other, really. And things usually got better. It was just easy to live with your feelings dialed up to a ten where Patrick was involved: bigger good moments, worse bad ones.

Your career had vastly improved. Patrick had moved up in the rankings, only slightly, but it was something. You could afford a bigger apartment in a nicer area, maybe get a dog. And you didn’t just want those things alone, you wanted them with him.

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest and nodded. “We’ll be fine,” you assured. It felt like the truth.

He nodded, looking down at you. His freckles were so much more pronounced after tournament after tournament in the blazing sun. “Yeah, probably.”

The next morning, you both got the continental breakfast you’d seen in the elevator while housekeeping dealt with the aftermath of the previous night. You did tourist-y shit— went to a museum, found a nice spot for lunch.

At the end of the day, you sat in the oppressive Atlanta heat with Patrick and watched Art Donaldson win his tennis match. You and Patrick left early, fucked in the backseat of his car, and decided to head home early.

As you started the drive back, you held his hand over the center console and listened to a shitty mix CD with songs he’d ripped off of LimeWire. You gave him shit when Kelly Clarkson followed Lil Wayne, but you both sang along to every fucking word.

You were right. You and Patrick would probably be fine.

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