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yapperblog · 9 days ago

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do you want it harder, baby?

female reader x joost

summary: dissatisfied with how gentle joost is in bed, you ask him to be rougher with you.

word count: 1900

content warnings: 18+ RPF SMUT, rough sex, dom!joost, unprotected piv, biting, fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, oral (f recieving), cum eating

author's note: here's maybe my favorite thing i've written so far

Joost kisses up your body gently, working his way up to peck your lips. It's sweet. He's sweet. He kisses your neck and touches your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple. "Are you ready," He asks, voice low and soft. His other hand drifts between your legs where he had been touching you, feeling at the slick there. "Can I fuck you now, please?"

You answer with a nod and a 'please' of your own. He nudges your legs apart, squeezing a little at your thighs before quickly loosening his grip on you. He's careful and gentle pushing in, as always. Even pausing for a moment to let you fully adjust to his length, waiting for the go ahead before starting to move. His thrusts are slow and even and you have to ask him to speed up. He sighs when he does so, like he needed that. One thrust hits particularly hard and has you grunting a little 'oof!' against his lips and he mumbles a sorry and reins himself in, slowing back down a little.

He's too soft and sweet sometimes. It's just this side of not satisfying for you. And, besides it seems like he's holding back, forcing himself to be overly gentle. The way he'll grab you sometimes, fingers digging into your thighs or ass before immediately being smoothed over, like he's afraid you'll break in his grip. He doesn't even grab your hair when you blow him. You want more. You want him to do what he wants. To manhandle you and push your head down, to fuck you hard and rough. You want him to stop holding back. And you know you should just say it, tell him it’s okay to be rough.

Easier said than done. What are you supposed to do, just ask him to be meaner in bed? Probably. But what if he doesn’t really want to? Maybe it’s not even in his nature and you’re both just too sexually incompatible.

Then one night you tell him ‘faster’ and he does so, a little growl slipping from him as he picks up the pace and you know you’ll have to be the one to say something. Because no matter how much he wants it, he just won’t take it.

You try and go for it the next time you have sex.

“You know,” You trail off into a breathy moan when he crooks his fingers in you gently. “I uh- I wouldn’t mind if you were a little rougher with me..” A little questioning hum comes from him and you kind of wonder if he’s listening at all or if he’s single-mindedly focused on touching you.

“Please?” You add on, realizing quickly nonchalance won’t get you anywhere with him. Joost hums again, really looking at you.

“I don’t know.. I don’t want to hurt you.” He pets your thigh, impossibly gentle.

You sigh heavily, frustrated with him and frustrated sexually. Just frustrated. You ask “please baby?” Again and he shushes you, promising to talk about it later.

You hold him to his word, insisting to talk about it the next day when he tries pawing at your pajamas. You beg him to be rougher, to take what he wants, that you can take it, you trust him not to hurt you, and he trusts you to tell him if he does.

His hands are on you as soon as everything is cleared up. Like really on you. He pushes up your top hardly giving you a chance to take it off before he’s groping your chest, fingers at your nipples, pinching and pulling as you make out. It’s not long before his mouth moves, kissing at your neck, immediately latching on and digging his teeth into your skin. And god you want nothing more than to be his toy, a pretty little thing for him to play with and chew on. You wish you had asked for this sooner, wish you could have gotten him to touch you like this before. His hands, big and rough against your soft chest, moving, roaming your body to grab your ass, his mouth seemingly everywhere at once, your neck, your chest, lapping and sucking your nipples.

He eases you onto your back on the bed, staring at you, overcome with lust and unsure where to go next. He quickly decides though, grabbing your pajama bottoms and underwear swiftly pulling both from you. His fingers sink into your thighs as he pushes your legs apart, his hands then slip up your body as he lowers himself to you, mouth at your thighs now, kissing and biting and leaving bruises as he touches you.

He sits up a little to poke at your lips, you easily open your mouth for him, letting him slip the digit in. He feels his way in, teasing, pressing at your tongue with one then two fingers. You stare up at him as the fingers creep deeper, till they’re stuffed as far as they can go in your mouth. Joost pants softly as he stares back, gaze heavy with lust, and god he’s beautiful like this, just this side of mean.

He pulls his hand back after a moment, a soft noise comes from your throat at the loss and you can see the corner of his mouth twitch, almost smirking at you, at the way this simple teasing has you worked up. The spit slicked fingers slip between your folds with ease, thanks to how wet him playing with your mouth got you. He pushes both fingers in at once, ignoring the groan that comes from you as he quickly starts thrusting his fingers in you.

He muffles the noises you make by kissing you while finger fucking you, you tangle your fingers in his hair and moan openly into his mouth cause this is what you wanted, you were tired of the careful prodding and slow gentle touches, you wanted to hear the filthy noises as he fingers you, fast and rough your hips greedily bucking against him, the stretch of his thick fingers in you so much and not enough at the same time.

You gasp and fall back against the bed, he keeps a hand on your thigh as he finger fucks you, gently holding you down as he works you closer and closer. You can’t help the noises that come from you, the frantic pleading and cursing, the pathetic whimpering as you cum.

You almost get a chance to sigh a breath of relief as he slips his fingers out, but he pulls away just enough to find your clit. You whine, digging your fingers into the blanket under you, and shake your head a little, the overstimulation makes you squirm. His fingers flit over your clit, rubbing it before shoving inside you again. You let out a choked sound when he picks up the pace, harder than before, then suddenly stopping to touch your clit, then sinking in you once more. Just absolutely toying with you. It’s not long before you’re cumming again, almost sobbing at the feeling crashing down on you so hard and fast.

He coos at you, something along the lines of how good you are for him, you just kind of nod dumbly still trying to catch your breath when his pulls his fingers out of your cunt and shoves them in your mouth again. You groan, but diligently suck on them til he pulls them out and wipes your spit off on your cheek. He kisses you, licking into your mouth like he’s trying to taste whatever’s left of your juices. He asks if you wanna keep going and you nod, begging with a little ‘yes please’.

He hastily shucks his pajama pants off, your eyes immediately go to his cock, tip red and shiny from leaking precum. He settles between your legs, rutting against you for a moment to coat himself in your slick before pushing in. He gives himself enough time to adjust to your warm, wet, fucked out hole, so soft and pliant for him. His hips slow as he looks down to watch his cock pump in and out of you, going slow just so he can take in the sight. But it goes on for a little too long and you start to get antsy. Bucking your hips up into him, and whimpering.

“Wat,” He looks up with a ditzy, almost innocent smile, still thrusting slowly, little rutting movements. “Do you need something?”

“Please..?” You try, breathless. The teasing flustered you! It’s not your fault you’re suddenly speechless, it’s the brat fucking you’s fault!

"Ja? Do you want it harder, baby?" You whine at the question, at his pretty voice, at the way he pulls his cock out of you to slap it against your clit.

"Mhmm, yes, please.. Need you.." you mumble, nodding, making eye contact with him as you beg. His pupils are dilated, the pretty blue pushed to a thin ring.

He slides back in and fuck he feels perfect in you, filling you up so wonderfully. It's not long before he's manhandling you how he wants you, shoving your legs up so he can fuck harder, deeper. It’s almost dizzying, all the pleasure, his hands gripping your thighs, the head of his cock kissing your cervix every time he bottoms out inside of you. It’s incredible, you don’t know if either of you will be able to go back to how tame your sex life was before this. You can’t believe you let him fuck you any other way. He’s panting and groaning, more vocal than you’ve ever heard him.

"Ik-ik..Fuck…" He sighs heavily, hips almost stuttering against you. “I’m close, baby. You wanna cum together? You want me to fill you up?”

You can’t answer much more than frantic ‘please please please’ your hand slipping down your front to rub at your clit until he’s batting you away, replacing your hand with his own. He thumbs at your clit as he thrusts, making your legs shake. You think you’re about to cry from all of it, the orgasm wracking your body, stronger than you’ve ever cum before. His thrusts halt as he bottoms out in you, cock throbbing as he cums, the clenching of your walls around him sending him over the edge.

You, foolishly, think once he's finished you'll get a chance to breathe. Almost immediately he drops down, head between your thighs, tongue against you, hands on your thighs, holding you down as you squirm. The overstimulation is So much almost too much. You grip his hair as he eats you out, cleaning up the mess he made, licking up his own cum. It's so filthy. When he's finished, you're so grateful he doesn't make you cum again, he kisses you, tongue in your mouth and it's even filthier. You love it though, you love him rough and filthy.

He flops down next to you on the bed, his hand finding yours as you lay there, catching your breath and putting your brain back together. You'll have to get up and properly clean up soon, but right now you're happy to just rest. You're exhausted in the best way possible, all pleasant and fucked out. You're so glad you finally made the push to get this from Joost, instead of just wishing he'd fuck you how you want.

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yapperblog · 11 days ago

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SILENT WORDS PT.1

pairing: joost klein x deaf fem!reader

word count: 4,144

warning: the protagonist is deaf, mention of smut, oral!fem receiving, the protagonist is a virgin, angst (there will be more in the second part), fluff fluff fluff, smoking, mention of childhood and old experiences.

description: Seeing one of the most important people in your life again after nine years is never easy. Feelings can often take over in these situations: ending up in bed together and then suddenly feeling your trust shatter. Wouldn’t it have been better to stay away from that city?

author’s note: So. Premise. It’s been years, and I mean years, since I’ve had the desire to publish a story with a deaf protagonist. I’ve tried many times, but honestly, I was afraid to put myself out there, because I always aimed for something complex, elevated, and as realistic as possible. I’ve studied a lot (if we can call it that), nothing in this story is there by chance. Thanks to personal experience, I’ve been able to describe some parts in a more immersive way, and I truly hope you’ll find in my words an alternative world to dive into.

Usually, I avoid describing the main character too specifically, to let you relate to them as much as possible but this time, I wanted to try something different.

Will it flop? Probably.

BUT FOR MY OWN SATISFACTION!!!!, I needed to publish this idea of mine.

Let me know what you think, this time I don't know whether to be completely satisfied with what I wrote maybe it will improve with the other parts.

That said, I’ll leave you to the story (to those who have trusted me with their time and hearts).

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!!🙏)

part.1 part.2

——————————————————————

Silence had always been the soundtrack of my life. It had always followed me, wherever I was, since birth. Every moment of my life was soaked in silence; whether it was happy, sad, overwhelming, or exciting. Every expression, every emotion, every gesture was always accompanied by silence.

Silence that was my friend, and at times, my refuge, my escape. A persistent silence through which I was trying to find my place in the world. A silence full of words, a perspective of the world that was deeply different from what others told me.

Sometimes I wondered what the real sounds of the world might be. With the cochlear implant, I could hear, but not truly read what was around me, not truly interpret what brushed against my skin. The absence of one sense had amplified all the others. In a way, it was a gift… but in another, it led to a thousand questions constantly swirling in my mind.

-“What does my voice sound like?”-

-“If my emotions could speak, what would they sound like?”-

-“If I’d been born with all five senses, would I still be this version of myself? Would I still be this little girl? This woman?”-

-“Is the sound of rain tapping on wood really as soothing and steady as they say?”-

-“Are my devices even picking up the sounds correctly? How can I know, when the one who can’t hear… is me?”-

-“Would silence have been this vital in my life, if I had been born ‘normal’?”-

Normal.

I didn’t feel normal. I had never felt normal. Not by the standards that society imposed.

I can imagine the look on my parents’ faces when they discovered that their only daughter -finally conceived after so many attempts- was deaf. Born without any hearing ability, with a profound deafness that made it impossible for her to hear anything below 120 decibels.

“A gunshot is nothing but a whisper to her.” That’s what they were told, or so I’ve heard. I imagine my mother’s expression being not so different from the one Joost, my best friend, made when I told him at fifteen that I was moving away because of my father’s job. They wanted to guarantee me the cochlear implant surgery. The only device that might work for me.

That day, my heart broke. I was leaving my city, my school, my friends.

My friend.

The only one who had always been there since we were kids. The only one who had learned sign language just to be able to communicate with me. The only one with whom words didn’t feel like gaping holes of absence. The only one with whom silence didn’t need to be filled.

I had a special bond with him: words weren’t necessary, truthfully, not even gestures were. We didn’t need little notes, or texts. Everything was easier with him. He made it easier for me.

Sure, I had never heard the tone of his voice, his laughter, or the music he always kept in his pockets through his earbuds. I had never heard him say my name out loud.

I had never heard the emotion he seemed to speak with when talking about his dreams for the future. But I felt it. I felt it on my skin.

I had learned to know him. I could recognize his scent. I knew what he loved deeply. I could decipher his expressions. We could communicate perfectly, sometimes with just a glance.

One summer day, in the distant 2013, I stubbornly insisted on hearing his voice. I made him talk for an hour, lying on the green grass in the park behind my house, while I gently pressed my perpetually cold hands to his throat. That day, I truly imagined I could hear him speak. My hands on his neck, my eyes fixed on his lips, reading every word, the warmth around us like a soft, malleable cloud shaped by the positions of our bodies.

“Promise me you’ll never leave, or I won’t have anyone to tease anymore.”

The innocence and blind faith of being fifteen had completely faded now that I had just turned twenty-four.

I could now say I had “fake hearing” for nine years. Nine years of medical and speech therapy progress. Nine years of having an extra tool to feel part of society. Nine years since that surgery that cost my parents so much, emotionally and financially. My father, especially, had placed so much hope in the cochlear implant.

But what was I supposed to do?

Magically learn how to speak?

Magically learn how to distinguish sounds and match them to lip movements?

Accept and adapt to this new reality after fifteen years of only using sign language?

It was hard, unbearably hard in the beginning. A new city I didn’t know, a house I didn’t know, a hospital, a language, an environment, doctors, people, emotions.

Everything was foreign. Suddenly being able to hear from one day to the next. A sharp, overwhelming feeling. That wasn’t my normality.

One day, I had a terrible fight with my father. I went against his belief in a “cure.” I didn’t need to be cured of anything. I was healthy, I didn’t have a disease.

“You have to learn to communicate!” That scream from my father is something that engraved itself in my memory for years and led me, at first, to reject those metal devices. I saw them almost as enemies, something that had ripped me away from my roots.

‘I already communicate’ I answered in sign language, moving my hands without even bothering to pair them with lip movements.

After years, I could finally admit that having a cochlear implant wasn’t so bad after all. Being able to hear all kinds of sounds, even without looking at where they came from, it was convenient. And it was convenient to let people talk freely and give them the certainty that I was listening. As I grew older, I had learned to weave together my reality as a deaf person with the society that had always surrounded me, moving in a fast-paced silence.

The warm smell of cappuccino slipped uninvited into my nose, leaving a soft smile on my tired face, finally at peace after hours of travel. The background hum of murmured voices in the café blended into the storm of thoughts my mind had been battling since I landed back in my hometown.

I had missed that air, reading lips in that language, using the corresponding sign language.

I had missed going to that café, sitting in that same spot at the same counter.

The spot where I always sat with Joost, where I’d spend a random first period on a Thursday morning just to skip an exam. The spot where we argued, the morning after a pointless fight over text, over the dumbest things.

Everything became dumb with him. Everything became lighter.

Joost. Joost Klein.

That tall, blond boy, so delicate on the inside, yet with the cocky attitude of a show-off, even at seventeen. Blue eyes, intense and small, tucked under those thick, beautiful eyebrows I always teased him about but that, honestly, looked incredibly cute on his face. A face that flushed so easily, painting his cheeks and nose with soft red hues.

We were bonded by pain, by suffering, by sensitivity. A kind of sensitivity I never again found in anyone else I befriended. The tears I shared with him, I never shared with anyone else again.

I never again felt as heard as I did when I was with him.

-“I kind of regret never writing to him again, disappearing like that…”-

The warm liquid from the cup touched my lips and slid down my throat, warming the little hollow in my chest left behind by the thought of that boy.

That same boy who was now standing on the sidewalk outside the café, frozen in place, his heart racing, unsure if he had really recognized me from behind, memories from childhood pounding at the door of his heart: the same memories that had made him cry on the coldest nights, nine years ago.

“I can’t believe it.” A whisper reached my ears. I didn’t recognize the voice: it was close, too close behind me. But something in me, both curious and filled with hope that it could be him -the boy, now man, from my childhood- made me turn around.

Our eyes met, once again, recreating the exact same magic from nine years earlier, sending chills all over my body. My breath caught in my throat. It didn’t take long to recognize that smile, the one that came with two dimples in his cheeks.

The very detail that had decided his sign name in sign language.

‘You can’t believe it?’ I used my hands to speak again: I used my native language, with the person who, more than anyone else, had stayed inside me all those years.

I saw him laugh. I felt him laugh. His hands trembled. His eyes moved quickly over my body, almost asking themselves if what they were seeing was real.

I got up from the worn wooden stool, and it only took a few seconds before I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him close to me. He still had the same scent, the same softness. His arms found their place around my waist, his hands gently holding my sides. The tenderness of his embrace told me everything: he was still here.

Still present.

Those were moments of silence filled only with nostalgic affection: the warm cloud returning, once again, to surround us. And maybe this time, it would stick around a little longer.

We pulled apart, and instinctively searched for each other’s eyes. I noticed his mustache, his haircut, the tattoo on his neck, the features of a grown man that perfectly matched his twenty-six years.

“You’ve changed so much, y/n…” he said, watching the natural smile that had crept onto my lips. His hands rested on my arms, and the warmth they gave off was a perfect reflection of what his heart was feeling in that moment.

‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost’ I sighed through a soft laugh from my nose, signing the words as I reached for his hands to look at the tattoos that now covered his fingers and arms. I could hear him laugh as he let me touch him.

a laugh I was hearing for the first time, but that felt strangely familiar.

He pulled his hands back and started to move them, shaping words just for me.

-“He hadn’t forgotten.”-

‘Honestly, it’s kind of like you are one. You disappeared.’ He signed the words with an effort to stay smooth, but there was an endearing clumsiness in his movements that made the phrase feel even sweeter.

‘I know… I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly go through great times’ I replied, trying to sign clearly enough for him to understand. He was a bit rusty, sure, but the effort he put into remembering the signs was visible in his expressions.

“Did you get the implant surgery?” He tried to sign the question, but halfway through, he got lost and laughed, ending up saying it out loud instead. I watched his lips and nodded, stepping back toward the stool and sitting down again. I saw surprise flash in his eyes, immediately followed by a smile.

‘We need to catch up. If you disappear again, I swear I’ll come drag you back myself.’ He signed it, clumsily but determined to get the whole sentence out. I shrugged and smiled, pointing to the pocket of his baggy jeans and then said:

‘Only if you give me a cigarette.’ Instinctively, his hand went to the bulge in his jeans made by what I guessed was a squashed pack of cigarettes.

“You smoke?” he asked, frowning in that confused way that crinkled his forehead, lips parted in disbelief. I nodded confidently, unable to hold back another soft laugh through my nose.

‘For four years’ I signed, moving my hands close to his face to emphasize what I meant: I wasn’t a kid anymore.

‘It’s bad for you’ he replied, copying the exaggerated motion of my signs, then reached up to ruffle my hair before gently brushing a hand over my cheek. I ducked away playfully, turning my face.

It felt just like old times: the teasing, the physical closeness, the stolen glances, the smiles, the touches.

That afternoon, it was just the two of us, a few beers, cigarettes, and my old balcony.

We talked, a lot, endlessly. Even though my voice remained hidden, I spoke with my hands, with my face, with everything I had.

I told him everything: what had happened, what I had felt, how much I had missed him, how often I had thought of him. The idea of writing to him again… it had always been there in my mind. But the fear of showing up out of the blue after so many years it was louder.

And somehow, he understood. He listened, head resting on his hand, blond hair tousled by the breeze, that faint smile never leaving his lips. His beer-wet mouth moved slowly as he responded.

Sometimes I felt the vibrations of his voice and caught his tone; other times I only followed his hands, doing their best to remember a language he had neglected for far too long. He told me about his life, his career, his YouTube videos, the songs he’d uploaded; the concerts, the tough moments he had gone through too, up until now.

The pain.

The sadness.

The sensitivity.

Feelings that still connected us, probably always would.

Two completely different worlds that, through our stories, were slowly emerging more clearly. Two worlds made of different colors, images, ways of living but that somehow had a small place where they could overlap. Maybe tangled, maybe with cords hard to plug in but not impossible.

The evening chill brushed against my face and the bare skin of my legs and arms, exposed by the shorts and soft tank top I was wearing. The smell of a cigarette just put out in the ceramic ashtray added the final touch to the peaceful painting we had created.

Joost, relaxed in the old wooden chair, let his eyes wander from the orange horizon to my face, finally at peace, nestled in what felt like true normality. We stared at each other in silence for long seconds.

I had noticed all the changes in him. And one thing I’d learned for sure was that the white short-sleeved shirt he wore looked annoyingly good on him.

I smiled at that thought and let my gaze fall to his lips, just as they curled into the same kind of smile.

‘You’ve become a beautiful woman’ he signed, then used one hand to tap a rhythm on the metal table without looking away from me. I dropped my gaze and blushed without meaning to. No one had ever told me that before, and my heart swerved far too quickly.

“Playing shy now?” This time, I heard his voice speak, and I instantly looked up at him. I sighed, turned to grab an empty beer can from the floor, and tossed it at him, earning nothing but laughter from him as he threw his arms up in a mock defense.

Those moments became more and more frequent: The times he came over to my place, and I to his. The times we met at our childhood park, the times we went out to eat together.

It was all the normalcy I had always dreamed of, finally settling into a routine that felt safe and familiar.

It was 10:48 PM.

Joost’s free hand was lazily stroking my scalp, while my head rested comfortably on his thighs, clad in loose shorts. We had put on a movie, but it didn’t seem like either of us was really paying attention to it. My stomach fluttered with every stroke of his fingers through my hair.

I didn’t know why my body reacted that way, or maybe I knew exactly why.

It had been four months since our reunion at the bar. Enough time for me to fall in love with him. My heart jumped every time I saw him, my cheeks flushed at every touch, my lips welcomed every smile easily, and my body responded. Too easily. Too physically.

He tapped my shoulder to catch my attention. I looked up and understood: he wanted to lie down too.

So we changed positions. Our legs tangled sweetly, and our faces ended up aligned, close. His arm rested on my bare waist, where my shirt had ridden up slightly. My back was now to the TV, but no one cared because Joost’s gaze lingered on my face, ignoring everything happening behind me.

I rested my hands on his chest, meeting his eyes. His grip on my waist tightened gently, and he smiled. A smile that quickly faded.

I held my breath and licked my lips without meaning to, watching him lean in. He brushed his nose against mine first, gently moving it side to side. His scent filled my lungs entirely.

Then, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes, he silently asked for permission.

I slid a hand to the side of his neck and allowed our lips to meet.

The softness I had imagined for so long without knowing was finally mine to feel. His lips moved carefully against mine, as if I were made of porcelain. His hand slid under my shirt, caressing the bare skin of my back: skin that, for the first time, was receiving someone else’s attention.

His warm breath landed against my cheek as he kissed me, leaving slow, open mouthed kisses. A soft giggle came out of him when realized how tightly I was holding onto his shoulders. Soon, he gently shifted over me, placing his hands on my waist, and teasing my lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

My nervous system short-circuited. My body moved on its own. Heavy breaths, lips parting, my tongue tangling with his, following his lead, hands gripping his shoulders and my whole center burning.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but somehow, with him, it felt natural.

When he pulled back, just enough to see me, I took a moment to take him in:

His lips red and swollen, his eyes glazed over, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed.

He looked like a dream.

“You look like an angel” he mouthed, silent, but unmistakable. I smiled, shook my head, and brought my hands to his cheeks, gently caressing them with my thumbs. He nodded return, disagreeing with me and cradled my face tenderly with one hand.

He held me still, leaned down again, and kissed me. This time deeper, with more urgency, more longing.

A vibration escaped my throat, most likely a moan I hadn’t meant to let out.

The realization made my entire face flush, heat blooming from my chest to my ears. I was embarrassed, mortified, to have made a sound. But Joost kept moving, kept kissing me.As if he hadn’t noticed. Or maybe… he had.

I didn’t realize how much worse his arousal had gotten. How much deeper his desire to make love to me had grown. The heat burning in his chest was almost unbearable.

He pulled away from my lips just long enough to kiss my cheek, then my neck, sucking and licking a spot he seemed to have chosen deliberately to drive me mad. My eyes rolled back, and I gripped his blond hair tightly in my fists, parting my legs as I felt him settle between them.

But was I really ready? Did I truly feel safe?Was Joost the right person? Was I falling in love? And what if-

His hand, once on my face, slipped into my underwear, and his middle finger found its way to my clit. I gasped silently, instinctively placing a hand on his wrist, stopping him with a furrowed brow. He froze immediately. His head lifted to meet my gaze, and in an instant, he understood.

“Is it your first time?” he asked softly. I read his lips -those same lips that, moments later, would be buried between my thighs- and nodded, shyly.

He smiled and gently withdrew his hand from my pants, bringing both of them to cradle my face. He placed three kisses: one on my forehead, one on my nose, and one on my lips.

When I opened my eyes again, I looked at him with a vulnerability so raw it was mirrored in his blue eyes.

“Trust me” he mouthed. I focused on the shape of the words and then he kissed me again.

A kiss that was sweet, comforting. A kiss that carried love, wrapped in the friction between our bodies.

Then, as if trying not to startle me, he continued to distract me with soft kisses all over my face, while his hand once again slipped between my legs. This time with patience, with care, with tenderness.

His middle finger gently circled and stroked, finding the rhythm that made my breath hitch, then slowly slipped inside me, easing me open, preparing me.

He slid further between my legs. I lifted my knees to give him space, and he took the chance to pull off my pants. But his eyes never left mine: always searching for my consent, for any sign of discomfort or pleasure.

I smiled and he smiled back, that same sweet smile as he positioned himself in front of my intimacy. I felt the warmth of embarrassment cradle me, but it didn’t hold me back. It was a natural embarrassment.

My body was burning, nerves tight, breath short, back arched, toes curled. And the moans I tried to suppress kept pushing to the surface.

I had Joost’s tongue between my legs, along with his finger, while his thumb occasionally found the tender spot of my arousal. I felt completely exposed, even if I wasn’t entirely undressed.

Exposed, for the first time.

I gripped his hair tightly, my hips instinctively pressing against his face. A breath escaped me, and I felt him increase the rhythm, until suddenly, he stopped. Just as I felt the peak approaching.

I looked at him almost pleading and he rose from between my legs, giving my thighs a last gentle squeeze before chuckling softly and crashing his lips into mine.

I tasted myself on his tongue. A new sensation that made me shiver. I cupped his face between my hands and held him close, showing him, without words, that I trusted him.

And I did trust him.

-And maybe that’s where I made the mistake.-

I truly trusted him. I trusted him even when I took off my hearing aids and left them on the table in front of the couch. I trusted him when I pressed myself against him as he entered me for the first time. I trusted him when I found myself on top of him, wearing nothing, my face buried in his neck, our bodies colliding in complete intimacy. I trusted him when I let him touch my skin, hold it, kiss it, bite it, lick it. I trusted him when he gripped my hips and guided my movements. I trusted him when our eyes met, when I read love in those blue eyes.

-So maybe words did matter.-

Maybe the next morning I should have run.

Grabbed my hearing aids from the living room, gotten dressed, and left.

Maybe I should’ve told him. Told him that I was falling for him: for his touch, his kisses. Told him that I imagined waking up on a Saturday morning in December, wearing nothing but one of his oversized shirts, watching his features softened by sleep. Told him how I’d pictured waking him up with gentle kisses down the length of his bare back, while his hand searched for mine beneath the covers.

I should’ve told him I came back to this city just for him.

If I had said all of that, maybe that Sunday afternoon, when I leaned in to kiss him at the supermarket checkout and he pulled away, almost ashamed, I wouldn’t have ended up there. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to learn what it means to be pushed aside by the one person I had let silence strip me bare for.

If I had told him everything, maybe I wouldn’t have spent that same night crying for hours into the pillow that still carried his scent. The scent that had witnessed the trust I’d placed in him. Every night. Every single day.

Damn that trust. Damn me.

Damn the day I let myself be fooled by those three kisses.

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