hug n kiss

multi-fandom ~ horny female (20’s) *NSFW Warning!!*

[cinna-creme]

broke down

a/n: mechanic kats i love u - lowk longer than i thought it’d be

your hands are on your hips, lips pouted as you look at the man exasperated. he’s under your hood grunting, muscles flexing and when he comes up his hair is slicked to his forehead and he has a scowl. 

“tch, sit down.” he glares at you. “staring at my back isn’t gonna fix your car faster, sweetheart.” 

“and where do you want me to sit?” you cross your arms. “it’s dirty.” you huff. 

“shoulda called you princess.” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. 

“and what should i call you.” you raise your chin. 

“katsuki is fine.” he walks past you. “not gonna sit on this stool i take it?” he sighs. 

“it’s like.. dirty.” you turn to him. 

he shakes his head, wondering why he even answered the tow trucks call. you clear your throat and he pushes stuff around on his table, grabbing a towel and setting it down. he turns to you with raised brows and you mimic his expression. he pats the table and your eyes go wide. 

“c’mon. i got you a towel and everything.” his lips twitch up. “or what.. need me to lift you up? hm?” he walks over to you. 

“no.” you click your tongue and walk over to the table. 

you look at the table with a frown, looking down at your skirt and sighing. you drag the stool over for you to step onto, placing yourself on the towel and keeping your feet propped up on the stool. you squint your eyes at him, daring him to make another comment but he just turns on his heel and goes back to your car. 

“so how long is this going to take?” you sigh, pulling out your phone. 

“don’t know.” he shrugs. “maybe if you got regular maintenance..” 

you ignore his comment and begin to scroll on your phone, occasionally glancing at him every couple of minutes. the sound of metal being pulled and scraped, clangs throughout the garage accompanied by more of his grunting. 

after an hour you’re completely bored of your phone and go back to staring at him. his back muscles ripple with each movement, the white tank he’s wearing clinging perfectly to his body, now sweaty and covered in oil and grease. he sets his tool down and turns to you suddenly, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. 

“what?” he leans back against your car. 

“what do you mean, what?” you purse your lips. 

“i mean..” he starts walking over to you. “why are you staring at me?” he stops in front of you. 

“i’m bored.” you huff. 

“mm.” he fake frowns. “why don’t you run into the shop and get me some water.” 

“fine.” you sigh, though happy to be doing something. 

you hold out your hand and he looks at you with raised brows. clearing your throat and extending it further, he grabs it and you hum, stepping down onto the stool and back onto the ground. 

you smile up at him and pat his chest. “thanks.” 

“you are a princess.” he clicks his tongue and walks back over to your car. 

you walk into the main shop, it's dim and seems to be closed for the day. you look around spotting the cooler and smile when you spot the water. you grab one for yourself and turn to go back into the garage. when you step back in, your mouth goes dry and you stop in the doorway. 

“thank you, princess.” he walks over to you. 

his white tank is balled up on the floor, his muscles on full display, flexing with each step towards you. you’re staring at his chest, letting your eyes travel down to his abs and that delicious v line that disappears into his dark pants. 

“my eyes are up here.” he tilts your chin up and you’re met with a grin. 

“mhm.” you blink slowly up at him. 

he takes off the lid of the water, taking a slow sip, never breaking eye contact with you, even when some droplets drip down his neck. your tummy twists and you feel heat rise to your cheeks before you walk past him back to your spot. you climb up the stool and plop down on the table before looking at your car with a frown. 

“what? don’t wanna stare at me anymore?” he chuckles. 

“how much longer?” you glance at him. 

“maybe an hour.” he shrugs. 

he sets his water bottle on the ground next to him and goes back to working on your car. you can see every ripple and flex of his muscles, the little droplets of sweat that slide down his back. your thighs press together the longer you stare at him and you’re practically panting imagining him above you grunting and sweating like he is now. 

“c’mere princess.” he turns to you.

“what?” you squeak. 

“need you to come try to turn the car on so i can see what’s going on under here.” he walks over to you and offers you his hand. 

“thanks.” 

you're too busy trying not to stare at him that your foot slips off the stool and he has to catch you. you’re smushed to his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your back and the other cupping the back of your head. he searches your eyes, making sure you're okay before he helps steady you. 

“thanks.” you smile quickly, walking over to your car. 

you slide into your drivers seat, glancing at him and waiting for him to tell you what to do. he makes his way back over to your hood and nods at you, telling you to start the car. you push the button and your car comes to life again and you squeal. 

“thank you thank you thank you.” you hop out of the car and jump up and down. 

“we’ll leave it running for a little bit just to make sure-” you jump on him and hug him, his hands automatically wrapping around you. “what’re you doing?” 

“oh! i.. thank you!!!” you beam down at him, kissing both of his cheeks. 

“if you’re gonna kiss me, kiss me right.” he clicks his tongue. 

you quickly peck his lips and lean back. “like that?” you tilt your head. 

he presses his lips to yours and you melt instantly, mouth opening and granting him access to anything he wants. he chuckles, walking you backwards until he can set you back on the table. he pulls back only for you to lean forward and press your lips to his again, your hands reaching out to feel his muscles. 

“been staring at me all day.” he mumbles against your lips. “thought you didn’t like dirty things.” his hands squeeze into your thighs. “look at you.” he nips at your bottom lip. “all over me.” 

“katsuki.” you slowly spread your thighs. 

“what d’you need, princess?” he grins. 

“mmm, please.” you hook your legs around his waist and pull him closer. 

“want my cock?” he laughs when your eyes widen. “say it. lemme hear those dirty words on your perfect lips.” 

“want your.. cock, katsuki.” your face burns at the crude words. 

he smashes his lips to yours, tongue sliding along yours while one of his hands presses on the outside of your panties finding them soaked. he laughs at you again for being so wet from just staring at him but you can’t bring yourself to care when he’s circling your clit perfectly. 

he tugs your panties to the side, sliding his rough fingers through your folds as your hips jerk. he pulls his hand back and brings it out to his mouth, staring at you as he slips his fingers past his lips. he groans and kicks the stool closer, taking a seat and attaching his mouth to your pussy. 

you throw your legs over his shoulders, heels digging into his back and hand flying to his hair to pull him closer. he flicks his tongue against your clit until you’re shaking, sucking the little bud into his mouth and you whimper so pretty for him. your back arches when two of his fingers push into your pussy, stretching you open on the thick digits before he starts pounding them into you. 

“katsuki! kats- nghh!! i’m gonna- kats!” your thighs lock around his head as you soak his face and fingers. 

“good girl.” he kisses your clit and lifts up. “thighs open.” he pats your leg he starts to undo his pants. 

your thighs twitch at the sight of him, he’s big and leaking, veins running down the length of him. he pulls you to the edge of the work table and slides into you in one motion. your lips part in a silent scream and he takes this opportunity to lick into your mouth as he slowly pulls out. the drag sends fire to your lower tummy and then he’s fucking into you with a purpose. 

“fuck you feel good.” he pants. 

you’re holding onto his shoulders, looking up at him with glassy eyes as he pounds into you. your tummy is twisting, pleasure coiling low as he zeros in on the spot that leaves you moaning. he leans down, lips brushing yours as he stares in your eyes, nose bumping against yours. 

“cum.” 

your orgasm bursts through you and he fucks you faster, harder. you’re squeezing around him so tight that his own orgasm is sneaking up on him. he tries to push it off but he can’t and with a low groan he’s filling you. he pulls out and watches you leak with him, chuckling as he fixes his pants. 

“you’re filthy, princess. leaking with my cum, my handprints all over your clothes.” he pulls your panties back. 

“can we do that again?” you pant. 

“when you come back for your oil change.” he cups the side of your neck and kisses you once. “next week.”

[cinna-creme]

creamy // slice of heaven - my first ever collab w my baby @allformoan 

a/n: pro hero izu x baker!reader - hey i put a lil plot in this cus i could 🙂‍↕️and a single smau pic?? idk this is the longest thing ive written

izuku doesn’t even know why he’s here. doesn’t even know how he got here. 

he’s never been to this bakery before, but it’s the only place that was open on his walk home from the agency. the lights are warm and the smells pouring through the open doors coax him inside. when you turn to look at him everything stops. 

his hero suit feels too heavy, his hands too dirty, his face too scarred. he’s too rough to be in here, in your slice of heaven. 

“hi, welcome in.” you smile at him and his mouth goes dry. 

“hi.” he croaks, before clearing his throat. “hi.” he nods. 

“how can i help you?” you tilt your head, batting your lashes. 

“i um.. i dunno? i’ve never been here.” he looks around and then up at the menu. “what’s your favorite?” he takes another glance at you before looking away. 

“well.. if you wanna wait a couple minutes i’m just finishing up my strawberry cream pies.” you look behind you. “i think they’re best when they’re fresh.” you whisper with a soft smile. 

“i can wait.” he nods. 

“good.” you nod. “what do you want to drink while you wait?” 

“uhh..” he quickly looks up at the menu again. 

“anything you want.” you smile. 

“i’ll just have a water.” he nods.

you hand him a bottle and he thanks you before taking a seat at a small table. he holds his head in his hands staring at the table while he listens to you work. his eyes start to droop and his shoulders feel heavier, the soft music you have playing slowly putting him to sleep. 

“i can make it to go.” you keep your voice soft so you don’t startle him. 

“no ‘m sorry.” he snaps his head up. “that looks divine.” his eyes soften. 

“thank you.” you hum, setting the plates down. “i’ll be right back.”

he watches you come back with silverware and two glasses of milk. “are you.. gonna eat with me?” he tilts his head. 

“well.. um..” he watches your face fall. 

“you can! i just.. you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” he scrunches his brows. 

“you look like you could use some company.. and we’re closed..” you murmur taking a seat. 

“you’re closed?” his voice cracks. 

“we closed an hour ago.” you shrug. “tell me how it is.” you nod at the plate. 

“i got here like fifteen minutes ago..” he furrows his brows. 

“you’re a hero who had a long day.. the least i can offer you is a cream pie.” 

“thank you.” he offers you a tired smile, before taking a bite and groaning. “damn.” he looks at you and shakes his head. “this is amazing.” he takes another bite. 

“yeah? i’m glad.” you hum. 

the both of you eat in silence and when you’re both done you take the plates to the kitchen and offer him a small baggie of treats. he tries to refuse but you’re insistent before shuffling him out of your bakery to go home and get some rest. 

but.. going home and getting rest was a little hard when all he could think about was you. he can’t help it, you were just so sweet and he’s sure you taste as sweet as your pies.

izuku doesn’t know when he made it a routine to stop into your bakery after every patrol shift but now he looks forward to it. he’s gotten bolder with you over the past couple of days, likes the way you squirm when he looks at you too long and you make the sweetest cream pie, always making sure to give him the biggest slice and an even bigger smile. 

“and here’s a little extra, deku.” you pass him a small bag of cookies over the counter with a shy smile. 

“what did i say?” his fingers graze yours as he grabs the bag. 

“sorry.. mm.. izuku.” he loves watching you get flustered. 

“don’t have to apologize.” he hums and slips cash in your tip jar. “gonna eat here today.” 

“okay.” you hum. “i’ll bring you out a plate and.. i could join you?” your voice trails off. 

“yeah.” he nods. “you deserve something sweet.” he flashes you a smile. 

you come out from around the corner with a plate and two glasses and take the seat across from him. “here.” you slide the plate over. “it’s fresh.” you nod. 

“no cream pie for you?” he tilts his head. 

“i’ve been eating too many sweets..” you play with your fingers. “gotta watch my figure..” you look away. 

“your figure is perfect to me.” he watches you turn back to him slowly. 

“eat.” you purse your lips and nod at his plate.

“not until you at least have a bite.” he grabs a forkful and holds it to your mouth. you sigh and open your mouth, lips wrapping around the metal and letting him feed you. “good girl.” he grins. 

you both go back and forth eating bite after bite until the slice is gone and he’s leaning back in the chair. he gets up and stretches, chuckling at the way you watch his muscles flex before he bends down and cups your cheek. 

“i’ll see you tomorrow.” he brushes his thumb softly before leaving. 

he can’t stop himself when he shoves his hand into his boxers that night. he thinks about every single way he’d worship you as he strokes himself slowly. the way he’d eat your sweet little pussy before he fucks you and fills you, making you his very own cream pie to devour. 

for the past month, every time he walks into your bakery all he can imagine is you laid out beneath him, looking up at him with scrunched brows as he pounds into you. he wants to push those pretty thighs of yours up to your chest making you throw your head back into his pillows, clawing at his arms as he wrings orgasm after orgasm from you. 

“izuku?” you grab his wrist. 

“shit i’m sorry angel.” he shakes his head. “what’d you say?” 

“i..” you’re stuck on him calling you angel. “what?” you tilt your head.  

“s’okay.” he gives you a lopsided grin. “how was your day today, hm?” he rests his hand on top of yours on his wrist. 

“good.” you squeak. 

“yeah? any cute guys come in?” he tilts his head and your eyes widen. 

“no! i- no!” you shake your head. 

“no? not even now?” he watches you become more flustered. 

“you?” you sit up straighter. 

“i’m just kidding.” he traces his thumb along your fingers. 

“you are.” you whisper. 

“i am, what?” he grins. 

“cute.” you whisper.

“yeah?” he scoots closer. 

“lemme get you some sweets to go.” the words tumble out of your mouth quickly before you leave him sitting at his table. 

when you turn to bring him the bag he’s standing there leaning on the counter watching you. he thanks you and makes sure to call you angel again just to see you squirm. you tell him to have a good night and that you’ll see him tomorrow before practically shooing him out of your bakery.

izuku has been having to stay later and later lately and by the time he makes it to your bakery all the lights are off and the doors are shut. by the time a week has passed he’s itching to see you so he leaves a note on your bakery door. 

i miss our talks and creampies. i’ve been having to stay late.. text or call if you want..

izuku

xxx.xxx.xxxx

when he wakes up in the morning he has a text from you. 

you walk up to his building with a basket, reaching out a hand to press his buzzer but before you can he opens the main door. he holds the door open for you and stares at your ass as you walk in, groaning at the sweet scent of your perfume and whatever is in the basket. 

“i missed you.” he hums taking the basket from your hand and leading you over to the elevator. “how’ve you been, angel?” 

“lonely.” heat rushes to your cheeks at your confession. 

“i’m sorry.” his hand lands on the small of your back and scoots you into the elevator. “you have my number now and know where i live.” he nods looking into your eyes. “don’t have to be lonely anymore.” his knuckles brush your cheek, watching you lean into him. 

“yeah but.. you’re a busy hero and i’m just..”

“the angel who brings me the sweetest cream pies.” he steps closer just as the elevator doors open. “after you.” 

his hand finds the small of your back again as he leads you down the hall to his apartment. he never thought you’d actually be here, alone with him. you look around his kitchen and turn to him with round eyes. 

“you have a very nice kitchen. do you cook?” you turn back to the kitchen and trace your fingers over the counter all the way to the stove. 

“i’m not much of a cook.” he scratches the back of his neck. “you can use it whenever you want. bake and cook as your heart desires.” he leans against the island. 

“you’re very generous izuku.” your heart skips as he walks closer, caging you in only to reach up to the cupboard and take down a plate. “lemme plate it for you.” 

he watches as you walk around the kitchen, quietly asking where the utensils are and how you delicately place each sweet. you turn to him with a smile and he leads you over to the table. you set the plate down in front of him and look at him expectantly. 

“let’s see.” he hums, picking up the fork and the second the pie hits his tongue he’s moaning. “fuck angel, this might be the best one yet.” he leans back in the chair. 

“yeah?” you beam. “can you.. try the cookies? it’s a new recipe.” you play with your fingers. 

“mhm.” he grabs your thigh and scoots you closer to him. “wanna put my other treat up on the table.” he grabs your hips and sets you on the table next to his plate. 

“izuku!” you gasp. 

“hm?” he takes a bite of the cookie and groans again. 

he takes another bite and blinks up at you, cast in the soft lighting spilling in from his windows. the way your thighs are pressed together, your skirt pulled taut over your plush. he feels his mouth watering as his eyes trail up your body, lingering on your tits squished beneath your shirt. then he finally makes it to your face and his cock twitches at your innocent expression. 

“hey angel..” he splays a hand on your thigh. “was wondering..”

“hm?” you squirm under his touch. 

“you think i’m cute.” you gasp at his words but nod. “you stay open late just to feed me your pies.” another nod. “and always make sure i go home with some cookies..” he starts to smile. “and now you’re here, sat on my table and i’m just wondering..”

“what?” you pant. 

“if you’d let me have a taste of your sweet pie between these thighs?” 

“izuku!” your eyes go wide, legs pressing tighter together at the thought. “on the.. on the table?” your fingers curl into the hem of your skirt. 

“yeah.” his pupils are blown, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “take you to bed after and be so sweet to my angel.” his fingertips brush your thigh. “split you open so slow, kissing you all over..” he’s fully hard now. “fill you and make you my personal creampie and then suck it right out of you.” 

“mmm.” you whine. “please izu.” you spread your thighs a little and that’s all he needs to make his words a reality. 

his hands pull your legs apart and push your skirt up to your hips revealing your cute cotton panties. he glances up at you with heavy lids, breath caught in his throat as he starts to kiss up your calf and up to your inner thigh. 

“are you sure, angel?” his breath fans across your panties. 

“yes.” you nod your head. 

he searches your eyes before dipping down and kissing you over your panties, chuckling at how you’re already squirming. he presses his tongue into the damp fabric, poking at your clit, groaning at the whine that spills from your parted lips. 

his cock is throbbing in his sweats at your taste and he needs these panties moved. he reaches up and pulls the cotton to the side, groaning when he sees your honeyed folds. the second he slides his tongue up your center and circles your clit he knows he’s never letting you go. 

“fuck angel.” he mumbles into you. 

he licks at your clit, moaning at the way you're jerking against his face and when he finally sucks the little bud into his mouth he holds your hips still and showers you with pleasure. 

“nghh! izuku!” your hands fly to his hair. 

you’re dripping down his chin, body getting hotter and hotter at the slurping sounds and the way he’s pressing his fingers into your hips. he reaches one of his arms across your hips so he can bring a hand under his mouth and have two fingers circle your dripping pussy. he slowly sinks them in and your toes curl in your socks as you tug his face closer. 

“izu- izuku!” you’re gasping and sputtering, thighs shaking at the pleasure he’s wringing from you. 

he curls his fingers searching for that one spot and with a sharp tug on his hair and the prettiest cry of his name he’s found it. he fucks his fingers into you, making sure to hit your sweet spot over and over as you soak his hand and face. your velvet walls are pulsing around him and clamp down when you cum all over his face. 

he licks you through it and then licks down to where his fingers are still lazily pumping into you and licking around your pussy for every drop he can get and continuing to suck his fingers clean. he looks up at you with dazed eyes and a lopsided grin. 

“you’re sweeter than i imagined.” he licks his lips, finally leaning back. “ready for more?” he scoops you up and walks you down the hall. 

he carries you into his room and sets you back on his bed with the utmost care. he peels his shirt off and looks down at you but you’re staring at the tent in his sweats. 

“i can wait.” he tilts your chin up. “can i help you take your clothes off?” his thumbs strokes your jaw. 

“please.” it’s a whisper. 

he lifts your top off and feels his knees shake when he sees your bra before he unhooks it, showing him how perfect you are. he stops to cup them, rolling your nipples between his fingers to hear what other sounds you can make for him. 

he helps you lay back and starts to pull down your skirt and panties in one go, heart beating fast when you’re only left in your ruffled socks. he feels the pre leaking all over his sweats but he doesn’t care, can’t, not when you look like this on his bed. he shoves his sweats down and smears his pre over the length of him, reaching down to grab some of your slick to help coat him. 

“are you ready, angel?” he steps closer, sliding his tip up and down your folds.

“yes izu please!” you can’t stop squirming. 

he gathers your legs and pushes them up against your chest with one hand while he lines himself up with the other. when he first pushes in, his mind goes blank as you envelop him in your wet heat. he brings his hand back up to your legs and presses them closer to your chest while he watches himself sink into you. 

he can’t help the snap of his hips, you feel too good and he’s been thinking about this for well over a month. each sound that comes from you only spurs him on more. each time he bottoms out there’s a sticky smack and when he looks down there’s a creamy ring you’re leaving behind. 

“fuck, feeling good?” he looks up to your pleasure scrunched face. 

“yesyesyes! it’s so good.” your toes curl in your socks. 

“yeah it is.” his stomach flexes. 

he starts fucking into you harder, deeper, wanting to feel each wave of pleasure build inside you. he’s addicted, and his cock is throbbing with the thought of filling you up. 

“gonna- hnghh! zuku i’m- ahh!” you burst and his pace breaks. 

“shit- hah! gonna fill this pretty pussy up.” his fingers dig into your plush. 

a couple more thrusts and you feel his warmth seep into you, filling you until it’s leaking out. he almost collapses on top of you but he catches himself on his arms and pants into your neck. he lifts up only to smash his lips to yours finally. the kiss is searing, distracting you from how he grinds and humps his cum into you. 

he starts to kiss down your neck, sucking soft marks and makes his way to your chest before circling one of your nipples with the tip of his tongue as he slowly pulls out. he kisses down your tummy and you brush his hair back that’s stuck to his forehead. 

“lemme go get you some more pie.” you look down at him, chest still heaving and skin sheened in sweat. 

“nuh- uh.” he grins and kisses your hip. “made my own.” he dips down and attaches his lips to you and starts to suck his cum out of you. 

[bfbkg]

Um I’m obsessed with morning sex bkg so him coming to your place after like an 18 hour patrol in the morning and being so horny and sweaty and needy and just 😫 putting u through the mattress is so perfect

BIG REACTION.

bakugou loves getting a reaction out of you.

what’s coming up: smut, fluff, annoying bkg, established relationship, teasing, p in v, touching your clit, protected sex

this was written when i was taking requests. i am not now. it has been a WHILE since i have written smut.

“where’s the key i made you?”

one of the first things bakugou learnt about you, very early on in your relationship is that you are not a morning person. when he suggested a morning hike, you screwed up your face and refused. maybe an afternoon one? when he would sleep over and play his four am morning alarm loud enough to wake you both up, that was enough for you to consider breaking up with him.

but now you open your front door, complete in your pyjamas which consists of an oversized tshirt with his face on it and the capitalised lettering of DYNAMIGHT right underneath. it’s old merchandise he sold a few years back that you insist is your comfiest tee. you’re barefooted, no slippers which is proof he dragged you from your bed all disjointed and your bonnet lays atop your head lopsided. incredibly cute. but aside from his own snarling face looking back at him, he’s got your pretty face twisted in one too.

“it’s six am, kats.” you huff, opening the door wider to let him stomp in, head to toe in his hero gear.

he’s careful not to track any mud or dirt when he steps onto your doormat. he’s quick to take off his uniform, his dirty armour and multiple layers, all while you stand with your arms crossed, staring at him with sleep in your eyes and creases all over your cheeks. you’re having a halfhearted strop.

it’s at this point he decides what he wants.

“i fuckin’ know. i just did an eighteen hour.” he replies, looking to your pouted lips to how your t-shirt rides up with your crossed arms. you’re always so soft when you’re sleepy. “i left my keys at the agency. i forgot to pick them up.”

he wonders if you’re wearing panties.

bakugou pulls off his black kevlar long sleeve, leaving him in his twaron black tank top. then he sniffs, looks to the hem of your tee, “you wearin’ panties under that?”

you roll your eyes, tutting loud and annoyed. “no ‘good morning baby.’ no, ‘you look so beautiful this morning. sorry for waking you up.’ you’re asking if i have panties on. i should kick you out on the street.”

bakugou’s smirk grows, he can deal with you pissy in the morning. in fact, this is exactly how he wants you. looking at him like he’s dirt on the bottom of your shoe, ready to slap him across his face for being crude.

he’s missed you. he wants you.

you eye his golden biceps. muscled and juicy in his tight thick tank. the bulletproof material hugs his pectorals, every ab and points his nipples. you ignore your name tattooed in cursive on his collarbone, the first and last letters peeking out of either side of his left strap. there’s leftover black eye makeup under his eyebrow and sweet sweat all over his body that makes him look similar to a glazed doughnut. he pull off his trousers last, leaving him in these black shorts he wears underneath. you can see his thighs tense as he lands back on both feet, his stupid thigh tattoo being revealed for a split second before hiding beneath the fabric.

bakugou should be exhausted after working for eighteen hours straight, he usually is. but fuck, if you don’t give him a new lease of life.

“good morning my sweet baby,” he coos, almost mockingly, just enough syrup laced in the words to keep you looking at him, albeit still frowning. he steps in closer to you, fingers gripping your chin, “been thinkin’ about you.”

you look up, head tilted in his grasp expectantly. he should be kissing you, right smack on your lips as a hello, maybe even an apology for waking you up.

instead, you follow his ruby pupils as they flicker over your face. lastly, staring at your lips. not kissing them. you hate how easily your body reacts to his proximity after how long he’s been yours, after him being so annoying.

your heart races when you can feel the heat of his body beaming onto your shorter one. you relax at the touch of his hand, any second now and you’re about to lean into his palm. you hate how even the sweaty smell of working on the streets, lingers loudly and warms you from the centre out. you’re one big reactive nerve for your boyfriend, ready to jump and rub up on him like a cat in heat.

“sorry for wakin’ you from your beauty sleep, princess,” he bends in closer to you, his pretty face right in yours. plucked eyebrows, shaven face, a streak of dirt on his cheek. then he smirks, slow and sexy, “is that enough for you?”

at that, you yank out of his grip, slapping his hand off your face. “why are you being so annoying?” you whine, spinning around to go back to your bedroom. “don’t follow me!”

bakugou’s always been good with following rules but he’s choosing not to today. he bounces after you, right on your tail as you push open the door to your bedroom.

your crumpled white bedsheets, one side lifted over from where you were laying before. there’s a box of condoms on the side of your bed he claimed, left from the last time he was around.

“nuh-uh, i meant it. sorry for wakin’ you. i know you hate mornin’s,” he brushes his lips against your ear when he speaks, his hands finding your waist and he’s not surprised by how you lean into him.

“you need to go shower, stinky,” you mumble with a pout.

despite everything, you’re a fool for his attention.

“i will, i will,” he mumbles, slowly pushing you back onto your bed.

you fall back with ease, head on your pillow and bakugou climbs over on top of you. he’s got one of his knees between yours, hands on either side of your shoulders.

you adjust your hips to wrap your legs around his waist and ignoring his own face on your tee, he looks between your legs.

“ah, so you do have panties on,” he grins, hooking his finger on the fabric at your hip and pinging it to your skin.

you slap his hand, still in a mood, “ouch, idiot. obviously, i do.”

your fiery glare serves as loving warmth and heat at bakugou’s crotch. your eyebrows are furrowed yet your legs tighten around his waist. your fingers fiddle with his clothes, adjusting his tank making sure the straps are equal. you’re fighting against him with that cute little pout. bakugou likes when you’re about to snap, he hardly gets you like this.

“y’gonna let me take ‘em off, beautiful?” he plays, rubbing his thumbs over the fabric of them, your pubic hair peeping out the top.

you pinch his bronzed side, “no. say sorry and greet me properly.”

bakugou grunts a laugh, both hands finding your hips and pulling you to his crotch. he notices how you inhale at the feel of his thickness, blink a few extra times.

“i’m not sorry for wakin’ you up. i wanted to see you,” bakugou knows the rules. happy life, happy wife. agree with everything your girlfriend says. but he’s in the mood to push, play with you a little.

you stifle a yawn beneath your palm at the same time birds chime outside. the morning sun is peeping out below your curtains and in this moment, you’re both levelled with how quiet it is.

“say sorry for forgetting your keys and making me climb out of bed to get you.”

“but then i wouldn’t have you and your little attitude lookin’ like you wanna bite me.”

you flick his forehead, your voice in need of some water this early, “so this is an attempt to seduce me? annoying me out of my panties?”

bakugou shakes his head with a grin, his hair thick with the grime of the day. “i don’t needa seduce you anymore. i bet i could slide right in. i bet you want me to.”

you shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. you refuse to touch him but your legs stay put.

“not true. we aren’t kids in a playground. you don’t have to be mean because you have a crush on me.”

“more than a crush. i love you,” he breathes, ducking into your neck to lay a few kisses down. he kisses a trail up to your jaw, lightly biting down on your skin. the angle pushes his cock between your legs and you fight the urge to grind up into him.

“you haven’t even kissed me hello,” you whine, gritting your teeth. “you’ve been mean to me.”

he lays a kiss to the corner of your lips. “is that all my baby wants? just a kiss?”

he’s got you all softened, he knows it. your eyes turn down at the edges, your lips keep twitching every time his face gets closer, your arms wrap around his neck to keep him close.

you nod slowly, “i’ve been telling you.”

“yeah? sorry, baby. it’s been a long day, f’me,” bakugou grins against your lips before slotting his over yours.

he focuses on your bottom lip. sucking your flesh until it’s tender, feeling all your limbs tighten around him and your hips rub against his cock. you’re so reactive when you’re sleepy, like your body is just acting on need and instinct.

once he gets a long sweet moan out of you, complete with a cute, “kats,” bakugou tilts his head to slink his tongue into your mouth. it’s wet, messy and slow. he works you like you’re a puzzle to unwind, to get you as relaxed as possible so he can fuck you back to sleep. you let him take control, all the fight slowly spilling out of your body.

it’s you that’s needy now, his plan all coming together.

he licks around your mouth. sucks on your tongue in order to draw a few more moans from you. you twitch beneath him, fingers grabbing at his tank top.

“kats, please,” you whine, spit connecting your lips to his.

bakugou kisses it away. he rumbles against you, gives you a grind against your core in return. it gets your back arching, a gasp pulled out of your throat.

“what, baby?” he grunts, so sure his arousal has taken over his face. “say it to me.”

“take off my panties. let me feel you,” you say loud and clear, never shy about your needs. bakugou’s always loved that about you, especially in the early days when he could never spit the words out.

bakugou works quickly, lifting your hips to grab your comfy floral panties. he pulls them up off your legs and he wants to stare at you, needy and ready for him but he’s distracted by something, “might need you to take off the tee too. don’t wanna be lookin’ at my face when i’m lovin’ you.”

you look down at his crumpled face, mid cursing in his hero uniform on your tee. “don’t wanna. it’s cold.” you pull up the fabric, resting it all on your breasts to reveal your stomach. “there.”

bakugou grunts, shoving the fabric under your chin. your breasts rise and fall with every breath and he doesn’t miss the goosebumps that prickle around your nipples, “there we go. i’ll keep you warm.”

you roll your eyes, a smile about to break, “get naked, hero. then i can go back to sleep.”

bakugou chuckles under his breath, unable to take his eyes off your face. the curve of a smile appearing and the squint of your eyes. he’s gonna treat you good, now and forever after.

bakugou pulls off his tank with the skill of a model in a perfume advertisement, sexy and purposeful, giving you enough time to skim down his body.

immediately, your hand flies to a spot just below his armpit, “you have a bruise! where were your sidekicks? did you take them?”

bakugou is quick to shush you, “wasn’t from patrol. was sparrin’ with them.”

“oh,” you whisper, resting your hand over the purplish spot, bakugou adjusts to shuffle out of his shorts and underwear in one go. “they need to go easier on you.”

then you look between his legs. you hope he doesn’t go easy on you.

“no the fuck, they don’t. i let them have this one. they didn’t get ninety nine percent of their shots.” he replies, taking his cock in his hand before you can.

bakugou has a gorgeous cock, one you speak about when you’ve had too many cocktails and beg for when he walks out the shower with a towel low on his waist. you’re about to start, pulling him to you by your legs at the sight of his scarred hand looking somewhat small when he gives himself a few pumps.

“okay, honourable senpai. you’re so kind letting your protégés hit you for a confidence boost.”

bakugou smirks, just like he knows how to rile you up, you know how to him. “you sure you wanna talk like this now?”

you smile, ignoring him, “get a condom, you’re already leaking.”

you brush your thumb over his head, swiping his pre and sticking it in your mouth.

“fuck,” bakugou gulps, stretching to grab one from his bedside table. “you win, whatever.”

“yay me.”

it’s exactly what you both wanted. bakugou stuffs a pillow under your back, grips your hips and slides completely into you.

you’re a little tight this morning with no foreplay but it’s a stretch you welcome. bakugou’s already panting, stumbles of swears and even a “get it to-fuckin’-gether,” to himself when you accidentally clench around him.

“h-hold on, baby,” you say, eyes closed as you find the best spot.

he feels so good inside you, thick and hugging, so close to prodding your favourite parts.

“you good?” he flicks his gaze away from where you join to your face, lips parted.

“hm, yeah. there we go,” you only needed a few seconds. “move. move, kats.”

bakugou begins his thrusts short and controlled, testing the waters before he can really go how he wants. you feel incredible, amazing, wet and warm and like the love of his life.

he’s already given you his soul, but during sex is when he offers you more and more.

“i love you. fuckin’ love you so much,” he stutters through pants. every thrust louder with a pat pat pat. “been thinkin’ about you all day. comin’ to you. seein’ your lil face.”

you’re listening to every word but you can’t manage to reply to each comment. “faster, baby. harder.”

you can really smell him now. the smell of the day now becoming sweaty sex. your eyes roll back into your head, your clit pulses in need.

bakugou listens like you’re his north star guiding him home. he plants his knees into your mattress and thrusts. harder, controlled yet always careful of you.

“oh fuck,” you moan, slapping your hands onto his back to pull him in closer to you. his thrusts are strong, every single one sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “fuck, fuck, fuck, kats. oh, i love you. love this so much.”

you’re rambling, unable to think straight and the harder bakugou goes, your headboard begins to rattle against the wall.

you both couldn’t care less.

it’s a bundle of moans, body parts that have no beginning or end. your bonnet is falling off your head, some of bakugou’s left over eye makeup has smudged into a sweaty substance by his eyebrow. it gets too much when he pushes your knees by your temples, getting you into a mating press.

you sneak your pointer and middle fingers between your legs to rub on your clit. you do swift circles, already lubricated by your own come.

every thrust has you inching further up the bed to the point, bakugou stops thrusting for a second to pull you to the centre of the bed.

“pillow. under your head baby,” he reminds you and as soon as you move to grab it, he’s back to those sweet skilful thrusts.

one hand on your clit, another flat on his clenched abdomen.

“you’re so—,” you start, losing yourself as a spark of electricity shakes down your legs. your dam is about to break any second now. “so beautiful.”

bakugou huffs, sweat beads bumbling on his forehead. your breasts jiggle with every motion, your hand falling on his chest with every shake.

“thank you, baby. you’re everythin’ to me. you know that.”

you nod, eyes lazed, “i do. i know.” then your mouth gapes open and you release a long mewl. you grab at his side, back arching as your hand speeds up on your clit. “i’m gonna come. i’m gonna come, baby.”

bakugou keeps up his pace, ignoring the tightness of his lower stomach. you’re always first. “i’ll look after you. come on, baby.”

you fall apart loudly. incoherent mumbles where bakugou can only make out wisps of his name and a screech from the back of your throat that makes him grin. your body jolts up and down your bed throughout it all, your toes going numb as your legs stiffen in the air. the pleasure is immense, a stream of rushing waves slapping against rocks. you want to tell him to slow down but he knows without you saying.

bakugou does slow down and the second he does, he spills into the condom with a grunt deep enough to make you come again. it comes from the pit of his stomach, all the exhaustion and stress of the day falling off his shoulders and into this bed with you.

bakugou pulls the condom off, ties it and throws it in your bin across the room. then does he finally, lay beside you in bed.

“thanks for that. needed it,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder.

both of you lay with your eyes closed, too sweaty to touch the other so you just brush your fingertips against his.

“you’re welcome,” you giggle before turning into a downturned smile, “we need to shower—.”

bakugou pulls up the duvet over your bodies, mentally resigned, “no, we can do that when we wake up and change the sheets.”

“but—,”

“you’re about to fall asleep. let yourself,” he whispers, adjusting your tee down your body and spooning you from behind. he kisses the top of your head, “goodnight, baby.”

“it’s the morning.”

“i said goodnight.”

bakugou looks for your snappy reply back but you’re already gone, fast asleep with a palm under your head.

comments and reblogs are appreciated. no part 2 comments, thanks!

[piaosc81]

OP81 • NO RIGHT TO FINISH

summary: You thought escaping to the bathroom would save you from a drunk and clingy Oscar, but you were wrong. He follows you, intent on proving that his stamina extends far beyond the race track. A story about overstimulation, denial, and an Oscar Piastri who refuses to let you finish until he’s completely satisfied.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

word count: 4.8+ k

raiting: 18+

genre: smut, pwp, romance, established relationship, fluff (at the end).

warnings: drunk Oscar (but sweet and consensual), bathroom sex, counter sex, mirror sex, overstimulation, edging, dirty talk, slight roughness, praise kink, unprotected sex (creampie), aftercare, cuddling

author note: So I wrote a new fanfic about y/n as Oscar's girlfriend. I think these will be the most frequent fics on my blog, because that's what you love the most. Actually, I had many versions of this fanfic, but I decided that this slightly drunk and dominant, insatiable version of Oscar and y/n's not-quite-protesting version would be the most interesting. It turned out so intense and long 🤭 I swear I haven't written anything more intense and dirty in all my writing (and I've written over 100 explicit scenes on another blog) 🩵 What this Oscar did to me?! 😱🫠🫢 If you like long, intense, and Oscar, then this is for you 👇🏻

The electronic key gave a quiet click, and the hotel room door opened. You walked inside, supporting Oscar, who, although capable of walking on his own, had decided he couldn’t manage without you. He was heavier than he looked at first glance. Oscar leaned his entire body weight against your shoulder; his usual composure had melted away somewhere at the bottom of his third glass of gin, giving way to a relaxed, warm heaviness.

A third consecutive victory at the Miami Grand Prix was the reason for his celebration. Oscar usually didn’t drink much—he always kept himself in check, even at parties. But this time, teammates and sponsors had insisted: "To first place! To the hat trick!" And he gave in.

Not to the point of total intoxication, no—he understood everything, but he spoke a bit lazily, drawing out his words. Alcohol made him completely unlike himself—more relaxed, more playful. A slight sway in his step and a warm smile that wouldn’t leave his face made him look both cute and funny at the same time. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw Oscar like this. Perhaps on his high school graduation day, when he got drunk with friends.

You gripped him tighter under the arm, feeling his muscles tense under the thin fabric of his black t-shirt, and involuntarily leaned closer to his neck.

The expected sharp smell of alcohol was there, but it was lost, receding into the background before what you adored to the point of trembling knees. He smelled like a storm that had finally subsided. It was a scent you would recognize among a thousand others. The smell of sun-dried wood and sea salt.

Heat radiated from Oscar’s flushed skin, and this scent was unfolding in a special way right now. It held the freshness of the wind on the Melbourne coast and the tartness of sage, which, mixing with the barely perceptible notes of expensive gin, created an intoxicating cocktail. Oscar always smelled like home.

But this dreamy moment was interrupted by his careless movement toward the bed, and you almost fell with him. You helped him land on the soft mattress, and your boyfriend fell, absolutely exhausted from the party. You ran a quick gaze over his body, sprawled across the middle of the bed, and shook your head, smiling. His black, tight-fitting t-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing part of his flat stomach, and his white shorts had slipped down a bit on his hips.

"Champion, you definitely overdid it with the victories today," you said and sank to your knees in front of the bed to pull off his massive sneakers.

"I’m so tired..." he mumbled from somewhere above. His legs dropped limply to the floor as you removed his shoes. "But so... happy. Three in a row. Can you imagine?"

You stood up, walked to the nightstand beside the bed, and placed your purse and phone there. He turned his head toward you, and his smile grew wider.

"Are you proud of me?"

Warmth spread through your soul. You were prouder of him than he could imagine.

"I am proud of you," you whispered, leaning down to him and bracing your hands on the bed. Your lips gently touched his temple, and you felt him instantly bury his fingers in your hair. You hadn’t planned anything, just wanted to kiss him gently to express your pride. But Oscar craved more. He intercepted your lips, and his tongue slipped inside your mouth, deepening the kiss. The longer you kissed, the wetter and more chaotic it became.

Oscar pulled you toward him. You tried to resist, but he was stronger. Even drunk, he easily, effortlessly pulled you down next to him. But that wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t want you just lying next to him—he needed to feel all of you. With agility surprising for his state, he threw a leg over your thighs and in a moment, using inertia, pinned you under him.

The air was knocked out of your lungs. He was heavy. His relaxed body seemed to weigh a ton, and he didn't even try to hold himself up, trusting gravity completely. He sprawled over you, pressing you into the mattress with every inch of his body.

"Oscar... you're going to crush me," you laughed, trying to move his shoulder, but it was like moving a rock.

"No," he mumbled into your neck, and you felt his wet, hot smile against your skin. "I'm holding you. You're my main trophy today."

You were too tired for what Oscar had in mind. It was almost three in the morning, and after such a long and eventful day, you only dreamed of sleep.

"Oscar... I want to sleep..." you said. He began rubbing his nose against your cheek, then moved down to your neck, inhaling your scent as deeply as if it were oxygen. And then followed the kisses. His movements were languid, the trails wet, and the desire—obvious.

"You smell... tasty..." he whispered, lazily running his tongue over the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending a herd of goosebumps through you.

You realized: this had to end while you still had the strength to resist. Because a little more—and his lazy, hot kisses, his weight pressing you so pleasantly into the mattress, his scent filling your lungs—would do the job. You could already feel the response warming between your thighs, your body forgetting the fatigue and starting to reach for him. So you gathered all your will into a fist. First—gently. You ran your palm down his back, as if soothing him, and laughed quietly.

"Oscar... you really will crush me. I can't breathe."

He chuckled lazily but lifted his head slightly, looking down at you with those drunk, shining eyes.

"Then I'll make it lighter," he mumbled and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the alcohol made his movements clumsy. Instead, he just rolled a bit to the side, still holding you in his arms, and you seized the moment.

Sharply, but playfully, you twisted out from under him, as if wrestling, and slipped down—between his arms, past his chest, past his stomach. He tried to grab you by the waist, but his fingers only slid over the fabric of your dress. You were already at the edge of the bed, on your feet, laughing quietly so as not to wake his hunting instinct too strongly.

"No, no, champion," you said, retreating back toward the bathroom. "The trophy chooses a shower and bed today."

Oscar lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at you with an offended, drunken smile. His hair was disheveled, and in his eyes, you could read disappointment mixed with desire. You saw that he was aroused: the fabric of his shorts was taut, his breathing accelerated. He reached a hand out in your direction, as if wanting to pull you back.

"Hey, come here..." he drawled lazily. "I haven't celebrated properly yet..."

"Celebrate in your dreams," you replied, already standing in the bathroom doorway. "I'll be quick. And don't touch yourself without me, got it?"

He just chuckled, falling back onto the pillow, and you closed the door—not all the way, out of habit.

In the bathroom, you exhaled with relief. Fatigue washed over you in a wave. You took off your dress to feel free, and before getting into the shower, you started washing the makeup off your face. Although there wasn’t much, skincare was mandatory. The face in the mirror looked tired but happy. You managed quickly and leaned down to wash with cool water.

When you lifted your head, drops were running down your cheeks, and when the water finally stopped blurring your vision, you saw Oscar in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. The black t-shirt was still slightly ridden up; the white shorts, low on his hips, did not hide his erection. He looked at you silently, and you saw mischievous sparks in his eyes. You wiped your face with a paper towel and turned to him.

You looked at his arousal and raised your eyes, meeting his.

"What? Want to shower first?" you asked, not without a dose of sarcasm, hinting that he needed to calm down.

But Oscar didn’t answer. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly approached you. There was not even a hint of drunkenness in his movements now. His eyes ran from bottom to top over your almost naked body. You turned back to the mirror and realized that now you were definitely trapped. In a moment, he was behind you. His large, solid body pressed you against the vanity with the sink. His lips found your neck again, and his fingers, which just a moment ago were on your waist, slid down your stomach to the place that had begun to pulse. You felt his aroused cock against your buttocks.

"Oscar, I'm really tired," you said almost inaudibly, because his fingers had already found their way to your wet folds. You felt his touch and gripped the edge of the cold marble countertop with your palms. The mirror in front of you fogged up from your breath, but you still saw his reflection: eyes dark, shining, a sly drunken smile, but absolutely confident.

"I know," he answered right by your ear. "But you said it yourself... don't touch myself without you. Besides, you started it..."

His fingers on your pussy moved slowly, you would even say teasingly—not penetrating, just circling around your center. You reacted instantly: your hips pushed forward on their own, seeking more pressure, but he evaded, keeping you on the edge.

"Mmm..." you tried to protest one more time, but nothing came out, just an uncontrollable moan escaped.

He pressed harder—you felt his full length, hot and hard, through the thin fabric of his shorts against your buttocks. With one hand he held you by the waist, not letting you pull away, with the other—he continued these slow, unbearable caresses.

"You're wet," he whispered, as if surprised, as if it were a discovery for him. "Very wet. And this is after you were 'tired'?"

You bit your lip, trying not to give away how much this turned you on—specifically this drunken confidence of his, this playful cruelty, knowing you wouldn't run away now.

He turned you to face him. You ended up sandwiched between his body and the sink. His lips found yours—the kiss was greedy, passionate, wetter from the alcohol, but one that made your head spin. While he kissed you, his fingers slid down again—this time inside, unhurriedly sinking into you. You arched, pressing against his palm. Your own hands slipped under his t-shirt, lifting it up as if urging him to take it off, and Oscar, without thinking twice, got rid of it in a moment, remaining only in shorts.

He returned to your lips as soon as he fulfilled your silent request and tore away from you only when you both needed air. He looked into your eyes—and smiled. This Oscar was not at all like the one you were used to seeing in bed.

He touched your thong and pulled it down. It fell, gathering at your ankles, and the cool air touched your moist folds. Oscar grabbed you by the thighs. One sharp, confident movement—and you were off the floor. The cold of the marble countertop burned your bare buttocks and thighs when he sat you on it, but that cold instantly vanished under the pressure of his hot body. Oscar unceremoniously spread your knees wider, settling between them so tightly that not a millimeter of free space remained.

Now your faces were on the same level. In his eyes splashed dark, intoxicating pleasure—he saw you trembling, and he liked it.

"Osc..." you tried to say something, but he didn't let you finish. His lips attacked yours again—not just kissing, but as if consuming you. But this time he didn't stop at the lips.

He began real torture. Oscar covered your jawline with kisses, descending to your neck, intentionally lingering on the most sensitive points where the blood pulsed. He sucked on the tender skin, alternating it with light bites that made you arch back, nearly hitting the back of your head against the mirror.

He didn’t take off the bra you were still wearing; he just yanked it, and it rode up, freeing your breasts.

His lips fell to your aroused nipples, and he caressed them with his tongue. The arousal intensified from these caresses because your breasts were an erogenous zone for you, and Oscar knew it well.

His hand ended up between your bodies, found the place that was the main trophy for him. And he acted ruthlessly.

His fingers moved inside in a rhythm he set himself, completely ignoring your chaotic attempts to adjust. He would speed up, sharply thrusting deeper and forcing you to throw your head back, then almost stop, barely touching, teasing you to tears. It was masterful, planned overstimulation. And you didn’t know what you were being punished for. Was it for running away?

You felt everything at once: the cold stone under your palms, the heat of his breath on your chest, and this unbearably sweet pressure below. Your moan became louder, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.

"Shhh..." he whispered right into your mouth, stealing your breath. "The neighbors will hear..."

"Then... you... need... to stop..." you barely said, and your voice still broke into a loud moan from the overstimulation. Oscar had no intention of stopping, and you realized this when he sped up his movements. A wave of pleasure was already rising to your throat, your body tensed, preparing for the explosion. You instinctively squeezed his shoulders, pushing your hips toward his hand, begging for the finale.

But he sensed it. And abruptly stopped.

His fingers froze inside, ceasing movement exactly the second it was vitally necessary. Your body trembled treacherously from the incompleteness, and you opened your eyes, looking at him with a mixture of indignation and despair.

Oscar looked at you, breathing heavily, with a self-satisfied smile atypical for him. He ran his thumb over your lower lip, enjoying your reaction.

"Hmm... I'd like to try something else," he said. You let out a loud breath, feeling resentment that he tortured you so much but didn't allow you to come.

When he dropped to his knees and his face was right between your legs, you felt your walls contract in anticipation of his actions.

Oscar placed his palms on your thighs, spreading your legs even wider and securely fixed you in this defenseless position.

At first, you felt only his hot, ragged breath scorching your most sensitive skin, causing your stomach muscles to contract involuntarily. And then his tongue touched you—softly, broadly, from bottom to top, gathering all your juices.

"Mgh!..." you threw your head back, pressing the back of your head against the mirror. The cold of the glass sobered you a little, but the heat below was unbearable.

Oscar was in no hurry. It seemed he decided to taste every millimeter of you. He kissed the inside of your thighs, slowly approaching the center, teasing you with his slowness. His tongue moved confidently and wetly, and you felt him enjoying the taste as if you were his favorite vanilla ice cream.

But the real torture began when he focused on your clitoris. He didn't apply strong pressure, no. He barely touched it with the tip of his tongue, vibrating quickly, then suddenly switched to slow, wide circular motions. It was maddening. You wanted harder, faster, rougher, but he kept you in this state of weightlessness where pleasure bordered on the pain of tension.

"Fuck..." you exhaled, trying to move your hips toward his mouth to increase the pressure. "Oscar... please..."

He reacted, but in his own way. His hands gripped your thighs to the point of bruising, not letting you move on your own.

"Quiet..." his hum vibrated against your skin, sending a new electric shock through you.

Suddenly he added fingers. Two fingers abruptly entered inside, filling you, and began to move in the same rhythm as his tongue. This double attack knocked the air out of your chest. You grabbed his hair with your hands, clutching the strands, trying to hold on to reality, which was blurring before your eyes.

He played with you like a race car on a track—accelerating you to a crazy speed, forcing you to breathe raggedly and moan loudly, then abruptly dropping the revs, leaving you trembling at the very peak, but not letting you cross the finish line.

He pulled away for a second, and you felt the cold air on your wet skin. You opened your clouded eyes and saw him looking up at you from below. His lips were wet and swollen, his chin glistened with your juices, and that same devilish, drunken satisfaction burned in his eyes.

"You're so tasty when you beg," he rasped, his voice vibrating with arousal. "Want to come?"

He knew the answer. He saw your body taut as a string.

"Yes... Oscar, yes!" you almost shouted.

He smiled, and that smile promised you everything. He fell upon you again, but this time without games. His tongue moved fast, hard, knowing exactly where to strike. He began sucking on your clitoris with such intensity that you forgot how to breathe. His fingers moved inside madly fast, curling, seeking your G-spot, and when they found it, the world exploded.

A wave of pleasure crashed over you with such force that your vision went dark. Your legs trembled, and if Oscar hadn't held you with his strong hands, you would have just slid off that countertop onto the tiles. You gasped for air, trying to calm your heartbeat, which seemed to echo even in your ears.

But Oscar didn't give you time to rest.

He stood up from his knees, his face wet with your juices, and his eyes—dark and even greedier. He didn't even kiss you—just ran his hand along your wet thigh, as if checking the result of his work, and grunted with satisfaction.

"Thought that was it?" he rasped. "I haven't really celebrated yet..."

He easily lifted you off the countertop. Your legs gave way, your knees were like cotton, but he pressed you firmly against him, not letting you fall. He led you deeper into the bathroom, to the toilet, the lid of which was down.

"Stand here," he commanded softly. You leaned your back against the cool wall, watching him through a fog of pleasure. Oscar stood before you, flushed, incredibly handsome in his drunkenness and desire. His fingers, a bit clumsy from alcohol but impatient, gripped the waistband of his white shorts. He jerked them down, along with his underwear. The fabric fell to his ankles, and he carelessly kicked them aside, standing before you absolutely naked.

You involuntarily lingered your gaze on him. His cock stood straight up, hard, engorged with blood, pulsing with impatience. On the pale skin of his thighs, where his shorts usually were, the contrast with his tanned legs stood out. He looked powerful, and at the thought that all of this would be inside you right now, a wave of arousing heat ran through your body again.

Oscar sat on the toilet lid, spreading his legs wide, and pulled you by the hands toward him.

"Come to me," he called, looking you straight in the eyes. "Sit on top."

You took a step toward him. His warm palms rested on your buttocks, guiding you. You threw a leg over him, straddling him. His thighs were hard under yours.

You felt his head press against your wet, swollen entrance. It was a sensation on the edge—you were so sensitive after the orgasm that any touch seemed almost excessive, but at the same time, you felt an emptiness that only he could fill.

Oscar put his hands on your waist, helping you find your balance.

"Slowly..." he warned, though his own breathing was ragged.

You began to lower yourself. Centimeter by centimeter, he entered you, stretching, filling every corner with himself. You felt his hot hardness, his girth, and it made you throw your head back and moan loudly.

"Oh God..." you groaned.

When you lowered yourself all the way, your buttocks touching his groin, Oscar pressed his face into the curve of your neck with a noisy exhale. You sat face to face, tightly intertwined, skin to skin. It was intimate, hot, and incredibly tight. You felt his heart beating against your chest—just as madly as yours.

You tried to take the initiative and start moving yourself to find a comfortable rhythm, but Oscar stopped you. His large palms squeezed your waist, fixing you in place.

"No..." he mumbled, burying his nose in your hair. "I'll do it myself."

And he began to move. These were not the fast, rhythmic thrusts you were used to. Because of the alcohol, his body worked in a different mode: his movements were slow, languid, but incredibly deep. He would toss you up with his hips, and then forcefully lower you onto himself, burying himself in you to the very hilt, hitting your cervix.

For your body, which had just experienced an explosion of pleasure, this was a real test. Your walls were still spasmodically contracting, nerve endings were exposed, and every deep movement of his felt too sharp—on the border between pain and pleasure. You bit your lips, trying not to scream, because the sensations were so intense that tears gathered in your eyes.

"Oscar... that's... too deep..." you groaned, bracing your palms on his shoulders, trying to lift yourself at least a little to reduce the depth of penetration.

But he didn't listen. Or simply couldn't stop. Alcohol played a cruel joke on him for the first time: it dulled his sensitivity. What was overstimulation for you was insufficient for him. To feel you, to get closer to release, he needed more friction, more pressure, more time.

"I don't feel... the edge..." he rasped, and in his voice, irritation mixed with lust could be heard.

He began to move more insistently, rougher. He entered you at different angles, searching for that point that would finally allow him to break. He rubbed his pubic bone against your clitoris, which was already burning, forcing you to shudder with your whole body. It was like an endless loop: he stretched you, filled you, withdrew almost completely, and burst inside again, giving you not a second of respite.

You felt sweat trickling down your back, hair sticking to your neck. The air in the bathroom became heavy and humid.

"Oscar, I can't take it anymore..." you exhaled, feeling your legs starting to go numb from the awkward position, and everything inside burning from the continuous friction. "Please, finish..."

He raised his head and looked at you. His eyes were clouded, pupils dilated. He saw your fatigue, but that seemed to turn him on even more. He was aroused by having complete power over you, that you were entirely at his disposal, even when you had no strength left.

"I'm trying, baby..." he said playfully. "But you're so tight... and wet... I want this to last forever."

He changed tactics. Instead of deep thrusts, he began to grind into you with his hips, creating frantic friction inside. He squeezed your buttocks so hard that you knew—tomorrow there would be marks from his fingers there.

"Damn..." you cursed when he hit that same, overexcited G-spot again, forcing your body to treacherously react again, preparing you for a second wave you didn't ask for, but which he was striving for. "You're mocking me..."

"A little," he smiled crookedly, and a drop of sweat rolled down his temple. "That's for running away." He confirmed your guess as to why he decided to just kill you today.

You realized that if you didn't take the situation into your own hands (or rather—into your own body), this drunken marathon would last until dawn, and you would simply pass out right on top of him. You needed to push him over the edge, break through that alcohol haze that had dulled his sensitivity.

Gathering the last crumbs of strength, you stopped resisting his chaotic rhythm and did the only thing that could work without unnecessary movement. You hugged him around the neck, pressed your cheek to his wet temple, and squeezed your internal muscles with all your might.

Oscar hissed, freezing abruptly. You felt his cock twitch inside from this unexpected tight ring.

"Oh..." he exhaled, and his fingers dug painfully into your thighs.

You didn't let go. You continued to rhythmically squeeze him, combining it with short, barely perceptible pelvic movements to meet each of his thrusts. It worked. The pressure and heat finally did their job, switching something in his brain.

His breathing turned into a hoarse moan. The chaotic movements became short, sharp, and frantic.

"Yes... yes, like that... don't let go..." he babbled into your shoulder. You felt yourself relaxing, and his cock hitting exactly where it needed to. A second orgasm covered you today, and your walls began to contract around his again.

He made a few more deep, desperate thrusts, burying himself in you with the full weight of his body, and finally broke. His body tensed like steel, his back arched, and with a loud, drawn-out moan, he poured into you. You felt the hot, pulsating waves of his orgasm, which seemed to never end.

When the last spasms subsided, Oscar went limp. He dropped his head heavily onto your chest, breathing as if he had just run a marathon. You were completely exhausted too. Legs trembling, heart pounding, eyelids heavy as lead.

"I think I died..." you protested, having no strength even to move.

Oscar made some undefined sound, similar to a chuckle, and lazily kissed your collarbone.

"I'll revive you... tomorrow," he mumbled in a hoarse, sleepy voice.

"Shower," you whispered peremptorily, realizing that if you didn't wash the sweat and everything else off yourselves right now, you would simply fall asleep right here, on the toilet in the bathroom. "And this time—only to wash."

He laughed quietly, the vibration from his chest transferring to you.

"Yes, ma'am."

He helped you stand up. Your legs barely obeyed you, trembling after such tension, and Oscar, noticing this, just scooped you up under the arm, pressing you tightly to his side. Together you walked into the shower cabin.

Oscar turned on the water, and in a moment, pleasant warm steam enveloped you. When the streams of water hit your skin, you barely held back a moan of relief. The water washed away the stickiness, fatigue, and the remnants of the alcoholic haze.

This time he was surprisingly tender. Oscar took the shower gel and lathered it in his palms. He slowly ran his soapy hands over your shoulders, back, moving down to your lower back. His touches no longer demanded or teased—they soothed. He washed the traces of his fingers from your thighs, kissing the wet drops on your neck.

You, in turn, just leaned your forehead against his chest, allowing the water to run down both of you, and lazily moved your palm over his torso, washing away the sweat.

"You can barely stand on your feet," he mumbled into the top of your head, rinsing the foam from your hair.

"Whose fault is that?" you tore yourself away from his chest and looked up at him. He smiled, and now this man looked like "your Oscar" and not that wild lover who barely left you alive. The combination of three consecutive wins and a large amount of alcohol had revealed a new version of your boyfriend to you. And you would definitely never forget it.

Having dried off with one towel for two—quickly and carelessly, because the cold of the bathroom had already started to bite at your heated skin—you finally left the bathroom.

Reaching the bed seemed like the last task for today. As soon as you were near it, Oscar simply collapsed onto the mattress, pulling you with him. The cool bed linen seemed like the most pleasant thing in the world.

He immediately scooped you under him, settling into the "little spoon" position. His hand possessively lay on your waist, pressing your back to his chest, and his legs intertwined with yours. You felt his warmth, his even breathing by your ear, and that familiar scent, which was now clean and fresh.

Darkness and fatigue instantly swallowed you both. And although Oscar won the race in Miami today, his main victory, undoubtedly, was you, peacefully sniffling in his arms right now.

[tsunodaradio]

fast learner ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar teaches you everything you need to know before your date with lando.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 8.5k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance. profanity. pwp, soft dom!oscar-ish, oral [f & m], fingering, dry humping. inexperienced!reader, oscar talks you through it, he is a teensy 🤏 bit manipulative, just pure smut :(, lando haunts the narrative. title only kind of from niki’s backburner (which could mean nothing,,). ꔮ commentary box: hi, oh my gosh, i don’t think i’ve ever written pwp this long in my life. i’m kind of mortified (especially with the fact this has some >2k more words i shaved off). anyway, this was commissioned, tysm!!! 📑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 + read part two here!!!

Oscar Piastri is a patient man.

He has to be. With the way you barrel into his life and make yourself at home—your duffle bag always one laundry cycle away from living in his flat full-time, your half-drunk coffees trailing behind you like breadcrumbs, your laugh breaking over his ribs every time you tease him about being the most boring twenty-something alive—patience is the only option.

He thinks of himself as quiet. You call him steady. Reliable. “You’re my favorite person to do nothing with,” you said once, tucked under the same throw blanket, both of you half-asleep while a movie played on loop. The confession buzzed in his ears for days.

So, yes. Oscar Piastri is a patient man. But we never said he was a good one. 

Not when you turn up on his doorstep tonight, eyes glinting with something soft and nervous curling behind your lashes. He knows that look. It’s the one that makes his stomach sink and his throat tighten because he’s seen it before, but never has it been directed at him.

You perch on the edge of his kitchen stool like the ground might shift under you. You twist the end of your sleeve in your hands. He hates that you’re fidgeting. He hates that you’re nervous. Mostly, he hates that it’s not because of him.

“Lando asked me out,” you breathe. 

Oscar resists the urge to frown. “Okay.”

You look up at him, a hesitant smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“Should I say more?” he asks, deadpan, leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed over his chest, mostly so he doesn’t do something stupid. Like reach for you.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d be surprised. Or weird about it.”

“I’m not weird about it,” he lies, “and I’m not surprised. Lando would be stupid not to want you.”

You smile again, soft, grateful. It kills him.

Then the smile drops, and you sigh—one of those long, full-body exhales. Your fingers tap against the countertop. Once. Twice. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

He studies you. I can see that, he nearly says, but he settles instead with, “Why? You’ve known Lando for years.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

You won’t look at him. That tells him everything. Still, he waits. Patient, as ever. “I haven’t really done… a lot,” you murmur, eyes trained to the ceiling.

“Done?”

You glance at him then, briefly, face hot. “Sex. Stuff.”

He has to look away for a minute. Heat licks up the back of his neck, settles low in his gut. His arms tighten over his chest. The air shifts between you, dense and humming. You’re still talking, voice too delicate, too open.

“I just don’t want to disappoint him,” you babble. “Like, what if he expects me to know things? Or be a certain way? And I’m just me?”

Oscar turns his head, slowly, forcing himself to meet your gaze. You’re chewing your bottom lip raw, eyes downcast. There’s that part of you—unguarded, genuine, scared—that you never show anyone else. He knows it like he knows his own hands.

“You’re not just anything,” he says. It comes out harder than he meant it to; his throat feels like it’s lined with glass. “You’re…”

You finally look at him, just as he lamely finishes with, “... you. You’re you.”

He’d be more articulate, but his brain is kind of shutting down on itself.

Because now he’s picturing it. How Lando will touch you. If Lando will see the way your breath hitches when someone brushes your wrist. If he’ll know that you go quiet when you’re turned on. If he’ll think to ask before he undoes you.

Oscar shouldn’t want to know those things. He does, anyway. And now you’re here. Asking him—indirectly, innocently—for reassurance. As if he could talk you through this without wanting to burn the world down.

He swallows. “What if you didn’t have to worry about that?”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

His heart punches against his ribs. Stupid. Reckless. Absolutely not the plan. “What if someone you trusted showed you?” he says, voice sounding not quite like himself. 

You stare at him for a beat, gauging what he’s offering, whether he’s kidding. When you laugh out his name, a breathless, playfully scandalized “Oscar,” he can hear the strain beneath the two syllables.

“You said you were nervous because you haven’t done much,” he says. Carefully. “What if you didn’t have to go into it blind? What if you could learn with someone who already knows you? Who cares about you?”

He waitswaitswaits. 

You blink. Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the serious set of his mouth, the immovable force of his arms. And then. 

You nod. 

It’s small—barely there—but it changes everything. The air feels heavier now, like the pressure before a storm. Oscar doesn’t move right away. He lets the weight of your decision settle, lets it braid itself between the quiet inches of space still left between your bodies.

You’re still watching him. Like you’re waiting for him to flinch, to take it back. Like you think he might regret offering.

He doesn’t.

He only steps closer.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. Gentle. “Then we’ll go slow. You tell me what you want to know. What you want to feel.”

You nod again, firmer this time. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” you say shakily, brows drawn together adorably. “If we want to keep this from getting complicated.”

Oscar’s jaw tightens. He nods. “Got it.”

You’re close now—closer than you’ve ever been without an excuse. Oscar can feel your warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the almost-touch of your body to his. The two of you shuffle over to the couch, silent and in sync, just to make things easier. 

You sit side by side, knees pressed against each other.  Oscar watches your fingers pause just above the waistband of his joggers. You’re not trembling, not exactly, but there’s a hitch in your breathing that makes him want to reach out. Press a hand over yours, ground you. Not to stop you. Just to let you know he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says, voice roughened at the edges. “We’re not in a hurry.”

You glance up at him. He sees it again—that flicker of uncertainty, of unspoken questions. So he speaks first. “How far have you gone?”

Your voice is so, so small when you admit, “Not very. A little bit of making out here and there.”

There’s heat in your cheeks, in the way your eyes dart away like you’ve admitted to something shameful. Oscar hates that. He hates that you think your inexperience is something to hide.

“That’s good to know,” he says plainly. 

You fidget with the drawstring on his joggers, eyes still cast down. “Just so you don’t expect me to know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “This is just for you to learn. For you to feel safe. That’s all.”

You nod, your mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Still no kissing, though.”

Oscar swallows the protest that almost rises to his lips. “Right,” he rasps. “No kissing.”

It’s the only thing keeping this from tipping over into something else. Into something it can’t come back from.

You reach for him again, fingers tentative as they trace the curve of his oblique, just above the V of his hips. Oscar sits still, arms loose at his sides, letting you explore him.

“That’s a good spot,” he murmurs when your fingertips pass over the sharp line of muscle there. “Most people don’t realize how sensitive that area can be. Especially when someone’s paying attention.”

You hum thoughtfully and trail your hand upward, brushing over his ribs. He shivers. “Ticklish?” you ask, a touch amused. 

“A little. But in a good way.”

Your fingers drift again, this time along his chest, pausing at his pecs. You press your palm flat against him, and he instinctively tightens the muscle under your hand. “You flexed,” you say.

Oscar smiles. “Didn’t mean to. You caught me off guard.”

You trace your thumb over his nipple. A light brush. He exhales through his nose, his jaw tight. “That’s another good spot,” he mumbles. “Sensitive. A little underrated, honestly.”

You glance up at him, and for a second, Oscar forgets the rules. Forgets the line he’s supposed to be toeing. But he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let his eyes drop to your mouth. He is patient, he is patient, he is patient. 

You explore lower now, hands skimming the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband, but you don’t go further. Not yet. Oscar feels his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the way his cock is already hard and straining against the fabric.

Still, he waits.

“You okay?” he checks in.

You nod.

“Good,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to keep going?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding again.

“Need you to use your words, gorgeous,” he says, light and teasing, drawing a bashful laugh from you. 

“Yes,” you concede. “Wanna keep going.”

Oscar nods. “Then let me show you more.”

He reaches for your hand again, gently guiding it to his bicep, then his forearm. “Different parts of the body respond to different kinds of touch,” he murmurs, watching your expression all the while. “Here’s strong. Solid. But if you drag your fingers lightly—like this—”

He demonstrates on your arm, the softest touch over your skin. Goosebumps prickle over where his fingers had been. 

He mirrors it on himself, guiding your hand to follow. “It’s not always about pressure. Sometimes it’s about presence,” he says. “Letting someone feel you. Letting them want more.”

Your pupils are blown now. He wonders if you even realize you’re leaning into him. He doesn’t say it. He just lets you keep touching, keep learning, and he pretends he’s not falling apart from it.

Oscar sees it happen in your eyes before you say anything—the worry creeping back in, like doubt tugging at the corners of your mouth, pulling you inward. You’re still touching him, still warm and close, but your gaze is far away.

“I just…” you start, voice unsteady. “I keep thinking about what Lando might expect.”

Oscar doesn’t flinch, but it cuts anyway. A dull slice just beneath the skin.

You keep going. “What if he wants someone confident? Someone who can—who knows how to, I don’t know, use their hands or say the right thing or—”

He stops you with a firm, “Hey.”

You look up at him, startled.

Oscar’s expression is calm. Too calm, maybe, because he’s holding back everything. Every petty surge of jealousy, every instinct that wants to pull you away from this hypothetical version of Lando and remind you that he’s right here. That it’s his body under your hands. His pulse you’ve got racing.

“You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says. “And if you want to learn absolutely anything, I’m here. That’s it. That’s all this is.”

You nod, slowly. Still, your fingers hover—undecided, unsure. He stays where he is until you’re finally out of your head enough to move. 

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his joggers and tug them down.

Oscar’s breath catches. He helps you, pulling them off, leaving him in nothing but black boxers. Tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him thick against the fabric. He sees your eyes go there, linger, and it takes everything in him not to react.

You reach out. Palm first, hesitant. You touch him over the cotton, soft pressure at the base, and Oscar’s stomach tenses instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back against the couch cushion. He tries, valiantly, not to come undone from just this. 

Your hand immediately stills. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Not at all. You’re doing fine.”

You start to move again, stroking him through the fabric. Oscar’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. He has to steady himself, fists clenched at his sides.

“Pressure’s good,” he grunts. “But don’t be afraid to explore. You can use your palm... or your fingers. Try different things. I’ll tell you what feels nice.”

You trace along the length of his cock, fingers curving lightly around the shape of him, then back down to the base. He’s thick and growing heavier in your hand. You’re watching closely, brows drawn in concentration, like you’re studying him.

“You’re really hard,” you say, almost to yourself.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Yeah. That happens.”

Your gaze flicks up to him, quick. But he sees the shift in you. The awareness, the realization of the power you wield. Your hand moves more confidently now, a little more pressure. His hips jerk subtly out of instinct, reaction. 

Oscar breathes out through gritted teeth. “That’s good. Fuck, that’s—really good.”

You’re gnawing your bottom lip. “You like it?”

“I like you,” he says, before he can stop himself.

You laugh like it’s a fucking joke. You probably think he means it as your best friend, when the thoughts running through Oscar’s mind are far from friendly. 

You keep touching him. Slower now. More focused. Oscar—still pretending this is just for you, just a favor—lets it happen, lets you learn him one stroke at a time.

After what feels like forever of just you working him up, Oscar realizes he’s barely breathing.

Your hand is still wrapped around him through the thin fabric of his boxers, stroking him in slow, uneven movements. Unsure, but so eager. It takes every ounce of restraint not to buck into your touch. Not to groan louder than he should. Not to lose himself.

But then you pause.

Your fingers hover, nerves creeping back into your expression. And when you look up at him, your expression flayed open with such heartbreaking earnestness, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Can I—” you start, voice barely audible, “can I see it?”

Oscar exhales slowly, like it’ll keep him tethered.

“Yeah,” he manages. “‘Course.”

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides the boxers down. It takes effort—his cock is hard now, thick and straining against the cotton—but eventually they fall, pooling at his ankles. He’s already leaking at the tip, unable to resist the way you do him over.

You go very, very still.

Oscar watches you take him in. How your eyes track the length of him, how your lips part like you’ve forgotten how to close them. He resists the urge to shift under your gaze, to adjust himself, to do anything that might break the moment.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “It’s… bigger than I thought.”

He tries not to smile. Tries not to let it get to his head. He can feel it, anyway. The way the pride simmers under his skin, low and satisfied.

You keep looking, eyes full of something like awe, something almost reverent. He stores it in his mind for future reference. 

“Bigger than in videos?” he teases.

Your face goes even redder, and Oscar bites down a groan. You’re killing him.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just... I didn’t expect—”

“It’s okay,” he says, scooting closer just a bit. “I like that you’re curious.”

You reach out, slowly. Your fingers brush against the base of him, tentative at first. The contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.

“Still okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Careful with your nails. Not too sharp.”

You pull back immediately. “Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” he assures, voice a little strained. “Just—try using more of your palm. Yeah, like that.”

You adjust, cupping him with both hands now, dragging one slowly up the shaft while the other stays low. You trace a vein with your thumb, and Oscar’s hips twitch before he can stop them.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “That’s good. Sensitive there. ‘Specially near the tip.”

You take him at his word. Your thumb circles the head, a little clumsy, a little too dry. He winces. “Okay—wait, hang on,” he says, voice catching. “That’s good, but you need to slow down. Think less pressure, more glide. Use your fingers gently here, like you’re… coaxing.”

“Coaxing?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Like you want it to give you something.”

You giggle under your breath. The sound goes straight to his spine.

Still, you follow instructions well. Your fingers soften, the rhythm more fluid now. You explore at your own pace, brushing over the head, down the length, to the base again. You cup him. He twitches, bites back a moan. 

Oscar looks down at you—your flushed face, your blown pupils, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He wants to say something, anything, but all that escapes is a ragged, “You’re learning so fucking fast.”

He means it. Every shaky breath of it. Because if this is how you touch someone when you’re nervous and new, he can’t even imagine what you’ll be like when you’re not holding back.

And here’s when we realize Oscar is not as good as he ought to be: 

Oscar shouldn’t be thinking about Lando. Not now.

Not when you’re right next to him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, hands wrapped around the base of his cock like you’re still trying to make sense of it. But the thought wedges itself into the back of Oscar’s skull, ugly and persistent. Lando, waiting in the wings. Lando, clueless and grinning. Lando, who might never know what it took for you to get here.

Oscar breathes through his nose, grounding himself in the present.

You’re looking up at him like you’re waiting for permission.

He doesn’t want to be bitter. Doesn’t want to ruin this. So he softens his voice, makes sure you’re still there with him. “Good?” 

“Good,” you say, fingers still curled around his throbbing cock. “I—do you think I should try my mouth?”

Oscar cups your cheek. His thumb strokes along your jaw, reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says simply. “But if you want to try, I’ll help. I’ll talk you through it. Just go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, take a breath like you’re about to dive into deep water.

He watches as you lean in, lips brushing the tip of him. Just that alone sends heat curling through his belly. Your mouth is warm, soft. You press a kiss there, awkward and unsure, and Oscar exhales sharply.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to take much. Start with your tongue. Lick, taste me a little. Get used to it."

You follow his instructions, tongue flicking out, tracing around the head of his cock. It’s messy—your spit catching against the ridge, your lips dragging slightly too dry at first—but you’re trying. Concentrating.

“Good,” Oscar grunts. “That’s really good. Try using your hand around what you can’t take in your mouth. Keep it around the base."

You wrap your fingers tighter, your other hand bracing on his thigh. Your mouth opens wider and you take him in, slowly, maybe an inch or two. Your lips stretch around him. Your brow furrows.

“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.

You shake your head, but you gag a little when you go further. You pull back quickly, a breathless, embarrassed laugh spilling out of you. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t—wasn’t expecting that."

Oscar laughs with you, quiet, breathy. He smooths his hand over your hair.

“Nothing to be sorry about. That’s normal,” he says through his teeth. “Just go at your pace. You don’t have to get it perfect."

You try again.

This time, you take him into your mouth slower, lips stretched, tongue pressed flat against the underside. Your hand keeps a steady rhythm where your mouth can’t reach. It’s clumsy—your jaw is working too hard, your cheeks hollowing with effort—but it’s erotic in a way Oscar’s never experienced.

Because it’s you.

You, trying for him.

You, so obviously inexperienced and so desperate to learn.

He can’t help the sound that escapes him. Half groan, half whimper. His hips twitch forward, but he forces himself still. His hand stays gentle on the back of your head, not guiding yet, only grounding. “Good. Just like that,” he groans. “Little slower. There you go.”

Your spit’s everywhere now—slick on your chin, trailing down his cock, wetting your fingers. You look up at him again, eyes glassy, lips swollen, and Oscar feels something dangerous stir in his chest.

Lando won’t get this version of you.

Not the way Oscar has you now. Mouth stretched, blush deep, fingers trembling slightly from how much you’re trying to impress. He cups your jaw again, thumb stroking over your cheekbone.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So, so well.”

You hum softly around him—accidental or deliberate, he doesn’t know—and Oscar nearly comes undone. He has to breathe. He has to last. But it’s getting harder with every second you stay on your knees, letting him fall apart in your mouth.

Oscar’s voice is tight when he speaks next, tighter than it’s been all night.

“Can I—” he starts, and then pauses, swallowing hard. He forces his voice careful, normal. “Can I use your mouth a little?”

Your brows pinch, lips still swollen and wet, and he continues, nervous now. “Not rough, just… guiding a bit. Like Lando might. So you know how it feels.”

He hates himself for saying it like that. 

Hates invoking Lando’s name when your lips are red from him, when your hands are still trembling from the weight of him. But it’s the only way he knows you’ll let him. The only way to justify the way his cock aches to fuck into the willing shape of your mouth.

You nod. You pull away from him for a moment, voice barely carrying as you say, “Okay.”

Oscar cups the back of your head gently, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll go slow. You breathe through your nose, yeah?” he instructs. “If it’s too much, just tap me.”

You nod again, and he rocks his hips forward.

The first slide into your mouth is shallow, but Oscar feels it in his spine. The heat, the resistance, the obscene sound of spit and breath catching. His grip tightens slightly in your hair, steadying himself. You’re warm and wet and pliant, jaw relaxing more the deeper he gets.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it. Doing so fucking good, baby.”

He watches your hands scramble to his thighs, gripping him for balance. Watches your lashes flutter as he fucks forward again, deeper this time. The sound your throat makes as you try to take him fully is sinful. He doesn’t go all the way—won’t push you there, not yet—but he can’t help the slow, hungry rhythm he sets. A gentle grind of hips. A firm pull of your head toward him.

You gag slightly. He pauses. “You okay?”

You nod, watery-eyed, lips stretched, breath shaky through your nose.

“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face. “That’s it. Use your tongue. Just a little more… hng, fuck. Right there.”

He starts again. Small thrusts. Controlled. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust. Your throat convulses around him once, and he sees stars. He’s saying things now, low and unraveling, almost incoherent.

“Mouth so fucking perfect.” 

“My pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl.”

“Can’t believe I’m the first one—holy shit.”

The idea hits him again, harder this time. He’s the first. First one you’re letting in like this. First one whose cock you’ve taken into your mouth, messy and unsure and eager to learn. He’s the one who gets to show you what it’s like, what you’re capable of. What you deserve to be praised for.

His hips snap forward a little harder. You choke, just slightly. He slows again, hands gentling.

“Shhh. That’s it. You’re doing so good,” he rushes to praise you, hands stroking you soothingly. “My good girl, taking it so well. You’re making me feel so—fuck, I can’t even—”

Your hands squeeze tighter around his thighs, fingernails digging in, grounding yourself. Your eyes water more, and it makes you look somehow even more devoted. Even more his.

He groans, low and ragged, tipping his head back. “ I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that.”

And you—so innocent, so unknowing—you blink up at him through the tears and hum around his cock, sending a vibration so sharp it makes his knees weak.

He has to stop. Has to pull back. Has to catch his breath before this ends too soon. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Not when you’re letting him fuck into your mouth like it’s the only thing you were made for.

Oscar’s voice is more gravel than words now.

“Open wider for me,” he whispers, breath ragged, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw. “Exactly like that. Keep looking at me—fuck, yeah, don’t look away.”

He’s rocking into your mouth, riding the edge, and you’re so obedient it wrecks him. Jaw slack, tears shining in your lashes. There’s saliva at the corners of your lips, a glossy sheen along your chin. Your hands grip at his thighs like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to him.

“Touch yourself,” he says lowly. “You don’t have to finish. Just… want you to feel what you’re doing to me.”

You hesitate, shy even now. But you obey, hand sliding down to cup yourself over your shorts. And that’s what makes Oscar nearly come right then and there.

The idea of you squirming with your fingers buried between your thighs, while your mouth is so warm and wet around him? His stomach clenches, jaw tight. He feels his orgasm cresting fast, too fast, and he can’t hold it back anymore.

“Gonna come—fuck. Keep still for me, y-yeah? Please, baby?”

You do.

You hold perfectly still when he buries himself deep and comes with a broken sound. It’s not neat. It’s not silent. It’s breathless and shaky, his fingers curling hard in your hair as he pulses down your throat. You take all of it like a champ. Throat flexing. Moaning from somewhere deep down. 

When he finally pulls back, you’re panting, licking your lips without realizing it. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the sight. “Shit,” he breathes, immediately crouching, hands cradling your face. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, a little dazed. Voice hoarse. “No, no. That was just… intense.”

Oscar presses his forehead to yours, laughing softly, giddy and exhausted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your tongue pokes out again, tasting the corner of your mouth, and his eyes flick down.

“There’s still some—” He trails a thumb along the edge of your lips, catching the mess and rubbing it gently against your bottom lip. You shiver, lapping up what’s left of his cum.

“I thought it’d taste worse,” you say after a moment, honest and curious.

Oscar huffs out another laugh, leaning back on his heels. “What, were you expecting battery acid?”

You snort. “I dunno. It’s kinda… salty?”

Oscar tilts his head, grin lazy. “That’s what I get for not drinking pineapple juice.”

You slap his shoulder, but you’re smiling, and so is he. His thumb swipes again at your mouth, this time lingering. “Still messy,” he murmurs, and he means more than your lips. You’re flushed and blinking slowly, your hand still resting on his thigh like it belongs there.

He kisses your cheek gently. “Come on. Water, now. And then…” He lets the words hang, his voice suddenly quieter. “Then we can talk.”

Because even if your mouth is still sweet with the taste of him, even if his heart’s still sprinting, there’s something else beneath the surface.

Moments later, you’re curled up beside him on the bed, knees hugged to your chest, one of his hoodies drowning your frame. Oscar’s already brought you water, wiped your mouth clean, even insisted you lie down while he fetched you a snack you didn’t ask for. The air between you is light, made tender with the weight of what just happened.

You’re quiet, not awkward exactly, but distracted. Fidgety. Your fingers play with the cuffs of your sleeves like they’re something to disappear into. Oscar watches you closely.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just… yeah.”

Oscar waits. You always do this—start saying something only to retreat, like you’re testing the water first. He lets the silence stretch long enough before trying again. “You’re squirming.”

Your brows lift, startled. He keeps his voice soft. “You’re uncomfortable?”

You don’t answer right away, but you do shift again, thighs pressing together tightly. The tension in your body isn’t something he can ignore. Not after everything. Not with how hard you tried to do well for him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and brushing the back of his hand against your arm. “Talk to me.”

You bite your lip. It takes a breath, maybe two, before you mumble, “I think I made myself sore.”

Oh.

It hits him all at once. How long you were down there, how hard you were trying to do everything right, how nervous you must have been. How wet the inside of your thighs must be now, how much slick had probably gathered with no relief, how the pressure must be lingering between your legs. He swallows, shame curling low in his gut.

“I—fuck. I didn’t think. I should’ve asked.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, trying to wave it off, but you don’t meet his eyes.

He hesitates.

“I could… help,” he offers, and hates himself a little for how it comes out, too eager and too unsure. He forces himself to do better. “Only if you want. It might help, just—relieving some of that. So you’re not in pain.”

You blink at him. He sits back, pretending like he’s reasoning it out with you, when really it’s all he can think about.

“I mean—Lando’s not gonna be hands-off forever, right?” he says through gritted teeth. “If you’re still planning on saying yes to him. And this way, you’d know what it’s like before he tries anything. You won’t be surprised.”

It’s petty. The words taste like vinegar in his mouth. But it’s the best he can do to mask the heat coiling in his chest.

You contemplate it, glancing at him—quick, uncertain, like you’re scared to name what you want. “Okay,” you say after one too many seconds. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

And Oscar feels it down to the marrow.

Not triumph. Not desire.

Just the raw, aching privilege of being the one you trust to make this feel okay.

Oscar sits beside you, palm warm where it rests lightly against your knee. He’s still watching you too closely, still trying to balance every inch of his desire with the care you deserve. It burns in his chest, the knowledge that you trust him with this. That you’re letting him learn your body before anyone else.

“You know you can stop me at any point, right?” he reminds you, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to go anywhere.”

You stare up at him, so trusting that it’s devasting. “And still no kissing.”

It stings. He smiles anyway. “No kissing,” he agrees. 

He lets you lie back on the bed, positioning yourself however’s most comfortable, and then follows your cues. He starts with your arm—his fingertips brushing the inside of your wrist, then the crook of your elbow, slow and methodical. His hands are always warm, always clean, always careful. And when you shiver, just slightly, he clocks it.

“That one?”

You let out a low sound of approval. “It’s weird,” you say. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

Oscar hums, lips parting in thought. He bends to press his mouth to the same spot. Not a kiss, just a hot breath and a drag of his lower lip that makes your arm twitch.

He keeps going, skimming over your collarbones, mapping the line where your shirt starts underneath his hoodie. His hand slides under the hem—slow, deliberate. “Still okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

He palms over your stomach first. Then higher. You’re not wearing a bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp.

“Oh.”

Oscar pauses. His eyes flick to yours.

You look vaguely horrified. “I—I think I like that a lot.”

He fights back a grin. “That’s good.”

“No, like. A lot a lot.”

He huffs a breath through his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a moan—and cups you properly. Weighs the softness in his hand, just to hear your little intake of breath. “You’re sensitive here?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your nipple.

Your hips shift. “Jesus,” you groan. “Yeah.”

He’s going to file that away forever. Instead of teasing you more, he pulls your hoodie and shirt up properly, lets it bunch above your chest. His hands return, this time more focused, both of them. He tests how you react to pressure, to circular motions, to the pad of his thumb versus the flat of his palm. He listens to every sound you make. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your lashes.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says almost reverently.

You laugh, flustered. “Shut up.”

He leans in, face close enough to see the heat blooming across your cheeks. “I think they’re my favorite thing about you,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“You’re only saying that because you’re touching them.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

You whimper, but you don’t stop him. You arch into his touch. And Oscar knows—this is only the beginning of how you’ll learn each other.

Oscar’s hands settle over your chest, the weight of his palms grounding you as your breath quickens beneath him. He takes his time, leans down just enough to latch his mouth over you. Rolling one nipple between his fingers while his lips drag across the swell of your other breast, tongue flicking just barely where he knows it’ll make you squirm.

The first sound you make is soft. Barely audible. The second is more of a whine, your hips shifting with increasing urgency. He grins against your skin. “Feels good?”

You nod, lips parted, eyes unfocused. “Mhm.”

Oscar’s mouth closes around your nipple, sucking lightly, then a little harder, just to test how far he can push. Your hands are in his hair before you even realize, fingers tugging when he sucks deep and slow. He lets his teeth graze, and you buck beneath him.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

He pulls back slightly. “Too much?”

“No, no,” you say, breathless. “No, it’s—I don’t know.”

He raises an eyebrow and brings his hand lower, resting it over your shorts. You’re panting, devastated in how you’ve unraveled, and Oscar can feel it before he even presses down.

Wet.

When he applies the slightest pressure, you jolt again, eyes wide and embarrassed. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and your mouth opens like you might explain yourself. “I didn’t mean to,” you whimper. “I didn’t think I was that close. I’m sorry—”

He cuts you off, voice low and impossibly warm. “Don’t apologize. That was hot.” Oscar leans in, brushing your temple with his nose. “You got off just from that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat, quieter.

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, still tracing lazy circles over the damp fabric. “Can I move these?”

He feels you nod, feels the way your voice cracks when you say, “Yeah.”

Oscar is careful, fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging the shorts and your underwear down in one slow motion. The air hits you first, then his gaze, heavy and adoring.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He only settles beside you again, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh, already planning how to show you there’s nothing wrong with wanting like this. He watches the way your stomach still flutters with the aftershocks of your orgasm, how your breath stumbles, how your eyes glass over as you try to refocus on him. Your hips twitch when his thumb accidentally grazes your clit.

Oscar shifts closer, his palm warm against your thigh as his fingers trace the soft skin, inching upward like he’s trying to memorize you. Your shorts are pushed down now, panties too, and he still hasn’t looked away from you—not really. He watches the way you squirm, your mouth parting, your gaze flitting from his eyes to his hand like you don’t know which part of this you should be more overwhelmed by.

“You good?” he checks in again.

You nod, then hesitantly add, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

He smiles reassuringly, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “That’s okay.” A pause, then, gently, “Can I ask something? When you touch yourself… how do you do it?”

The question makes your whole face turn an incandescent shade of pink. You laugh, a little out of discomfort, covering your eyes with one hand. “Oscar.”

“I’m serious,” he says, still smiling, but there’s a real curiosity in his voice now. “I wanna know what you like.”

You mumble something about how you usually just rub circles, nothing fancy. Oscar hums, clearly thinking.

“Like this?” he asks, finally dragging his fingers over your folds, slow and feather-light. He finds your clit with an ease that makes your hips jerk, and he chuckles under his breath. “Jesus. Sensitive.”

You gasp, one hand clutching at the bedsheets. “It’s d-different when someone else does it!”

He’s already testing pressure, rhythm, the edge of your comfort. You try to help, stuttering out what feels good, what doesn’t, but the more he listens, the less coherent you become.

He spreads you open a little further, fingers slick with the mess you’ve already made. “You’re soaked,” he mutters, half in awe. “And this is just my fingers.”

You arch when he grazes your clit just right, thighs twitching as he keeps a steady pressure there. It doesn’t take much before your hips start moving with him, chasing each slow, teasing circle.

“You’re so quiet,” he whispers. “Trying not to make noise?”

You whine, breath catching. “It’s embarrassing.”

Oscar leans over, kisses your jaw. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You don’t have to be quiet.”

Then he slides lower, one finger dragging down to tease your entrance, not pushing in, just circling. Your breath stutters again.

“Here?” he asks, thumb still gliding over your clit.

You nod frantically. “There, there, there—”

He doesn’t push in, not yet. Just keeps rubbing you, watching your thighs tense and your chest heave, and when he finally slips the tip of one finger inside, your whole body jolts.

It’s not long. It’s not even deliberate. Your legs tense, your mouth drops open, and you come a second time with a high, shocked sound, like you didn’t know you were close until it was already happening.

Oscar groans, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching with restraint. He’s hard in his joggers, achingly so, and he has to breathe through it, through the image of you coming around nothing but his hand.

“Can you handle more?” he asks, the pads of his fingers still slick with you. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You look at him, dazed but trusting. “I think so.”

He smiles—relieved, reverent, wrecked. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

Oscar starts slow. He pushes a finger in, shallow at first, just letting your body adjust to the stretch. Then he draws it back out, slick with arousal, and adds another. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than you. “So warm.”

His free hand steadies your hip as he starts to move his fingers—slow and steady, curling just slightly. Then he presses his thumb back against your clit, circling softly, like he’s trying to soothe and tease you at once. The combination makes you cry out, hips jerking, your hands fumbling for something—his wrist, his arm, the bedsheets.

“Oscar,” you pant, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s a lot.”

But you take it. You whimper and clench and rock against his hand, and he watches in disbelief. Watches the way you squirm beneath him, overwhelmed but hungry for it anyway.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, kissing your collarbone. “Taking me so well.”

Then, like it’s an afterthought—but it’s not, it never is—he glances up at you again. “Can I try one more thing?”

You hesitate, still breathless, but nod.

Oscar shifts, lowers himself until he’s between your legs, face hovering close to your core. He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Then he ducks his head, mouth closing over your clit.

The instant moan that rips out of you is loud, uncontrolled. Your back arches. You grab at his hair, not pulling away, just trying to ground yourself.

He groans into you, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His fingers keep moving, scissoring slightly now, stretching you open as his tongue flicks and presses and licks.

You fall apart. There’s no other word for it. You come again, around his fingers. Crying out, shaking, the pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.

He should stop.

Your legs are twitching on either side of his head, breath hiccupping in your chest like you’re trying to pull yourself back down to earth. But Oscar can’t. Not yet. Not when your thighs are caging him in. Not when the taste of you is still on his tongue. Salty-sweet, slick, utterly intoxicating.

He licks deliberately, slow and broad this time, from the base of your entrance all the way up to your clit. Then he does it again, fingers still buried inside you, curling with intent.

You let out something between a sob and a moan. “Osc,” you cry, barely a hiccup. 

He hums against your cunt. The vibrations make your hips buck.

“You’re sensitive,” he says, voice hoarse. “I know.”

You squirm, trying to close your legs, but his hands are firm, holding you open at the hips. He mouths at your clit with a little more gentleness, his fingers coaxing what else he knows you can give.

“C-can’t,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Yes, you can,” he breathes, kissing over the swollen bud. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair. You’re not pulling him off, but there’s a bit of an edge to your tug. “W-wait, don’t eat me out,” you squeak. “It’s—you don’t know how that tastes—”

He lifts his head just long enough to look at you. His mouth glistens as he grins, just on the right side cocky. “You think I care?”

Your face burns.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says plainly. Then he ducks his head again, tongue working you open, pushing inside while his fingers slide back in, finding that spot again. That one spot that has you gasping.

The overstimulation hits hard. You writhe against the bed, thighs trembling violently as he holds you still. He alternates between licking your clit and sucking it, his fingers never slowing. You can’t form words anymore. All that’s left are fractured sounds, guttural and high-pitched, your hands fisting the sheets.

Oscar’s lost in it. In you. Your taste, your scent, the way you pulse and clench around his fingers, the way your body jerks when his mouth hits just right.

“You’re so good,” he groans into you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “So sweet. Can’t believe you’ve never… holy shit.”

When your third orgasm crashes down, full-body and violent, only then does he lift his head. Chin glistening, eyes dark and glassy with want.

Oscar drags himself up your body slowly, carefully, kissing the warm stretch of your stomach and the slope of your ribs, nose brushing against the curve beneath your breast. He keeps his mouth from your lips—like you asked—but not without effort. It’s instinct, habit, the way he wants to kiss you when you’re like this: glowing, boneless, trembling beneath his weight.

Instead, he lets his mouth drag over the skin of your collarbone as he adjusts himself between your thighs. His joggers cling to his hips, but the strain in them is unmistakable. A thick, hard ridge pressed tight to the slick heat of your core. 

He rocks his hips forward—just a little—to feel it. To feel you.

Your cry breaks sharp in the air.

“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead falling to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “I—can I? Just—this. Let me have this. Please.”

You nod, too dazed to speak, too desperate to deny him. “Go,” you say, equal parts merciful and needing, “take what you need, Osc.”

Oscar’s thrusts stay controlled, but the friction is filthy. Raw cotton dragging along your clit in time with the heavy flex of him beneath the fabric. You’re soaked and sensitive, and every pass of his hips makes your body jerk, back arching as your cunt clenches around nothing.

His hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you steady as he ruts forward again with a helpless whine. “You’re so good,” he pants. “Being so good for me. Feels like you’re made for this, for me.”

Each grind is punctuated by low groans in your ear, Oscar’s voice dissolving into breathless praise and curses. He presses his forehead to your temple, eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on, to make it last. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it, baby. Let me feel you. Just like this. Just—fuck, just like this.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he thinks he could die like this, right here. Held between the ache in his chest and the heat of your cunt under his cock. Still not inside, but it’s enough. Yours to give, and his to ruin.

Oscar doesn’t know if it’s shame or worship that makes him move like this. He kisses down your sternum instead of your mouth, like he promised, but it doesn’t stop his desperation from bleeding into every motion, every panting breath fanned against your skin.

You’re too perfect, with your breath catching in little sobs each time he drags his hips forward. He almost doesn’t hear it over the slick sound of your bodies, but it’s there. You, whispering his name. Moaning it.

“Oscar,” you whimper, nails clawing down his back like you’re marking your territory—and it nearly pushes him over the edge. “Oh my God, O-Oscar.”

He chokes on a groan and hides his face against your shoulder, but the thoughts swarm him. Every disgusting, shameful fantasy he’s kept buried over the years spills into the forefront of his mind.

You, crawling into his lap asking for help like this. 

You, naked in his sheets, lips wet and eyes glassy as you beg him to show you how to please someone else. 

How many nights has he gotten off to the image of your hands down your shorts, whispering his name without realizing? How many times has he thought about bending you over his kitchen counter, your voice broken and pleading?

This is the closest he’ll ever get. This—this lesson. This half-sin under the guise of helping, of making sure you won’t be surprised when Lando touches you.

He’s not supposed to want it. He’s not supposed to want you.

But your cunt is dripping for him, and his cock is rock-hard beneath his joggers, and when he feels your hips stutter up against him like you’re meeting him halfway, like you might want it just as much as him—

Oscar bites down on the curve of your shoulder, just to keep himself tethered. You cry out, raking your nails down his back so hard it leaves trails of fire. And then he’s coming, rutting forward through the cotton, wet warmth soaking between you two as his body convulses with it.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, he’d do it all over again. He’d do worse, if you let him.

And he still won’t kiss you.

Oscar goes through the motions of aftercare. He’s a lot of nefarious things, but he’s not evil. 

The bathroom is still warm with the steam of your shared shower, water droplets clinging to the corners of the mirror. Oscar’s fingers are soft where they glide along the towel he’s wrapping around your shoulders. He crouches a little to meet your eyes, his gaze searching. Not for anything dramatic, but for signs. Of your comfort. Your peace. Maybe even your joy.

You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, legs tucked in close to your chest, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s rubbing at your calves with another towel, not even bothering to hide the adoration on his face. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. Not since he washed you gently between the legs, murmuring quiet apologies you kept telling him weren’t needed.

Oscar sits on the edge of the tub eventually, elbows on his knees, letting out a breath like he’s been carrying the world. The silence stretches in a syrupy way. You’re the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you groan, cheeks flushed. “Like I’ll float away.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’m not letting you float away.”

You try not to melt, fidgeting with the edge of the towel instead. You’re smiling now too, though, and it knocks him out. 

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Can I say something kind of cheesy?”

You glance at him, waiting.

“Don’t ever settle for someone who doesn’t treat you like this. Okay?” Oscar manages. “Like you’re precious. Like they know how lucky they are just to get to hold you.”

Your mouth trembles a little, and he catches it with his thumb before it can turn into something shaky. His touch stays steady, thumb against your cheekbone.

“That goes for Lando, or anyone else,” he goes on. “If they don’t take their time with you—if they don’t care to learn what you like, how to care for you—then they shouldn’t get to have you.”

You blink rapidly, eyes too bright. “You’re going to make me cry,” you complain, but the appreciation bleeds into the curve of your laugh. 

Oscar kisses your shoulder, still damp from the towel, and whispers, “You deserve only the best of things. Always.”

You lean into him then, and his arms wrap around you like they were always meant to. “Thank you,” you sigh into the crook of his neck. “You’re the best friend ever.” 

Does it sting to hear? Of course.

But, like we’ve established—Oscar is a patient man. 

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The selfish, godforsaken truth pulses in his chest like a second heartbeat: 

Oscar hopes you’re ruined for anyone else. ⛐

box, box!!! ⸻ i am currently taking commissions for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts. read more on where to donate & how to request.

[laceyluvver]

oh, i remember.

summary: after a stressful day at work, you run into an ex at a bar. he looks different, older, or suits him. how quickly do you fall back into old (but very pleasurable) habits?

warnings: mdni, unprotected PIV! (they talk about it), ex! spencer, oral (f rec), munch! spencer, lots of reminiscence on the past. don’t read if you miss your ex lmaoo.

wc: 3.6k!! please reblog!!

DC was fairly new to you. Well not living there, you’d been there three years, but you’d had your head so buried in legal cases you don’t think you’d seen anything outside of the office and your house.

The promotion you’d been grinding for had finally been handed to you in the past month, finally meaning you had weekends off. And weekends off means actually going outside in the city you lived in.

Someone from the office had mentioned the bar, it was fancier than the bars you’d frequented in LA. You could tell by the yellow lamps on the wall, lighting up the bar just enough to see but not enough to make it feel like a hospital. Plush velvet red seats cover the place, it was cohesive. A place meant to make you feel rich.

Sitting at the bar you wait patiently for the bartender to get you, placing your order, a dirty martini. Extra dirty. Handing your card over for the tab, you swirl the stick around in your drink, eating the olive off the end.

It wasn’t busy. A couple on a date sitting in a booth in the corner giggling to themselves, noses almost touching. People like you, just gotten off work and drinking their sorrows away, heads between their arms sinking drink after drink. You could hear a group laughing behind you, all off them bursting out as soon as a joke was told.

You don’t turn around. Staying engrossed on your phone, scrolling through your emails. It was a bad habit, mind never truly off work.

Out of the corner of your eye someone appears next to you at the bar. You’re on your second martini, sipping on it regularly and savouring the taste in your mouth.

His cologne is what makes you look up from your phone. It’s a rich smell, slightly musky and earthy. Like when you open the door to a specialist coffee shop, first the coffee smell. Then the notes - woody, spicy, fruity. It’s familiar, and smells like the past. You cannot figure out where on earth you have smelt it before. Wracking your brain you actually look up from your phone, it feels like the air gets knocked out of your lungs.

“Spencer?” It tumbles from your lips before you can even register it. He looks different, not bad but different. Older.

“Oh my god.” He says as he turns towards you, the realisation dawning on his face and also drinking you in. Then, pulling you into a hug and the smell hits you all over again.

“Is Spencer hugging?” Emily says, staring at the two across the bar, the whole team doing the exact same unabashedly.

“The guy won’t even shake hands.” Penelope gasps, grabbing onto Derek’s arm.

“A woman?” Dereks brain almost short circuits at the sight. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

“Past lover?” Rossi questions, “We all have a past.”

They’re all still staring, watching your hand grip onto his forearm and the huge smile on Spencer’s face.

Penelope taps on Derek’s arm, “Go over!”

“Alright, alright.” He holds his hand up, shuffling out of the corner booth and striding over to the two of you at the bar. “So, Pretty boy, you going to introduce me?”

“Pretty boy?” The shit eating grin on your face is apparent as you stare at Spencer and he turns a lovely shade of pink.

“This is Agent Derek Morgan.” He introduces and you hold a hand out to shake. He does, it’s firm. “And over there gawking is the rest of my team.” He points over your shoulder to the people who you had heard doubling over in laughter earlier. They all dart their eyes away, pretending to be engrossed in another conversation.

“So how do you guys know each other?”

“Straight to the point, I like you.” You laugh at Derek shaking your head. “We went to college together, well second college.”

“Are you another super genius?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Ha! No I’m.” You start but Spencer cuts you off.

“Yes she is, she’s smarter than me.”

God, you’d missed those brown eyes.

“Umm, do you want to meet the team? I don’t think i’ll ever hear the end of it, if you don’t.” He rocks back on his heels nervously.

“Sure!” You agree, Derek walks in front of the two of you and you feel his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the booth.

They all scoot up so you and Spencer sit on the end. “Sorry in advance.” He whispers into your ear and almost immediately you are met with a colourful hand.

“Hi I’m Penelope!” She’s all smiles and brightness as you reach out and grab her hand back. “Ooo! I love your nails, you’ve got to tell me where you get them done!”

“Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer Jareau, Emily Prentiss, David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner.” Spencer lists, pointing around the table.

“Call me JJ.” The blonde says and locks eyes with the dark haired woman next to her, Emily.

“What do you do? As a job I mean.” Emily asks, sipping from her drink.

“It’s no where near as interesting as yours.” You chuckle, “I’m just a lawyer.” You shrug and also sip from your drink.

You can feel all of their eyes on you and you don’t even want to know how it feels to be interrogated as a suspect.

“What branch?” The man next to Spencer says, Aaron. “Also call me Hotch, everyone does. I used to be a prosecutor.”

“Property. Mainly closing on houses and making sure let agreements are fair.” You explain.

“She’s being humble, she’s about to own half of the lawfirm she’s working for.” Spencer interjects.

It was as if they were passing a ping pong ball between them with their eyes. All unable to go a second looking you in the eye before darting to another persons.

“You know for a bunch of people who read people for a living.” You start and you’re sure all of their head whip to you at once. “You’re really terrible at hiding what you’re thinking on your face.” You almost laugh. Spencer does.

“How do you guys know each other?” It spills from Penelope’s lips the second after you stop talking.

“We went to college together. Both did a chemistry PHD.” You explain, crossing one leg over the other.

“Another doctor!” She exclaims happily.

It continues that way for a while, bouncing questions around the group and buying rounds of cocktails and shots. They told you stories of their cases and that time Spencer got shot in the knee. You tell them stories from college and how you were there when he did his first ever shot of vodka, and how he threw it up right after. Hotch and Rossi go home then, leaving the “Young ones” to their fun.

“Soo.” JJ starts and you can tell Spencer shoots her a look but she’s too buzzed to care. But so was everyone. “Did you guys date in college?” There’s a smirk on her face, you choke on your drink and Spencer turns pink again.

“No!” The both of you exclaim at the same time. “Just friends.” It was a rehearsed play at this point, hearing it almost everyday as you both got your doctorates. Everyone asking when the two of you were going to get married and have super genius babies.

Another round of eye contact goes around them. “We’ve never seen him hug someone before.” Derek smirks, “He tells people it’s safer to kiss than shake hands.”

“Hey I’m sitting right here!” He complains, running his hands through his hair. It wasn’t slicked like it used to be, you liked the curls.

“I know that, was the first thing he said when he met me.” You smirk at Spencer, your shoulders bound as you chuckle and you can feel the alcohol hit your feet.

The team sends eachother a pointed look, but it’s Emily who opens her mouth, after taking the shots that Hotch and Dave had left behind. “So just fucking in college then.”

Now, you both turn the shade of red you had giggled at Spencer for earlier. You advert your eyes and bury your face into your shoulder. Spencer chokes on his beer, bringing his hand up to clear his throat.

“See the two of you can’t even deny it!” Penelope laughs, pointing at the two of you. “Even when he had that slicked hair and looked like a little sad puppy?” She gasps, now enquiring. Her green framed glasses slide down her nose and she pushes them up, both elbows on the table and leaning in.

You look at Spencer, he looks as if he wants to crawl out of his skin rather than talk about his past sex life with his coworkers.

“I didn’t always look like this.” You shrug, not wanting to make Spence any redder than he already was. “I was also a nerd.”

Then, JJ’s phone rings. She pulls out her phone, you can’t hear what she’s saying but you can tell that something isn’t right from the scrunch in her brow.

“Sorry guys, I’ve gotta run. Henry’s thrown up and is apparently coming down with a fever and he’s asking for me.” Her shoulders dip and she goes to shuffle out of the booth and everyone goes with her.

“Wait!” Emily calls before she can leave, “I’ll get an uber with you, those extra shots did me in.” She holds a hand up to her head for extra sympathy.

You almost roll your eyes.

They disappear out of the door, pulling you up for a hug before they left, promising to invite you to a girls night at some point in between cases.

Penelope and Derek wander off to the bar and jumping up to the bar seats, getting cozy under the yellow lights.

“Are they?” You ask Spencer, nudging his shoulder and hinting their way.

“None of us know.” He smiles. “They’re always flirting at work, Babygirl this, Chocolate thunder that.”

“Chocolate Thunder?” You widen your eyes.

“Once he got big black twelve pack.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing at that, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes and he laughs along. It was like how it used to be when you were in college and you’d tell him some horrific chemistry pun and he’d double over, holding his sides.

“I mean, they call you pretty boy.” You smile, eyes scanning over his face. The age looked good on him, so did the light facial hair and curls. You thought about how it would feel in between your-

He clicks his fingers in front of your face and you snap out of your daydream. The smirk on his face tells it all, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. “Do you remember,” His eyes flick over your shoulder to see Derek and Penelope gone, leaning in closer. “When we had that one chem final, by that horrible professor.”

“God that was gruelling, we both studied for like 30 hours straight before it. He hated us I swear.” You chuckle lightly, however it catches in your throat as one of his hands brushes the inside of your knee.

He’s closer now, and you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear. “And after the exam.” He kisses the crook of your jaw. “We went into that supply closet, and I ate you out for so long you couldn’t stand, and I had to hold you up as we fucked right there.”

You’re sure you were wetter than the river nile, panties 100% soaked through and you wouldn’t be surprised if there was a mark on the seat.

“Oh, I remember.”

The next thing you know his lips crash onto yours, big hands grasping the sides of your face and pulling you into him. He tasted exactly as you remembered, but with the beer he’d been drinking added. He was a man now, not the boy you used to know.

His tongue slips into your mouth and the moan you let out is far too loud for the public setting you’re in. Luckily, it’s drowned out by the soft jazz music playing through room.

“Do you want to get out of here? My place is free, I’ll get an uber.” You scramble up, grabbing your purse.

“My place is closer, like walking distance.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the bar and down the road.

“Ok.” You feel the excitement coursing through your veins, making your fingers tingle and a skip in your step as you do the five minute walk to his apartment. You feel his hand snake down and to your ass and give it a hearty squeeze. “Hey!” You laugh and swat his hand away.

“I couldn’t help myself.” He kisses the top of your head and guides you up the stairs of his apartment, hand firmly planted on your ass again.

His apartment was exactly what you’d imagined. Book filled, all browns and greens and warm lights. Autumn personified. “Do you want a tour?” He’s behind you kissing down your neck.

“Mmm” You hum leaning onto his kisses. “Give me one in the morning.”

“Then I’ll show you the way to the bedroom.” He mumbles, guiding you forward into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. The new facial hair covering his cheeks rubbing at your neck.

His room was the exact same as the rest of the apartment. Warm and cozy but it smelt of his cologne. It was suffocating.

His hands shake around your front, popping each button open. Fingers grazing the swell of your tits, then down nine soft skin of your torso. “Get on the bed.”

You almost squeal with excitement and crawl onto the bed, throwing your shirt onto the floor beside you. The way he crawls up you is almost predatory and you were sure you’re going to be eaten alive, not that you minded.

Fingers fiddle with the zip at the back of your pencil skirt, then yanking the whole thing down your legs and joining your shirt in the pile on the floor. “You wear these for me?” The lace of them is soft under the pads of his fingers.

“I didn’t even know you were in DC!” You laugh, bare calf resting on his shoulder exposed by his own shirt slipping off his shoulders.

“You wore these for someone else?” Spencer almost growls, roughly pulling them off you and throwing them behind him somewhere, the flash off black flying through your vision.

Opening your mouth to fend off his misplaced jealousy, his tongue licks a full stripe up you. Sucking your clit into his mouth and replacing your defence with a loud moan.

“You were saying?” He smirks and dives back into your pussy, eating you like he was a starved man.

“Spence, fuck!” You cry out, hand jutting to the sides, gripping his sheets and pulling them up with the arch of your back. His hand slides under your back and yanks you closer to his mouth, making you gasp and your toes curl desperately.

The fleeting thought crosses your mind, how did you ever let this go?

You felt like you were floating as his tongue circles your clit softly, and a constant string of whimpers pull from your chest then turn into a high pitched moan as you feel two fingers slip into you. You feel him smile against you.

Tongue lapping at you and fingers pumping in you make you feel transported to the edge of heaven, the pearly gates filtering in at the edge of your vision. You know he can tell you’re close by the way you’re squeezing his fingers like a vice and how your wetness is covering the entire bottom half of his face.

You can feel the scruff of his beard on your inner thighs, you felt like you were floating.

“Spencer!” You cry. A particularly harsh suck on your clit pushes you over the edge, hands darting down to his hair and yanking on his curls as he licks you through your orgasm.

The grin on his face says everything as he pulls up from you, popping his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean. “Better than I remember.”

“Shut up.” You glow red, chest heaving and staring at the ceiling as you recover. “Take your pants off.” You order.

He laughs as he pulls them off, and his boxers all in one go. His legs have more hair than they used to, he pulls his shirt off too. He’s toned, and God you just wanted to lick him.

“Another day.” He knows exactly what you’re thinking, clambering on top of you, the heat radiating off of him is intoxicating. “Are you clean?”

“Yeah and on the pill.”

There was one thing that hadn’t changed at all. He pushes into you and you feel transported back 15 years. He stretches you as he slides in, his head coming down to rest on your shoulder, groaning and placing a kiss on the top of your tit.

He stays there for a moment, the two of you adjusting to each other again.

“Please fuck me.” You whimper into his ear, teeth scraping at his ear.

Spencer starts to pump in and out of your pussy. Cock coming out all the way to the tip and then slamming into you roughly. A hand pulls one of your legs up, pushing it to your chest, making his cock plunge into you deeper. The squelch that echo’s around the room makes you bite your lip and cheeks turn pink. Each of his rough thrusts knock air out of you, a squeak coming with each one.

“I love this pussy.” He whispers into your ear, between groans and thrusts.

“Jesus.” You whisper out, feeling your brain melt out of your head.

The tip of his cock brushes against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back into your head. His hands pull into your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp gently, it sends a cold shiver down your spine.

His lips press to yours, sealing them together and you feel his tongue swipe at your bottom lip. You give him respite, letting him in. His tongue slips onto your mouth and yours into his, it’s a light teasing fight between you. The pair of you are moaning into each others mouths, his thrusts never faltering.

Wrapping your legs up and around his waist and pulling him closer and deeper into you. “You’re so deep.” You whisper, then nipping at his bottom lip.

The pleasure you were in was indescribable, back arching up, pressing your chest against his. Hands grasping at his shoulders, they were bigger and more muscular than they used to be. Your nails dig in, scratching up his back leaving red scratch marks all over his back.

He was invading every single one of your senses, the smell of his cologne, skin and shampoo. The taste of him, in your mouth. All of his moans and whimpers close to your ears. However what you feel most is his cock pounding in and out of you, his pelvis nudging your clit and the weight of his body pressing on top of you.

You clench around him, eyebrows pulling together. “So-close.” You pant.

“Me.” Thrust. “Too.” You can tell by then way the rhythm falters and his hand comes down to rub your clit furiously.

“Oh fuck!” You scream, eyes rolling back and you tighten your hold around his back. A hot rush pulls through your body as you cum, thrusting yourself up on him.

He fucks you through it, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your legs tremble. With one last clench you feel him let out a groan and release inside of you.

Resting his forehead against yours, you both burst out into laughter.

“I have a feeling I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” He shakes his head, pulling out of you and thumping down on the bed next to you. Neither make an effort to get dressed.

“Well we aren’t 23 anymore.” You snort, resting on his shoulder.

His tone is softer now, “How long have you been in DC?” He asks, a finger fiddling with your hair.

“Like three years.”

“Three years!” He exclaims, “Why did I not know you were here?”

“I didn’t want to get in the way of your life.” You shrug, “It looked like you had everything going good.”

“Let’s try it. For real this time.” He grabs your chin and turns your face to his. “We’re in the same city, at the same time. I’m about to go part time at the BAU, and start lecturing at GWU. And well I think we just proved the sex is still great. It’s fate.” You could melt into those eyes for the rest of your life.

“You don’t believe in fate.” You shake your head but you can’t hide the huge, beaming smile on your face.

“Let’s give it a go.”

a/n: sorry this is completely self indulgent lol, i miss my ex xxxx and he’s a munch (KILL ME). hope you enjoyed! i also don’t usually write for spencer so.. i hope it’s good! PLEASE REBLOG!!!!!

join the taglist!

[laceyluvver]

Yes, Professor Reid?

summary: Spencer doesn't like you. He had a reputation for not liking new agents on the team. Months in, he still hadn't warmed up. When Hotch wants you to go undercover as teacher and student, things finally reach a boiling point.

wc: 10k 

warnings: MDNI,  F!reader, PWbadPlot, PIV, WRAP IT!!, light dom!spencer, teasing, fingering, they fuck it out, open ending (part two?), no Y/N! not edited, writer is lazy!! 

Being the new agent on the team was difficult. The BAU were a fully formed unit, they knew each other like the back of their hands. They moved through the field like a well oiled machine.

But you were finally settling in, the team had started to trust you to do things on your own. JJ finally let you talk to the family of a victim alone, Morgan let you tackle an unsub, Emily stopped checking over your paperwork and Hotch allowed you to lead an interrogation.

But you were still surprised when Hotch called you into his office the second you stepped foot in the bullpen.

"You asked for me?" You close the door softly behind you, mind racing of any possible mistake you could have made. Did you make a mistake on the last case? Did you file your paperwork wrong?

"Yes, please sit." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk and you slowly lowered yourself into it. "We have another case." His eyes dart down to his watch.

The nerves got the better of you and you blurted out. "Are you firing me?"

"What? No." He paused, "We need you to go undercover for the case, I was checking in with you. We can find another way to go about it."

You held your chin up. "What's the case?"

"Georgia college." He sighed and passed a file across the table, "Four students from the same philosophy class have been murdered. All of them found dead in their dorm, poisoned."

"Jesus, that's brutal." You sigh, "Can the local police not interview everyone in the class?"

"They have, no one has flagged any concern. So they believe the unsub can either blend in or is another student on campus." He explained, "So they asked us if we had an agent we could send in. Morgan calls you baby bird for a reason." He smiled, a rare Hotch smile.

"So, we're sending you in as a college student. And Reid as a professor."

You choked back a cough. "Reid?"

It wasn't like you didn't like Reid, but he did not like you. He had a reputation, smart, genius that doesn't like newcomers in his unit. He never let you get away with a slip of the tongue, constantly correcting your every word. It was infuriating.

"He's an experienced profiler and he has lecturing experience." Hotch said, "Plus he will have a view of the whole room."

"I don't need hand holding Hotch." You pursed your lips, flipping the file closed and pressing it onto your legs.

"I know you don't. It's for everyone's safety." He sighed and huffed with a tone that told you there was no point in arguing back.

Sinking into the chair, you cross one leg over the other. "Do I need to do the assignments?" You asked.

"We aren’t sure yet. Come on, Garcia is about to debrief the team." He held the door open for you and you ducked under his arm.

The round table chatter stopped as soon as you stepped into the room. All of them trying to look busy as they did whenever they were gossiping.

"Do I really look like I could still be in college?" You sigh and throw yourself into your chair in between Morgan and JJ.

"Yes." "Yes." "A little." "We call you baby bird for a reason."

"I hate you guys." You grump, and shove your elbow into Morgan's ribs. "I do not look twenty two. I'm almost thirty."

"Actually," You roll your eyes as you hear Reid's voice cut across the chuckling. "You're actually three years, seven months and eleven days away from thirty. So not almost. Also due to your slightly larger eyes and your affinity to wear pink makes people believe you are younger than you actually are." He rattled off, fiddling with his fingers.

You opened your mouth to spit something back when Penelope came into the room in a flurry. She had bags of shopping bundled into her grip, dumping them down the floor and swooping in with the remote in hand.

"Morning, my superhuman crime fighters. I'll get right into it! At Georgia college four students have recently been killed in their dorm rooms." She clicked on the button and four pictures popped up. "James Gripe, Lucy Brown, Issac Nike and Cara Smith. At first, they thought James Gripe had died from caffeine overconsumption and stress from finals. But then, Lucy, Issac and Cara were found in the concurrent weeks." She sighed sadly, looking at their faces in sympathy.

"Crossing both race and gender lines is rare." Rossi stated, scribbling down the names in his journal.

"The police already looked into the other students in the class right?" Emily asked and Hotch nodded.

"No one caused them any concern." He confirmed, "And as far as the students know they all have died of an overdose and stress related causes. The local ME is currently checking the bodies for signs of poison."

"The media is going to have a field day if this gets out." JJ sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"Alright. Wheels up in 30, the sooner we get started the better. We'll discuss the undercover operation on the jet." Hotch said, striding out of the round table and back into his office.

Everyone else filed out, Derek pulling Reid to the side and mumbling something about "Getting better at talking to women." and Pen yanked you to the side before you could step out.

"I got you some things!" She rummaged around in the bag and shoved some clothes into your arms.

You held up a dress against your body. "Why the hell did you buy me a club dress?"

"You're going to college! And you're like my little sister and I couldn't send you off without a hot dress" She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh, and a shirt and a mini skirt." She held them up.

"Thanks Pen." You smile and pull her into a tight hug. "I'll send you a picture if i end up wearing it." She gripped back onto you tighter.

"Come back to me safe, Baby Bird." She whispered into your hair.

"I will." You nod and peck her on the cheek, shoving the clothes into your go bag and getting ready to hit the tarmac.

"Wait!" Pen shouts across the bullpen and runs toward you as fast as she could with her too high heels. "I forgot to give you these."

----

Hauling your go bag into the overhead cabin, you sit down opposite Hotch. He slides your new ID across the table and you put it straight into your wallet.

"Everyone in that class is a potential victim." Derek sighed, flipping over the papers in his file.

"What that's like forty more potential victims?" You scoff, shaking your head.

"Forty six. Well, forty seven including you." Reid cut in, not even looking up from the book his face was buried in.

"Close enough." You grit out, teeth clenched.

"Not exact." He spat back.

Rolling your eyes and turning away from him, shoving a middle finger his way and huffing towards Derek. He smiled towards you cheekily, "Did you get Penelope's gifts?"

"Yeah. A tiny shirt, a mini skirt and a barely there dress." Derek let out a low whistle. "Oh, and about five million condoms." You pull the box from your pocket where you'd shoved them in with your cheeks turning red, hoping that no one in the bullpen saw.

"You could go through half of Georgia with those."

Ripping off a strip and threw it, hitting him square in the chest. "And you can go through half the police department with those." You joke and nudge him with the tip of your shoe.

"That was one time man!" He exclaimed.

"Actually, there were the two in Colorado." Emily piped in.

"One in California, and another in Florida." JJ continued.

"Don't forget police chief Jones in Texas." You teased, counting on your fingers.

"And the nurse in Oregon." Rossi finished.

"And that was all in the last six months." Hotch put the nail in the coffin, never usually joining in on the team banter. But he was smirking over his file at Derek's mock glare.

"C'mon we've all gone home with someone once. Well apart from babybird and pretty boy over there." He defended, throwing his hands up.

You scoff, "Hey, I don't want to become a case. Look at half of our cases, they all go home with their killers." You shake your head and climb out of the seat and into the plane aisle.

"At least I'm not thirty year old virgin over there." You snort, pulling open the small blue curtain to the kitchenette with a loud screech.

"Thirty two." He corrects, having now moved on to another book. Flipping a page in between words, the whole page completed.

"I like how that's the part you correct." You purse your lips, snorting and closing the curtain behind you, the kettle beginning to bubble. You knew he was thirty two, you were there at the party Pen made him have at Rossi's. But sometimes, you liked to push. To see how far you could take it before he couldn't resist and correct you. Usually, it just took you rounding up or down to make his patience to tip over.

You sigh quietly as you sit down with a scalding cup of coffee, the bitter taste burning your tongue as you sip it down.

"Looking forward to doing assignments again?" Emily asks, clasping her hands together on the wooden table.

"Definitely not, I'm not that well versed in philosophy so I better get reading." You smile, trying to lighten her worry.

"I suspect Professor Reid will mark you highly." She laughed, her eyes darting over your shoulder to him.

You follow her gaze and quickly glance over, hoping he wouldn't notice. But he was already looking at you. Probably from hearing Emily mention his name. It takes you a second to pull away from his intense stare. Emily cleared her throat, yanking you back to reality.

"I think I'll be his least favourite student." You roll your eyes, still feeling his eyes glaring at the back of your head.

----

You never thought you’d be back at college. But now, you were walking through the hallways of Georgia college with a backpack filled to the brim on your back. Thick textbooks and laptop weighing you down, or was it the nerves of trying to blend in?

It was far too early in the morning for most of the students around you, all dragging their feet and murmured complaints due to the previous late night.

Slowing, in front of the lecture hall. Coming to a stop in front of a group of girls standing and chatting amongst themselves.

“Excuse me,” You start. “Is this Professor Wright’s philosophy?”

They quiet, and turn to you. “Yeah! but he’s on leave so another professor is standing in. Are you new?” The dark haired girl asked, a soft smile on her face.

“Yeah, I just transferred from Arizona. Something to do with the credit amounts for graduation.” You shrugged. “I’m - Ivy." The name stumbles out unnaturally, like it doesn't belong to you. Because it doesn't. The introduction feels foreign in your mouth and heat pooled in your cheeks.

“Marie. And this is Chloe and Sarah.” She points to the girls staring behind her, they both give a wave.

The door to the lecture hall swings open. And everyone starts to file in. The plan was to sit at the back, keeping your head down and being able to view the whole room.

“Come sit with us!” Marie smiled, waving you over to the front row.

Descending down the stairs of the lecture hall, long hair bouncing, you slide into the seat on the end of the aisle. Pulling out your laptop and loading it up.

“I wonder what the new professor will be like,” She whispered into your ear. “Professor Wright was great, but he was basically a dinosaur.” She giggled.

“Hopefully good. I really need this credit.” You sigh, opening your mouth to speak again when the door swings open.

“Sorry, I’m late. I couldn’t find the hall.” Reid came spluttering into the hall and throwing his shoulder bag on the desk and uncapping the whiteboard marker and scribbling his name now. “I’m Professor Gardener, and I’ll be here while Professor Wright is on sick leave. I assure you he is feeling OK and has started his recovery.”

But you knew Professor Wright wasn’t sick, he was sat in his cushy lakeside home. Getting paid time off to lounge around and read through his library.

It had allowed Professor Gardener or as you knew, Doctor Reid pacing around in his element. He had slid into the professor role like a second skin. Hotch had mentioned he had guest lectured before, but the confidence was surprising.

“I’ve been told you were about to start Kantian ethics. So into Kantian ethics 101!” His hands clap and his voice fades into the background as another voice whispered in your ear, pulling you away from the lecture.

“He’s so hot.” Marie said, your head darting toward her.

“What?” You whisper back, slightly alarmed, “Don’t you think he’s like a bit, I don’t know, nerdy?”

“But like a hot nerd.”

Reid’s rambling pulled your attention back to the front of the room. He wasn’t hot, he was all knitted cardigans and wool ties. Stupid facts about Doctor who and how the physics was dodgy. He talked with his hands, waving them around with every unnecessary word. Long fingers that could solve a rubix cube in seconds. His facial hair had started growing in, a shadow coating the bottom half of his face. And standing up there as he lectured, the way the words slipped from him with ease. Maybe, he was hot.

But he was Reid. And Reid was your annoying co worker. The only person on the team who still didn't believe in you as an agent. And there he was standing, as Professor Gardener. And he looked hot.

----

And apparently, half of campus also thought so. Walking into the lecture hall that had been half empty was almost full. The sight makes you trip over your feet and almost tumble down the stairs.

A hand grabbed your bicep and pulled you back and into a chest. You don't need to turn around to know who it was. You knew his cologne, the scent of books and coffee also a hint of mint. You steady yourself and spin around to look at him, he was closer than you thought he would be.

"Professor Gardener. Uh, thank you." You nod and start to head down the stairs where Marie had saved you a seat with her handbag.

"You're also new, Ivy right?" He said, falling in step next to you.

His casual small talk takes you back, you can never recall a time Reid had spoken to you casually. "Yeah, I had to transfer. Graduation credits, you know how it is." You shrugged, stopping at the row. "And thank you again."

Sitting down next to Marie, she immediately grips onto you. "What was that?" She almost gasped.

"I tripped, he caught me." You responded.

"It was straight out of a romcom! I think half of the people in here want to kill you." She giggled.

"He was just being polite." You glaze over the interaction and start to pull out your laptop and textbook.

"People are already calling him Gorgeous Gardener." She continued, and your breath stuttered. This case was going to be a lot more difficult than you thought.

You knew you were staring, ogling even. You were supposed to be looking at him, it was normal to keep your eyes on the professor. But the nickname was true. He was gorgeous. It had wormed it's way into your head, you couldn't escape the thought. Like a bad smell, the thought of Reid being attractive had spent it's time racing around your brain.

He looked like Reid, the same slightly grown out hair do. He moved like Reid, waving his hands around and fiddling with his fingers as he spoke. He dressed like Reid, a dark blue sweater vest and brown blazer. And he even smelled like Reid, the memory of his scent as he pulled you into him. Nevertheless, he wasn't making you feel like Reid.

But a sharp elbow jutted into your ribs.

"Ivy." He was standing at the front of the lecture hall with an expectant raised eyebrow.

"Sorry, what was the question?"

"Could you give us a quick summary of Kantian ethics?" His face hadn't changed.

"Uh, yeah." You tried not to stumble over your words and sent him a glare. "Developed by Immanuel Kant, deciding whether actions are right or wrong depending on duty and moral rules, not the consequences."

"Thank you. Pay attention next time." He span around on his conversed feet and back to the whiteboard. The same condescending tone he used on every case when he felt the need to correct your every word.

At the end of the day. He was still Reid.

The rose coloured glasses that Professor Gardener had grown over your eyes wilted away in an instant. Rose had deepened to red and you were glaring at him the way you had a million times before.

"Kantian ethics teaches that we should always act according to moral duties and universal rules. This creates a fair and consistent moral system." He explained, pacing between his desk and the whiteboard. "Does anyone have an argument against?"

His eyes darted around the room, nodding towards a girl in the middle of the room.

"Uh, I'm just auditing this class." She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She flashed a smile at him.

"Oh. Is anyone else auditing this class?" He asked, and a sea of hands raised and your lip curled up in slight disgust. "Hmm, ok."

Your hand shot up into the air. He nodded towards you a sign for you to speak, not before looking desperately for someone else to answer. "But life is more complicated than simple rules. What if it causes harm to follow a rule?"

He looked surprised at your rebuttal. "Kant would argue that the moral rules should be followed regardless of consequences. Otherwise, people would make exceptions when it suited them."

"But take the famous example. Lying to a killer to save someone’s life. Telling the truth would lead to the death of an innocent person."

"Morality becomes subjective if we start making exemptions." He clicked his tongue.

"We can still have moral principles while recognising that consequences matter. A rule that leads to preventable harm does not seem truly moral." He tried to shoot an argument back.

"Morality should also help people and reduce suffering. If a moral theory ignores the real effects of actions, it can produce unfair outcomes." You hide the look of satisfaction on your face.

"That is the most common critique of Kantian ethics." He nodded, turning to the whiteboard and uncapped the pen with a pop. "As it's a Friday, I give you an essay."

Everyone in the room groaned, arms hanging heavy by your sides as your eyes follow his letters. "Is Kantian Ethics correct? You can argue for or against. I expect them to be on my desk by next Friday. Have a good weekend." Just as everyone was about to run out of there at the speed of light. "My office hours are the same as Professor Wright's, so see the paper on the door."

----

The weekend for you didn't mean going out partying and scrambling to plan your essay. Instead, you were sat in the back of a local police precinct. The taste of cardboard and burnt coffee peeked through the burning in your mouth.

You were sat with your head held up by your chin. The door opened and the rest of the team filed in.

"How was class?" JJ asked a joking lilt in her voice, sliding an actual, smooth cup of coffee across the desk.

"Professor Gardener treating you well?" Emily snorted.

Glaring at her but thanking her for the coffee. "I have an essay due next Friday." You fix your glare on Reid, "Oh, and there's about twenty more people auditing the class."

"Nineteen." He corrected.

"And that's nineteen more potential victims." Morgan sighed, "Has anyone in the class come up? Nothing has come up on our end."

"For me, no not yet. Everyone seems like a regular student so far. But I've been keeping my eye out." You explain, notepad and textbook open with the arguments you had chosen highlighted.

"Well if you had spent your time actually looking, rather than gossiping with the girls at the front. You would have seen something." Reid snarked, turning his body away from you and started to address the rest of the team. "There's a guy at the back of the class.-"

You take a deep breath before speaking, "I know that you spent all of your school years sat in the class with no friends. But I didn't, and I'm not going to sulk in the back of the class." You were shoving things back into your bag. "Fuck off, Reid." Your backpack smacked into him as you stormed out of the precinct, the door slammed loudly behind you.

Raging as your feet slammed along the pavement, hands balled into fists, held tightly at your sides. "Ivy, Ivy!" It takes a few seconds for the name to register before you turn around with a smile on your face. "Are you ok? Why were you at the station?" Marie asked, worry painted on her face.

"I just had to change my address to get my mail." Rolling your eyes, you lean all of your weight onto your back foot. "The college said they had handled it, what a way to spend your weekend huh?"

"Oh my God! You should come out with me, Chloe and Sarah!" She grabbed the tops of your arms, shaking you back and forth.

"Um." You pretend to pause in thought. "Not this weekend, we have that essay due in. But next weekend, count me in!"

Marie's face lit up with a large smile. "I'm so excited!" She linked arms with you, leading you away from the station. "There's this bar, they have themed cocktails every single week. They’re a tad expensive but soo strong so it's worth the money!"

She reminded you of Pen in a way, the happy go lucky attitude. The way she took you in like a stray, forcing you to go out for drinks. She brought a slither of normal in your facade, and well there was no stopping Reid from being, well Reid.

----

You had gotten the call that morning. They had found another body. It was a guy, Harry Jones. He sat in the middle of the class, he never spoke. He just sat with his friends and took notes whenever was necessary.

Penelope had managed to work out every victims average grades. They had all been in the top half of the class.

You were slumped in your chair, not listening to a thing Reid was saying. Your ears were tuned into the rows behind you, listening in for any mention of Harry's name. You could tell he was profiling too, eyes constantly scanning the rows, talking on autopilot.

No one was talking about anything of note. Marie, Chloe and Sarah were talking about what they were going to wear to the bar later. The people a few rows behind were talking about what grade they thought they were going to get. Not a mention of Harry. No one realised he was gone.

You could tell Reid was profiling too, eyes constantly scanning the rows, talking on autopilot. Professor Gardener was long gone, you were looking at Reid. But it seemed he was coming up empty too.

"Right." He clapped, casually strolling over to the desk. Resting his hand atop the essays he had collected at the start of class and patted them gently. "Have a good weekend, no homework this week. See you on Wednesday!"

Marie linked arms with you once again, asking you what you were going to wear that night.

"Ivy!" His voice called as you got to the door.

"Hmm? Yes, Professor Gardener." You responded, leaning on the doorway.

"Could you come by my office later? I scanned your essay and there’s a couple points I think we could discuss in depth." He held up the paper, and Marie excuses herself. Lingering right outside.

"Sure, I'll swing by later." You run your finger across the paper on the door. "7pm?"

He nodded. "Sounds good."

Marie pretty much dragged you from the lecture hall. "You should so wear that dress you sent me a picture of." She giggled.

"I cannot wear that to my meeting with Professor Gardener." You deadpanned, hitting her lightly on the arm.

"I meant the bar. Your mind went there." She smiled, "But you should do that too, ugh I want him to go in depth with me." Groaning, she leant her head on your shoulder.

"Marie!" You exclaimed, jaw hanging open in shock. "You need to get laid girl, you should totally look for someone tonight."

"I was already planning on it." She smirked. "You better wear that dress."

----

You did wear the dress. The sparkly red fabric glittering as you snapped a picture for Penelope. It stopped at the top of your thighs, constantly pulling it down as your heels clicked on the pavement. It was too short, and had too much cleavage in your opinion, but it wasn't your opinion. It was Ivy's.

The halls were desolate and slightly chilly as you made your way to Reid's office. Well, Professor Wright's office. The golden plaque shined in the dim lighting. Checking over your shoulder, before you knocked on the door. You could hear shuffling behind the door before it swung open.

"Come in." He said, head sticking out of the door and looking down the hall.

"I wasn't followed." You rolled your eyes, your hand hitting his chest and kicking the door closed. Reaching behind you, clicking the lock shut you look around the office and step further in. "What do you want Reid?"

Standing across from him, hands resting on the back of the armchair opposite his desk. He looked up from the papers on his desk.

"What are you wearing?" It tumbled out of his mouth and his eyebrows scrunched together.

You matched his look of confusion. "A dress?" It wasn't like he hadn't seen you in a mini dress before. You always wore one when you went out with the team. Maybe not one this short or low cut, but a minidress nonetheless.

"Does Hotch know you're going out?" He asked, brows still furrowed.

"Yes, Professor Gardener." You snarked, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms across your chest.

He sucked in a breath, "I wanted to talk to you about your essay."

"Are you serious?" You scoffed, stalking around to the other side of the desk.

You leant across the desk, plucking out a red pen from the pot. Uncapping it and writing on your own paper. A. "There we go, now we don't have to talk about it."

"That's not-"

"Precise, correct, fair?" You laughed, straightening your back and you went to grab your handbag off of the table where you had dumped it.

But he snatched it out of your grasp, unzipping it and digging through it.

"What the fuck Reid?"

He held up the condoms that you had shoved into your bag. "Are you going to sleep with a college student?" His voice was coated with disdain.

"I don't think that's your business is it, Professor?" You lean forward, trying to snatch them out of his grip.

"As your Professor, no. But as your superior agent, it is." He moved backwards, stopping your waving grip. The smirk you had become acquainted with.

"I'm not going to fuck a college student. But I might just, if it pisses you off so much." You pouted in his face, heavy breaths making your chest rise and fall in his face. "I know you're a virgin Reid but Jesus."

That caught him off guard, giving you the opportunity to snatch them back and slide them back into your handbag. "Maybe we won't even use these."

"I'm not a virgin." He gritted through his teeth, glaring at your bare back.

You can't help but laugh out loud at that, "I'll believe it when I see it." Your hair shakes with your head, striding towards the door.

The smell of him hits you before you feel him. Your hand stilled as it reached for the doorknob, the same scent that hit you when he stopped you from falling down the stairs. His grip on your bicep was familiar, the tips of his fingers digging in as his other hand brushed your hair to one side.

"You are insufferable." He whispered, warm breath hitting the shell of your ear.

It was like you had forgotten how to breathe. He was inching closer to you, the warmth of his chest radiating against your back. "Reid." You sighed.

"Professor." He corrected, spinning you around and pushing you against the door roughly. "If anyone gets to cum inside of you tonight, It's going to be me."

Your head thumped backwards, eyebrows pulling together as his eyes met yours. It was like you had lost all sense, you hated Reid. But the mention of him cumming inside you had any rational abandoned.

"Does that sound good?" He hummed.

"Yes, Professor Reid." You sighed.

"Fuck." He growled before pressing his lips into yours. Your hands came forward to grip onto the lapels on his blazer, pulling him closer. His lips were softer than you expected, contrasted with his teeth coming out to yank on your bottom lip.

Your bag dropped to the floor with a thud. As his hands, the hands you had spent countless lectures staring at, started to wander. Long fingers travelled down your back, pulling up goosebumps in their wake. Then, his hands scooped you up, legs wrapping around his hips as he pressed you into the door.

His hardness pushed into you, making you gasp out and slide your hands into his hair and giving it a light tug. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, walking you across the room and sliding the papers and pens off the desk. They hit the floor with a clatter as he lowered you down.

Both of you panted as he separated, a line of spit connecting you between your lips. Neither of you said anything for a beat, just staring at each other with blown pupils.

A second later, he cupped your jaw and pulled your back straight, kissing you again.

Now it was your turn for your hands to wander, slotting your hands under his blazer and pushing it off and it hit the floor gently. Then, your hands came to fiddle with the buckle on his belt. It clinked loudly as you whipped it out of the belt loops. The button popped open not long after.

He made work of your dress, pulling it up and letting it pool around your hips. Not even taking your panties off, just sliding them to the side as the pads of his fingers come into contact with your clit.

"Jesus!" You gasped out, pulling him closer with your ankle. Painted nails sliding down the front of his brown corduroy slacks and cupping his dick.

His eyes rake down you, dress pulled up, panties to the side. Eyes hooded, chest heaving desperately as you throw your head back.

"You look, divine." He whispered into your ear, the intimacy of it took you by surprise. His finger still worked against your clit, leaving you writhing and gasping under his gaze.

You shoved his slacks down, his white boxer shorts followed not long after. His compliment sent a fire through your veins and a desperation to have him inside you take over.

His fingers pulled off of you, your whining halted. "Hurry up and fuck me!" You groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips. Your heel dug into his backside and it fell to the floor.

He took his dick in his hand, looking down at you. The tip hit against your clit and he slid it up and down through your wetness. "Ah, ah, ah." He teased, refusing to push in, just leaving you with the delicious pressure of almost. "Say please."

"Oh, fuck off." You sigh, trying anything to get closer. Just anything to get him inside you.

He pulled his dick away, and it was like your brain had melted any rationality away. "Please, Reid." You pleaded, knuckles turning white at how hard you were gripping the edge of his desk. "Professor, please." You looked up at him through your lashes.

Then, he finally gave you what you wanted. He pressed his forehead to yours just as he sank into you. He was bigger than you thought he'd be. Not that you'd thought about it. The head brushed past your g spot as he bottomed out.

You couldn't help the almost scream that came from you. "Spencer!"

You had never called him Spencer, most of the time you didn't even address him. But any worry left your mind after hearing his groan as he pulled most of the way out, before slamming into you again.

His lips attached to your neck and your toes curled inside your heels. "No marks." You panted out.

Nodding into the crook of your neck, he slid his hands under you. He lifted you slightly, the new angle letting him pound deeper inside you. This lead to a string of moans to explode from your chest and his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you quiet.

He wasn't doing a good job of keeping quiet himself. Panting and groaning into your neck, teeth scratching your earlobe. Your hands screwed into the front of his shirt, whining helplessly at the brutal pace he was fucking you with.

"S-spencer." You both fall backwards, your back flat on the cool wooden desk and him hunched over you never faltering.

"You're much more bearable like this." He smirked down at you, reviling in the state he had you in. A fucked out pink flush painted across your cheeks, tits bouncing with every thrust that coaxed a wet noise from your pussy every time he slapped against it.

You tried to form a rebuttal, but what came out was babbling that vaugly sounded like hsi name. Desperately, pulling him closer with your nails scratching down his back.

"Awh, poor baby." He teased, "Can't you speak?"

The mocking had your head reeling and your walls clenching around him. The teasing, his body pressing you into the desk, the unrelenting pace and the smell of him was all just too much. It had the coil inside you ready to snap.

Your eyes meet his again and you slam your mouth to his. Tongue peeking into your mouth as your thighs started to tremble. You had your toes curled so hard that your heels slid off your feet and falling to the floor. Spencer's hand snaked down and hit your clit again, moving the wetness around with his fingers.

It had lightening bolts shooting through your spine and the coil in your belly to snap. Nails digging into his shoulder blades and a too loud cry of his name. "Spencer!" It almost echoed around the room as he fucked you through your orgasm, leaving you tightening and fluttering around his cock.

Then, he was cumming himself, with a similar groan of your name and a few more deep thrusts that sent your eyes rolling. His release was warm inside of you, he paused for a second. Letting it pool inside of you and leaving you both breathing into each others mouth's. His dick slid out of you, pussy clenching around emptiness. Gently, he moved your underwear back with a tenderness you wouldn't have expected.

Suddenly, the feeling of his cum pooling in your panties, had you hurtling back to reality. It was like a cool bucket of water had been thrown over you.

It was Reid. You and Reid had sex. Not even sex, fucked. He was technically your professor. And you had his cum dripping out of you.

You yanked your dress down, refusing to look him in the eye.

"That can't happen again." He called over his shoulder as you grabbed your bag. Piling the lip gloss that had spilled all over the floor when it had fallen from your fingers.

"I know." You commented, clicking the lock open and the door.

"Be careful, and you can call me if you need me to come and get you." He gave you that tight lipped smile he did when he felt awkward.

"Will do." You mirrored his face, your hair falling in front of your face and closing the door with a soft click.

Your dress was missing sparkles from all over and you had six missed calls from Marie, and you took off into the city.

----

The bar was exactly as Marie had described. It was slightly tacky with bright coloured lights with ocean themed drinks. Everyone was walking around with blue drinks with fish shaped ice cubes, sharks sticking from the top.

"Ivy!" Marie called, waving you over from the booth they had grabbed in the corner.

"Hey." You smiled and sidled into the booth next to Sarah.

"What did Professor Gardener want?" Sarah asked, close to your ear, cutting through the thumping pop music.

"Apparently, I did really well on my essay. There was just a couple mistakes he wanted me to clear up for next time." You smiled, casting a look towards the bar. "I'm going to go and get a drink! I'll be back."

The drink was overly sweet, Penelope would have loved it. The grenadine turned the blue drink a light purple.

"So tell us what mark you got, you can't leave us hanging girl." Marie grasped onto your arm. "Also what happened with Professor Gardenerrr?" She teased lightly and Chloe smacked her on the arm.

"I got a 97." You feigned a blush, hiding you face behind your hair.

Marie and Chloe gasped, excitedly shaking you back and forth. Some of your drink sloshing over the rim and making the bar table more sticky than it already was.

"You're going to get the credits that you need toats, oh my god we need to throw you a graduation party." She praised, her face lit up in the same way you had seen it so many times.

Just as you went to agree, head already nodding.

"Ivy, that guy over there is so looking at you." Sarah cut across, pointing a finger across the bar.

Your eyes followed her finger to find a very smiley Derek Morgan. You smile back at him with a small wave.

"Well go talk to him! He's so hot!" Chloe exclaimed, "Plus you deserve it after such a good essay."

Your eyes darted between them and him, pretending to give a moment of deliberation. Before standing up and glancing over your shoulder. "If he's weird, I'm coming back."

Winding your way through the crowded bar, smoothly directing yourself between sweaty bodies until you got to the booth. You slid up next to Morgan, your side pressing up against his.

"This dress is a gift from Penelope I assume." He whispered into your ear and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

"How could you tell?" You said back, looking back to the table of girls looking towards you expectantly. Sticking your thumb up towards them, you turn towards Derek fully.

"Have you been dancing with someone else babybird?" He asked, still leaned in close.

"No, why?" You scrunched your eyebrows.

"You smell like another man."

It felt like your stomach dropped to your feet, and you hoped and prayed that he wouldn't recognise the scent. Suddenly, it was like you could feel the cum that was wetting your panties through. The shame burned bright on your cheeks.

"Yikes, I need to get rid of my perfume." Joking, you elbowed him, "Go for a smoke?" You pulled the packet out of your purse and waved it in his face.

As the two of you stepped out of the bar you sent Marie a message. 'Going home with hot stuff, see you wednesday. ;)'

The cool air hit and was very, very welcome. Bricks pressed into your back and you let out a long, deep sigh. Lighting up the cigarette and holding it towards Derek.

"I don't smoke." He smiled, watching you puff out smoke.

"One of the girls I was with, Sarah. Get Pen to look into her, she was acting weird about my meeting with Reid." You throw a look over your shoulder and see Marie and the girls looking at you expectantly. "I think we're being watched." You murmured, leaning close to Derek's ear.

His muscles flexed under your trailing grip. "Want to get out of here?"

"Yeah." You nod, throwing a sheepish glance over your shoulder and a small wave to the girls who definitely weren't looking through the window.

Turning the corner there was a familiar squad car waiting for you.

----

Again, you spent your weekend hunched over a conference table. Files piled up around your head. The team had gone all in on Sarah, and the deeper you dug, the more she looked like your unsub.

"Her grades have been steadily dropping for the last few semesters." Emily commented, putting another file in the completed bin.

"Ah-Ha!" Penelope exclaimed, her face popping up on the monitor. "Recently, Sarah's adoptive Mom died. It didn't come up in the original searches because she wasn't offically adopted. The papers never went through."

"So we've got our stressor." Hotch nodded, his arms crossed tensely in the corner of the room. "Reid, have you noticed anything during class?"

As he started talking, you realised you hadn't looked over once. It was like he wasn't even there. "She seemed pretty normal until I read through the essay she handed in. Her critique of the ethics I set was neither for or against. But was more arguing that murder isn't entirely immoral." He explained, taking a sip from his coffee before continuing.

"Her argument was that neither lying or committing the murder is immoral. As both have their own moral explanations." He continued.

"Like lying to the murderer, or killing in self defence." You said without thought, his brown eyes meeting yours. Gaze dropped to your swirling cup of coffee, there was no escape from reminders of him.

"Wow babybird, they'll make a philosopher of you yet." Emily smiled, JJ giggled. "But what's the plan to get her to act again."

Rossi started to plan, "Release the grades publicly, put a select few people at the top of the list. We put an agent on everyone on the top of the list."

"She already thinks babybird has done well. So we stick her in a college dorm and wait. Also." He paused, looking between you and Reid. "If we were to drum up some rumours." He clicked his tongue, holding back a smirk.

Penelope squealed through the screen, "Are you telling me the garden is going to grow some ivy?" Her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth.

"What?" Reid asked, confused.

"Only if the two of you are comfortable." Hotch said at the same time and you sank deeper into the chair. Face burning as bright as a christmas light.

"Oh God." You groaned, head in your hands. Peeking through your fingers at Reid's face paling after JJ had kindly explained it into his ear. Finally, you made real eye contact for the first time all morning.

"We'll do it." He confirmed with a nod, and you a slightly less sure one.

"Oh my God!" Penelope cried, "It's like a cringe romcom. You should wear that mini skirt!"

"Garcia." Hotch warned, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

Your eyes still locked together, you had to remind you it was for a case. All of it was for a case. No matter how fast your heart was beating. None of it was real.

----

The mini skirt was worn. Pleats brushing the tops of your thighs, falling right at the curve of your ass. The shirt you were wearing had one too many buttons undone.

Class hadn't started, it was just you and Reid in your meticulously planned play. Standing at his desk with your open, empty notebook. The bend of your back too salacious for just a teacher and student. His warmth radiated on your back as his arm reached around you, finger running down the blank page. You swore you could feel him starting to grow against your ass. Goosebumps pulled up on your skin, it wasn't real. It was a waiting game and you were begging for someone to catch you.

And someone did. Marie, Chloe and Sarah came bustling in. They paused in the doorway as the two of you jumped apart in fake shock.

"Um, thank you." You stuttered shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Eyes planted firmly at your shoes, toes tapping on the floor and making your way to your front row seat.

Marie scrambled to your side, dragging you down into the seat as everyone else made their way in. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know what you mean." Your voice ticked up, eyes raking him up and down.

"Mhm." She hummed, eyebrow raised.

You weren't listening to anything he was saying. Shamelessly, eye fucking him as he explained things to the class. Lip bitten in between your teeth and tongue wetting your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, the three of them couldn't help but glance over.

He was just as intense back, every wave of his hands sending you back to having your brain fucked out on his desk. The lines were blurring between Ivy and Gardener and you and Reid. And you weren't sure if you minded.

Then, your pen rolled off the wooden desk, clattering to the ground and silencing his rambling. Halting teaching, striding towards your desk. When he crouched, your legs uncrossed. Revealing the damp spot that was ever present on your panties.

It sent him stuttering, "Y-your pen... Ivy."

"Thank you, Professor." The pen made home in between your lips, looking up at him through your lashes. Ivy had disappeared, it felt like it was just you and Reid in the room. Everyone else melted away.

He spent the rest of the lecture, glancing over to you every few seconds. Wiping sweaty palms down the front of his pants. "Alright!" He concluded, "I think that's enough for today. Oh! But before you go. Your essays, I'll hand them out."

He travelled back to front. Telling polite good jobs, or this needs improvements. Until, he got to the front row. Chloe and Marie got a good job, a kind nod, that left them smiling at their marks.

But then came Sarah, he slid the paper across the desk upside down with a tight smile on his face. And then you, a huge smile on his face, hand reaching out to your shoulder. It wasn't real.

"See me after class." His thumb brushed a strand of hair from your shoulder, before turning to the rest of the class. "Alright! See you next week!"

Hanging around, you waved goodbye to Marie and Chloe. Sarah had disappeared quickly, throwing a look you couldn't quite read over her shoulder before turning the corner.

The door slammed close, but the tight air didn't diffuse. You drifted to the other side, leaning on your desk. You could hear him breathing, hands gripping the desk, back hunched over. The lines had blurred, it wasn't Ivy's underwear that were soaked through. It was yours.

"Reid-" You started, his name coming out more like an awkward squeak.

"Spencer." He cut you off, voice gruff and he finally straightened up. His brown leather shoes, clicked on the tiled floor. A slow, echoing rhythm that made you look up from your swinging feet.

"Look, I'm sorry." You sighed, looking everywhere but his face. "I took it too far." Mouth claggy, hands sweaty.

"Hmm," He hummed, hand darting out and gripped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. "Are you sorry? The state of your panties says otherwise."

His fingers lingered at the crook of your knee. Softly, dragging up your thigh but stopping right before they could hit exactly where you wanted.

You whined, a high pitched, pathetic noise. "Spencer."

The look in his eyes lit you on fire. Tilting your head up, short breaths puffing from your lips. "Please."

His lips pressed against yours, tilting your neck up to meet his mouth. You groaned into his mouth, the noise silenced by his tongue dipping into your mouth. One hand brushed over your underwear, pressing into your clit lightly, the other gripped into your waist. Bringing you to the edge of the desk, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. At his mercy.

It was torture, the feather light touches giving you only a second of relief. He was smirking, the slight stubble that had grown in scratching at your chin.

At your wits end, you bite into his bottom lip. Teeth sinking into the skin and pulling back lightly. The two of you breathing in the others mouth, minty remnants coat your tongue.

"I swear to God Reid." You panted, hips bucking upwards into his fingers, "You are driving me crazy."

"I'm driving you crazy?" He scoffed, "You came in, wearing that tiny skirt. Basically bent over in front of me, then flashed me your wet panties, all while I was teaching." His tongue darted out, licking a long stripe up the column of your throat.

"Hotch's orders." You gasp, hand digging into his ragged curls and tugged him backwards.

He laughed, a mocking ring. "Oh I'm sure, I bet he told you to spread your legs for me. I wonder what he would say if I reported back? Huh babybird?"

The nickname out of his mouth had your head reeling, a complete opposite to the usual softness that came from Derek or Emily.

"I wonder what he would say, if I told him one of his best agents crumbled at the sight of me in a mini dress?" You shot back, hand cupping his now fully hard dick.

Finally, he pulled your panties down your legs. And slid them into his back pocket, his fingers slipping inside of you.

"Fuck Spencer!" You cried out, now fumbling at his belt. Clammy hands struggling with the buckle, arms falling weak as Spencer's fingers started to thrust in and out of you. A punishing pace, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Every press of his fingers had a loud squelch bouncing around the lecture hall. Twitching his fingers upwards, brushing your g spot and laughing at your body falling limp. You used him as a support beam, slumped over in pleasure. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your hair.

"Feel good baby?" He asked, voice turning soft.

"Mhm." You hummed, his fingers turning your brain to mush. "Close." You sighed into his chest.

"Good girl." He smiled, soft kisses peppered along the crook of your neck and collarbone.

The kind praise coming from Spencer of all people, had you hurling over the edge. Toes curling and hands desperately digging into his shoulder blades. Your thighs shook, clamping around his wrist tightly.

"Fucking hell." You sighed, breath warm on his ear as you pulled him into a soft kiss. It left your heart racing, almost exploding out of your chest.

You were holding on to him like a lifeline, he was holding onto you in a similar vein. His belt buckle clinked, pants pooling at his knees, before sliding into your warmth.

Still sensitive from a moment ago, your lips dug into your lip as he began to gently thrust. It was tender, a gentle rocking in and out. Soft strokes pulling through your hair. Smooth hands trailing up your spine.

It was almost too much. Too different. He wasn't being condescending, there was no mocking. Just sweet cooing in your ear that made you clench around him. Incoherent babbling of his name fell from your lips.

Then, he whispered your name. A gentle, soft noise that had you cumming around him. Stars bloomed behind your eye as you came, a whimpering moan falling from your lips.

He followed not long after you, pressing his forehead to yours. Chanting your name over and over, he released inside of you. A curl fell, sticking to him. He looked charming, you thought. Leaning down, he kissed you again, slow and languid.

It all felt too real.

"Um." You started, looking up at him. Pink cheeks and a shy smile, "Thank you."

"And thank you." He said, as he moved a fallen strand of hair away from your eyes.

"Can I have my panties back?" You bit your lip.

For a second, you just stared at him. Playing with your fingers, you started to giggle, and so did he. The laughter was infectious, everything was light. It was foreign, you weren't going at each others throats. There was no snarky comments, no corrections.

"Sure." He was smiling, not the smile he did when he was being polite. But the one when Penelope let him ramble about doctor who, or when JJ surprised him with a chocolate covered sprinkled doughnut.

He handed them to you, cool to the touch where they were still damp. There was a pool where his cum had dripped out of you. The desk under you, covered in him.

Shimmying them up your legs, more of him dripped out of you. You grimaced and he smirked.

"Shut up." You grumped, pouting slightly.

Suddenly, there was a rush of people outside of the hall. Another class period had ended. Had you really been in there that long?

"Right."

"Right." He echoed.

"I better head off, time to lure a murderer to my fake apartment." You joked, he didn't laugh. "Kidding."

Turning, you packed your bag and jogged up the stairs, hoping that he couldn't see the huge wet spot on your underwear. You'd never hear the end of it.

"Be careful." He called when you reached the last step with his hands in his pockets rocking back on his heels.

"I will."

----

Sometimes, you wished unsubs were less predictable. You had spotted Sarah two blocks away, she lurked around corners, hid behind signs and she thought the hat she had on was hiding her face.

As soon as you'd seen her, you messaged Hotch. By the time you reached the apartment block you'd seen three squad cars. The front entrance was propped open so she could follow you right on in.

And she did. Apartment 6B was on the third floor. When you got to the second the front entrance slammed closed. She was not far behind you now.

Anyone with eyes could tell no one lived in apartment 6B, it was bland as anything. The walls were stark white, all the furniture was drab grey. There was nothing personal at all. No photos on the walls, no trinkets sprawled on every surface.

You had left the door unlocked behind you, and dumped your bag on the boring, rough couch. Walking to the kitchen, you slid open the door by the sink. Your gun sat inside, exactly where Derek had left it. Him and JJ were in your 'bedroom', waiting for the signal.

A few seconds later, there was a knock on the door.

"Coming!" You called, sliding your gun into the waistband of your skirt and made your way to the door. "Sarah!" You gasped, then tilted your head, taking a pause. "How... do you know where I live?" You asked, furrowing your brows.

"You bitch!" She growled, immediately jumping at you. A knife that she had hidden behind her back at the ready. Now, that was an escalation.

Your hand gripped her forearm, trying to wrangle the knife from her grasp. The two of you crashed into the wall, the tip of the knife scratched against your shoulder. Dark blood stained your shirt.

"Sarah put the knife down." You pleaded, the air puffing out of your lungs as you fell to the floor. The coffee table's legs crashing under your back.

"You're a no good slut." Sarah lifted the knife, ready to strike down upon you. Derek and JJ came running out of the bedroom, guns drawn and shouting.

"FBI! Put the knife down!" Derek barked, moving in on her.

The crazed look in her eyes told you she wasn't going to relent. Scrambling back, you swept her legs out from under her. Her ribs crashed into your legs and the knife fell from her grip. It sliced your calf, the blood running down and turning your white sock red.

They moved in, yanking her off of your legs and pulling her arms behind her. Cuffs clinked as he read her, her rights. JJ rushed to your side, kneeling beside you.

"Are you ok?" She flustered, hand grasping onto your uninjured shoulder.

"I'm fine." You nodded, smoothing down your skirt. You hissed when her finger prodded at your leg. "Ow!"

She laughed lightly, "Cmon, there's an ambulance outside." She helped you up, supporting you as you hobbled down the staircase and out onto the street.

You get forced into the back of an ambulance, Hotch stood guard at the door. The paramedics started to pepper you with questions.

"Did you hit your head?" She shined a torch in your eyes, checking for signs of a concussion.

"No," You shake your head. "Just the slashes." You confirmed and slid your shirt off of your shoulder.

"Alright, you'll need a couple stitches in each one. We can do it here." She explained, starting to stitch you up. "You'll need to take it easy for a couple of weeks." She said, with a pointed glance towards Hotch.

You sat in the back of the ambulance, legs swinging as they processed Sarah.

"Hey." Spencer said, sitting down next to you. "I heard you got quite roughed up."

"I'm ok." You smiled, head resting on the side of the ambulance.

"Uh, I got you something." He coughed, rummaging around in his pocket and pulled out a red lollipop. "The sugar will be good for keeping your energy up after losing blood. It tricks your brain into thinking you're fine. Endorphins and stuff."

"It tricks your brain into thinking you're fine. Endorphins and stuff." You said at the same time, holding back a laugh at his face. "You said the same to Em when she got grazed two months ago."

"Do you memorise everything I say?" He smirked.

"Well if I didn't how could I be precise? Professor Reid." You batted your eyelashes at him.

"Don't." He warned with a finger waved in your face, clambering up from the back of the ambulance when he saw Emily walking your way. He gave a wave before heading over to the rest of the team.

Unwrapping the treat with a loud crinkle, you called out. "Spencer!"

He turned and raised his brows.

"Thank you!" Popping it into your mouth, as Emily sat down next to you.

"Since when do you call him Spencer?" She asked, eyes darting between you.

"Recent development." You shrugged, trying not to stare.

"We told you, you just needed to fuck it out." She smiled, bumping your good shoulder with hers. "Was it the dress? Cuz I'd so do you in that."

"Shut up." You grumbled, cheeks heating up. Going even more red as you locked eyes with Spencer.

"Babybird and pretty boy sittin in a tree." She whispered in your ear, then doubled over laughing after you jabbed your elbow into her ribs.

----

a/n: this is so ass, there is genuinely no literayness to this. lowk was just horny and rabidly typed this out. whoops! ! join my taglist here!!!!

[illdiealonelyguy]

you and me... potentially? (Spencer reid x fem!reader)

Summary: you've been keeping your massive crush on spencer reid a secret, that is until you go to the movies with him and realise he might just feel the same way about you.

CW: fluff, basically shy!reader, fem!reader, she overthinks a lot, has low self esteem. mentions of Project Hail Mary but no major spoilers, but lots of references to Grace's science pun t-shirts lol.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: yay finally!! I had so much fun writing this, inspired by a conversation with my lovely moot @mango-lovrr and our headcanon that spencer reid would absolutely wear science pun t-shirts.

You were kind of going crazy.

Dimpled smiles. Wispy chestnut hair. Impossibly soft cardigans.

The man sitting at the desk adjoining yours - Doctor Spencer Reid.

You were also kind of hoping no one noticed - the way your cheeks reddened and smile broadened - when you both talked. About the most mundane things, too. The weather, what you ate for dinner, anything for goodness sake.

Basically, you kind of had a massive, raging crush on Spencer, and you could only pray no one noticed. Including him. Especially him.

Because you really weren't the type of person to go shouting about it, or confide in anyone the way most people do in, for example, 2000’s romcoms. You were a girl who did not confront, because you knew there was always someone better out there, much prettier than you, who Spencer probably deserved more. Because he was gorgeous - and way, way out of your league. 

Plus, you had an idea of his type, what with the case in LA a few years earlier and a gorgeous blonde by the name of Lila Archer, whom Spencer made out with. In a pool. Psyching yourself out was something you did a lot, really. The slight burn in your chest, sparkling with a twinge of hope while simultaneously decaying your self esteem. 

Penelope had invited you to countless girls nights at O'Keefe's, urging you to pick up a man. “Have a little fun, show off some of your charm!” she’d exclaim, while you knew that you were more of a spluttering and stuttering sort of charmer. Awkwardness no one seemed to desire in a woman, but yearned for in a man. 

Which was greatly ironic, considering the circumstances: the dimple adorned, wispy haired, soft clothed agent sitting opposite you, somehow emitting a warmth under the unforgiving and oppressive fluorescent lights of the bullpen.

“Hey, you okay?” Spencer questioned concernedly, craning his neck over the desk divider to peek at you as his eyebrows raised.

“Um…uh-huh” you replied unconvincingly, cheeks burning at the thought of being caught staring. 

Spencer nodded, soft curls unfurling from behind his ear as he returned his attention to the case file on his desk. Part of you wished you could reach right over, tuck the hair back in place again. 

Your stomach pulled at the wanting that you were so unfamiliar with, it seemed to come out of nowhere.

***

The clock struck five. 

You’re not usually the type of employee to immediately stop working when it’s time to leave, simply because absolutely no one else is, and you’d rather not appear like you're eager to go, what with the serious nature of your job and all.

So you hang on a few minutes. Usually until Spencer starts packing his things. Not in a creepy way.

He stands, pulling his coat on and slinging his worn messenger bag over his shoulder, before looking at you. 

“Have you seen that new sci-fi movie yet? Project Hail Mary?” he enquired politely.

You and Spencer shared a love for film - especially the sci-fi genre - and regularly discussed new releases. This is what made your wanting so consuming. You shared so many similar interests, the discussions serving as a reprieve from your gruelling job. 

You considered his pretty simple question carefully, not because it was particularly mentally challenging, but so that your mouth could catch up with your brain and form a coherent response.

“I haven't actually, but I've been wanting to. I’ve heard good things about it!” 

“Me too! I've been anticipating its release for a while, actually. It was originally a book by Andy Weir, who's the author of The Martian - a book that’s also been adapted into a movie. I really recommend reading them too, surprisingly I found the movies just as enjoyable - which, you know, isn't always the case. Also, Project Hail Mary’s portrayal of astrophysics, relativity and spacecraft engineering is highly accurate, so that’s good.” 

A pause. 

“Would you… like to watch it with me? It's showing this evening at the local movie theatre, not far from my apartment. I could, um, drive us and then… drive you home?”

Heart fluttering stupidly in your chest, you said: “I would love to!”

Not bad. No stuttering, at least.

Spencer waited patiently as you gathered your belongings, before following him towards the elevators, oblivious to the fact that your discussion had attracted a little audience across the bullpen.

“How long has it been? Three years now?” queried Emily.

“What, since he’s been looking at her like she hung the moon?” JJ joined.

“Nah, more like she’s been looking at him like that.” corrected Derek.

“Whatever, can they just- ugh - do something about it already!” exclaimed Emily, losing patience.

***

“You totally cried!” you exclaimed while grinning brightly under the darkened sky. You always loved exiting a movie theatre after the sun had gone down. It was like entering a new world. 

The sidewalk was wet with fresh rain, petrichor pungent in the air. You walked side by side with Spencer, a newfound electric energy between you as you excitedly discussed the movie.

“I did not…cry,” Spencer said so unconvincingly it caused a chuckle to bubble from your chest, “I… teared up. But so did you! I did see you reaching for the tissues in your pocket, you know.” 

“Well, I really thought Rocky was…” you started.

“I know, I know, me too. But he wasn't! The end was incredibly… heartwarming.”

“Yes, it was.” you agreed, peering at him as you stopped once you reached his car. “Are you sure you’re okay to drop me home? I really don’t want to be a bother, the metro journey isn't too bad-”

“Please, I insist,” he earnestly said, cutting you off while opening the passenger door for you.

You peered into his eyes, impossibly dark, and you could have sworn they glistened like stars under the night sky. He looked so earnest as he stood there. Before you could be accused of outright staring, you thanked him before getting into his car. Of course, being the gentleman that he is, he closed the door for you too. Which could mean nothing.

***

Everything looked blotchy as the raindrops on the windows blurred everyone's car lights  together, a warm toned distortion against the navy sky. With the heater on (since Spencer noticed you shivering) you felt incredibly cozy, the rhythmic sound of the indicator almost drifting you to sleep.

It was quiet in a way that confirmed two people were comfortable enough in each other's presence to not force words, and the silence continued for a good ten minutes before Spencer spoke.

“I liked his t-shirts.”

“Hm?”

“Grace’s t-shirts. The science puns. You know… ‘I Had Potential’” Spencer chuckled.

“Oh yeah!” you realised, “they were pretty fantastic, weren't they?”

“Definitely” he agreed.

Eventually, Spencer halted the car outside of your apartment complex.

“...Thank you. Not just for dropping me off, but for this evening too. I really enjoyed the film,” you psyched yourself up for your next words, “...and spending time with you.”

Spencer let out a breath, shifting in his seat to look at you more directly. “I enjoy spending time with you, too. Well um, you know, they’re probably going to be more movies. That we both enjoy. To, um, watch together.” he stuttered.

Your heart wouldn't stop doing that stupid jumpy thing as you undid your seatbelt, the pure warmth of your face becoming unbearable.

“Yes. For sure” you nodded.

“Wait, let me-” he said, swiftly getting out of the car and walking around to your side, opening the car door for you. 

You could barely keep it together as you exited his car, stuttering a goodbye as he waved, supposedly waiting until you were safely in your building before driving away.

***

It had been about a week since you attended the movie theatre with Spencer.

Fluorescent lights, rhythmic typing, and the smell of coffee. The usual for a monday morning inside the BAU.

You were early that morning - thankfully - as you beelined to Spencer’s vacant desk. You hoped no one saw as you planted a gift bag next to his keyboard. You picked a bag that looked the most unassuming, a plain dark blue. Successfully, the bullpen was empty enough to not attract wandering eyes to your activities. 

Or so you thought.

“Pretty girl, whatcha got there? Is it pretty boy’s birthday or something?”

Derek.

“Um. No… It’s just something. For him. That I thought he’d like.”

Way to play it cool.

“I see, I see,” he acknowledged with the most shit eating grin on his face, “you’re all sweet on him, aren't you?”

“What! I simply-”

“He’s all sweet on you too, you know that right? The way he looks at you? It’s driving Emily insane, how oblivious you both are.”

“I really don’t think he-” you began, before Derek cut you off again.

“Look… I understand you’re both not the type for a big fuss, so I'll leave this here: say something, do something.” Derek spoke with such understanding that, surprisingly, the shock of feeling seen didn't really feel like shock at all. It felt like relief. 

“This is me doing something.” you motioned towards the bag with your head.

Derek nodded, satisfied, and walked away.

***

About half an hour later, Spencer walked through the bullpen doors.

Once at his desk, he eyed the blue gift bag curiously. Your best effort to appear unassuming included pretending to be absolutely absorbed in the case file open on your desk, when in reality, you were hyperaware of his movements, watching them from the corner of your eye. 

He opened the bag, pulling out the first bundle of fabric and unfolding it curiously. You then heard a surprised laugh. 

“Was this you?” he asked with such delight, holding up a t-shirt with the words ‘I had potential’ on it, as well a potential energy graph. 

You couldn't help but laugh, too, at his joy.

“I just had to! It being a science pun and all, they reminded me of you.”

Spencer rummaged further into the bag, pulling out another t-shirt, this time one with a periodic table printed on it, with the phrase ‘I wear this shirt periodically’ beneath it.

His laughter increased, while you grinned sheepishly at him. 

“I love them. Thank you.” he spoke earnestly. His face softened, looking at you with such…longing?

“I’m glad you didn't think it was weird or anything.” you mumbled pathetically.

Spencer took a seat at his desk, carefully folding the shirts back up and gently placing them back into the bag. “You’re kidding right? This is one of the best gifts I've ever received.”

Again, a familiar moment of silent reflection, until:

“Ive never met anyone who's understood me so well,” he began with a serious expression, “I know I'm not for everyone, some people make that explicitly clear, but with you,” he gazes, “I feel like I can be myself.” 

He places those words between you like they’re fragile, vulnerable. 

“Me too,” you reassure him, "it's always so easy with you.”

You take a breath.

“Would you like to make our next trip to the movie theatre… a date? We could get dinner afterwards. If you want.”

Spencer’s mouth opens in what you could only call amused disbelief, “you know, that’s funny. I was about to ask the same thing. A date.”

That’s it. You’re dead.

“I guess it’s settled then,” you confirm.

“I guess it is.” 

You can’t help the upturn of your mouth, which he reciprocates, before you both try so hard to begin your work for the day.

Derek catches your eyes from across the room. He winks. You smile.

God, you’re pathetic.

[spenceloria]

MY MAN ON WILLPOWER

in which: you thought you'd grown to understand your boyfriend inside and out. yet after two months of dating, you just aren't sure why he has no interest in sleeping with you.

spencer reid x neighbour!reader

warnings: smut, hurt/comfort! part of my neighbour!reader universe, mentions of cat adams and s/a, established relationship, fem!reader, late seasons spencer, insecure reader + spencer, lots of self loathing tbh, unspecified age gap, mentions of spencer's experiences in prison, tears and sadness and doom (hooray!), cute domesticity that gets tainted by both parties (horny freaks! just fuck it out😭😭), masturbation (both m and f… separately), vibrator use (f), spencer reid is honestly a pervert, not panty stuff but not not panty stuff, um premature ejactulation NOT SORRY👀👀, cumming in pants! awesome!, auditory voyeurism..., back rubbing! massaging! spencer’s hands!, prolonged flashing? spencer is a pathetic man around a pretty pair of tits…, important conversations regarding healthy relationships!!! communication! and the lack of it!, no use of y/n!

wc: 7.1k

now playing: sabrina carpenter - my man on willpower

post prison spence deserves the entire world and our lovely neighbour!reader will absolutely provide it for him! ++ this fic came to me in a dream and i actually love it so i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing!

masterlist ♡ meet the reader

(my man’s in touch with his emotions / my man won’t touch me with a twenty foot pole)

you were always over confident in your self restraint. you gave yourself far too much credit. 

you truly thought you were smart enough to not allow spencer reid to loiter in your apartment.

especially not when you were running on fumes with a to-do list a mile long and a nauseating work event peering over your shoulder. 

apparently, you were wrong. blame it on the puppy dog eyes and not your severe lack of better judgement when it came to your boyfriend. 

after reluctantly letting him through your front door and explaining how paralyzingly busy you were, he kissed you like he missed you, as he so often did, and successfully disarmed the drowning overflow of anxiety spilling from your brain. 

maybe having him over wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

he helped you relax in the form of kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. standard practice for him, really. and somehow thirty minutes had elapsed and you had somehow materialized into your bedroom–now straddling his lap on your bed, late, and rethinking the stability of steady income and appearances, in favour of sucking spencer reid’s pretty little face off until he was a mess of purple splotches and swollen lips. 

you would’ve–if he let you. you would’ve been peeling off your top in his lap instead of by your lonesome in your bathroom, if he let you. 

but of course, despite claiming not to be, spencer reid was a tease who worked you up and then forced you to well, work. 

all in good conscience he says, you can’t afford to miss it he says, i’ll be here when you get back he says. 

you wished he was saying less and touching you more, yet as it goes, that was not the case, and you were once again left blue balled by your ever loving boyfriend. 

though thankfully, you didn’t go down without a fight, or rather, without punishing him in return. spencer would’ve fed mushu and folded your laundry without your insistence that he do so, but you led yourself to believe that he was just as annoyed at the task as you currently were. balance. a true 50/50 relationship.

you were tortured. getting ready for a night filled with fake smiles, and people you hated for the sake of god knows what, at a horrible venue, with portion sizes that would have spencer pulling into a drive-thru once he picked you up, was absolutely not something that filled you with joy. 

you considered yourself less than gracious for the opportunity, and would’ve much rather played hooky and tangled yourself into your pink sheets, naked with your naked boyfriend, happily practicing the basis of human nature recreationally. sex. 

yet, you had even been deprived of that. you didn’t exactly take spencer for some sort of nympho, but you’d assumed his libido wouldn’t have allowed him to kiss you with such fervour and then proceed to innocently peck your nose and drag you off of his lap instead of into his bed. 

did he have an aversion to sex in general? were you the problem? did he just not want to fuck you? 

spencer was, by far the best man you’ve dated. the kindest, the one who truly cared for you the most. but he was also the only man you’ve ever dated who hadn’t made any moves on sleeping with you. 

spencer had an exceptionally intelligent brain. it was beautiful, it was part of why you loved him, yet it was still the brain of a man. and you were concerned as to why he spent so much time thinking with it instead of with well, something else. 

a knock on your on-suite bathroom’s door startled you out of that spiraling tangent and back into a reality where you were still late and still in only your bra. 

“i have a feeling you were looking for these?”

spencer always brought you back to your feet when your worries were throwing you out of your own control. god you hated him. you loved him. 

you cracked open the door separating your partially undressed body to your boyfriend’s fully clothed one, and watched as his bashful expression averted his eyes and instead ushered his hands towards you, hands which held the outfit you’d planned for the night, which had been sitting on your dresser. 

spencer once again offered you a small salvation, and you were unbelievably glad he hadn’t questioned what you’d been doing for the past three minutes with nothing to change into. generous in ways you didn’t deserve.

“right. thank you. um,” 

your gaze drifted to the laundry spencer had folded with military precision on your wrinkled sheets. sheets that had become wrinkled because of him. sheets that you had just washed but would gladly dirty if it meant you could fuck him in them. 

the flame in your stomach re-ignited as you felt heat creep up the back of your neck, filling every crevice of your face until it forced you into an awkward smile. did he have any idea that you were fantasizing about devouring him, or did he find your constipated expression endearing?

“would you mind putting the laundry away as well? and fixing up my bed a bit? if that's okay?”

all the demanding tone that had filled your throat mere minutes before dissipated, as spencer had reduced you to mush by the heinous act of simply being himself. you were a pitifully horny excuse for a woman. 

“you got it.”

spencer handed you your clothes and gently closed the door, now happily busying himself with the simple task of cleaning up for you. 

normally, a man that had graced your past dating history would complain about such tasks. normally, you wouldn’t be changing in the privacy of a second room. normally, you would have tumbled out of the door with your makeup half done and your hair a mess because said tasks were completed half-assed and had to be onced over by you. normally, a relationship would only bring a constant state of feeling as though you were taking care of an incompetent child, who couldn’t understand the purpose of caring for another without expecting something in return. 

spencer reid was everything but normal. and you adored him for it. 

something as trivial as sex didn’t really matter when a man like spencer loved you, right? 

not when you had to cover the soft break in your voice with a cough when he returned to the bathroom door–knocking first, of course, to hand you your designated “going out” jewelry when you hadn’t even asked him to. 

he was so sweet he almost made you cry off your mascara, curled up on the cool tiled floor of your bathroom. over a pair of earrings. 

if spencer only wanted to kiss you, you were fine with it. 

you could take care of yourself in other ways.

said ways made themselves abundantly clear nearly two days later, after spencer had taken care of your far-past-tipsy self post work event, where you had taken the liberty of indulging in one too many glasses of complimentary champagne. 

now, as the clock beside your bed flashed too bright numbers in your face, confirming it was far too late in the night for you to be awake, you thought about him as you rolled over for the umpteenth time in a measly matter of minutes. 

he’d stroked the soft curls of your hair with the sort of reverence that would’ve made your knees buckle had you not been so inebriated and girlishly ecstatic to see him. 

he’d kissed both of your cheeks and returned every “i love you” with just as much genuine certainty as the last. because he was perfect.

he’d cleaned you up. washing your face, fussing over you as he helped you brush your teeth, handed you your comfiest pair of pajamas and turned around so you could change into them, because he respected your space and privacy even when your drunken lack of cognition was unable to uphold it. 

and of course, because he wanted to kill your now sober self, you recalled how he then proceeded to help you get your tank top on straight after your drunken self had gotten all tangled up. you were a mess in every sense and he tucked frizzed locks behind your ear and kissed your forehead despite yourself, like it didn’t matter. 

now, with a completely dissipated hangover (thanks to a certain someone insuring you drank almost copious amounts of water, while leaving two advil on your bedside table) you were left unbelievably, and irrevocably horny. as it often went. 

you’d woken up to a cold bed and even colder messages. a local case and an incredibly busy boyfriend. spent your day stupidly sad, as if your entire life revolved around him, and now you lay awake. and thinking of him so late at night–or at this point, early in the morning. this never did you any good. 

the conclusion you came to was more indulgent than anything. less than forty-eight hours and you couldn’t bear it (pathetic!). you were sure tiring yourself out another way would lull you to sleep when soft forehead kisses and backrubs couldn’t. 

such thoughts only made you more ridden with guilt. as if masturbation (while thinking of him, for that matter), was the only way you were able to satisfy a gluttonous hunger and offer yourself rest sans spencer reid. 

you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it, one track mind already sending your holy hands crawling between your legs.

the same could not be said for your tragic, tortured boyfriend. 

poor spencer had gotten home late, not wanting to wake you with a text, he’d landed on going over for breakfast in the morning. he’d find a way of making it up to you, he always did. 

and now the universe had found a way to pay any of his misdoings back to him, tenfold. 

the walls separating your apartments were thin, the two of you were more than well aware of this–a past you having been the cause of many sleepless nights for spencer. it was how you first met, now a silly little love story to be told with shining eyes and full hearts. 

the flimsy, un-soundproofed structures dividing your homes had become such an insignificant issue it was never even thought of. practically all of your free time was now spent together, and any noise was welcomed as a soft comfort of connection. 

and now horror had come back to bite him. because spencer reid sat painfully awake in his favourite reading nook, listening in on none other than your moans. 

you were dating, you took pleasure in calling yourself his and vice versa, but it was still wrong, a cruel invasion of privacy, destroying any semblance of respect he harbored for you (which was most definitely saying something), but spencer could not find the strength to tune your sweet sounds out. they were too beautiful. he absolutely did not deserve you. 

no, spencer did not carry the power to not eavesdrop on his girlfriend masturbating. it was far too difficult for him to withstand, his mind folded embarrassingly easily when it came to you, he always did, especially when he could picture you oh-so perfectly.  

he’d first seen about two days ago, he couldn’t manage to muster up the exact amount of elapsed time, which only spoke to how greatly you affected him. a completely useless mess of a genius. he couldn’t even remember the details of the case that had dragged him away from your drunken bedside. just you. you you you. 

he’d been putting your laundry away while you got yourself all dolled up for what–according to you, scarcely deserved your beauty. such a routine would have been completely innocent and disgustingly domestic had it not been for the fact that he had soiled the light of that memory with the distraction of your… undergarments. 

there was most definitely no saving him now. spencer reid was a pervert. through and through. 

he swore he had never meant to think of them, or of you that way, but holding silken fabrics and pretty lace of which he knew had adorned your most intimate parts was not shy of sexual for spencer. and while unbeknownst to you, his arousal was quite easy to earn when you were mixed into the equation. 

he was turned on by practically anything regarding you. his blessing and his curse. 

he’d only folded them, then put them away as per your instruction. he absolutely did not steal anything, despite the incessant, disgusting voice in his brain that practically screamed at him to do so. because he was seemingly unable to do anything involving his girlfriend without his thoughts ruining it. 

without him ruining it.

and when he finally managed to cool himself down and shoo away his dark thoughts? one brush of his organizing hand revealed something that made every synapse in his brain misfire. pink silicone slithered into his view. his feigned innocence in an attempt to recover some sort of decorum, now reduced to prey which fell for a serpent's trap. 

a vibrator. 

his skin burnt up with a ferocious shade of red as he hurried to put away the rest of your intimates and slam your dresser drawer shut. yet his speed was no match for the guilt as blood travelled down, until he couldn’t think straight and the heat in his skin wasn’t the only thing that was rising. 

he wasn’t surprised, no, obviously such items were exceedingly normal despite the embarrassment of societal taboo regarding sexual pleasure. it was the confirmation that you in fact, also harboured sexual desires that got to him. that was now real, and completely unignorable. 

he wasn’t stupid, he felt the disappointment seeping through your skin each time he held your hips still, the small sigh when your attempt to chase his lips was futile, he was aware of what he was depriving you of, but he hadn’t found the courage to speak of it, to actually tell you what was going on inside the brain that you constantly praised him for, instead opting to completely ice you out regarding anything intimately physical.

because he was scared.

he was cruel. 

were you this worked up because of him? 

guilt seeped through the cracks of his daze as his right hand traveled the wide valley between his spread thighs. his eyes were glossed over, body moving in a sinfully practiced familiarity rather than under the control of his better judgement. 

his fingers faltered at his belt. this was wrong on so many levels, something he would never manage to come back from, he’d swim too far and drown in his own self disgust. he wasn’t able to bring himself to speak to you about what had caused him to hold himself back, but was completely fine indulging in his own pleasure. pathetic. 

had he really changed in the ways his mind had convinced him of? would he never regain the innocence of who he used to be? 

a particularly loud moan snapped him out of his own head, a thick fog clearing out as you dragged him from the deep end, saving him as you always did. 

you. he could picture you now, panties soaked and sticky with the evidence of your unholy arousal, hot pink tip of your toy making a mess of your swollen clit. you were pretty, he didn’t have to see you to know so. his pretty girl with a pretty mess between her thighs. 

he should be the one pressing such unrelenting vibrations against your core, soaking up every praise that left your perfect lips. you would tell him how good he was through broken breaths. he knew that.

“fuck! spence–”

it was like you could hear his thoughts as clearly as he could hear you. you said his name. you were sleepless thinking about him. worked up thinking about him. 

spence. spencer spencer spencer. he would die a thousand deaths, bleed at your unyielding hand, just to hear you moan his name again. 

what was wrong with him. 

he hadn’t even realized he’d began palming himself through his trousers until he was too far gone to stop. was it better because he was demonstrating some sort of control by not stroking himself fully? or was it simply more wretched that he managed to get off through such light touches by completely tainting your glowing image. 

he landed on the latter, as his self loathing would not allow him to think highly of himself in such a pivotally low moment. but his greed was too strong, festering until it consumed him. he hung onto every sound that passed your lips, small praises as you thought of him. soft whimpers a harmony of your pleasure, and his misdoings. 

he was a horrible boyfriend, as he feared he would be.

which was exactly why his palm didn’t stop its cruel pace against the growing flame in his core. 

his hand moved with an uncoordinated velocity saved only for the desperation of you, chasing a high where you were at the peak. 

your sounds never faltered, the comfort of letting go, of foolishly thinking you were in the clear to let two months of built up tension escape through your spent throat. spencer hated himself for getting off on the fact that you had no idea he could hear you, that you truly didn’t know he was aware of how badly you wanted him, that he felt the same, if not more in return. 

revolting. anyone would be revolted if they knew, if they could see what he saw, hear what he heard, if his vile actions were to ever be exposed he was sure he would curl up and die, unable to face the extent of his shame. or maybe he was so unworth saving that the humiliation would only push him further.

he hadn’t any way of knowing, because this moment, not unlike many other thoughts, would end up locked in an impenetrable vault where anything undeserving lurked, each disgusted in their own likeness. it was suffocating. he wasn’t sure where else to keep them. 

it was almost ironic that his own self disgust sent him barrelling over the edge, so quickly he had no way of stopping its path. he couldn’t keep breathing, he had to rip his teeth into his bottom lip in order to not make a sound, he was loud, he knew so, had been told so in the past. louder than you were, yet he suppressed it because something had told him that he had to, that he’d changed. 

spencer sat in the shame of sticky soiled slacks, with the taste of iron on his tongue as he listened to you finish with a squeal of his name.

spencer had thought he would become distant, he laid awake, now to silence as he watched wisps of sun dance across his ceiling through the gaps in his curtains, and felt you in every fleeting moment of warmth they provided. he knew he would implode from the lack of you, even if every moment felt like he was stealing what he would never have the grace of deserving. 

spencer reid, was in his own eyes, more selfish than what he knew to do with. 

things felt simpler in the time before, when he first realized he liked you. when he spent his time dreaming up little what-ifs. when every miniscule queue, every blink, every breath, felt like he was grasping at air searching for even a hint of love, love for him. 

now he knew that you loved him. and knowing should’ve been enough. more than enough. selfish. he felt he was being selfish. 

selfish because he wouldn’t–couldn’t–tell you what was wrong with him. he wanted you to keep him. he didn’t want to give you an out because what he wanted more than anything was for you to stay. selfish.

so selfish that he blinked and he was outside your door. he’d changed since the mess of prior… events. he’d cleaned up. something in him wanted to be pretty, for you. to feel like he wasn’t lying about who he’d become.

selfishness reared its ugly head and formed itself as a desperate knock turned crashing of lips. the swapping of spit, as if transferring just a bit of you, your bacteria, your soul, your anything, could fight whatever infected him. fix him. he believed you were pure enough to do so. 

“spencer?–when did you get back?–”

he tried to let you speak, he swore it. pulling away because you deserved to be heard, because he wanted to listen. yet he dove back in because he could feel the rot writhing back every second he was away from your skin.

his mouth melded with yours as if it were meant to be, and he let himself believe it was, before pulling away to mutter a useless string of apologies. you weren’t here to save him, but he’d keep crawling back like you had the power to. 

“spencer–”

he wouldn’t let you finish, lips already back on yours because he couldn’t breathe on his own, contrasting how his anatomy actually functioned, you rewired him completely. he backed you into a wall, hard, without meaning to, hands too busy cupping your perfectly warm cheeks, body too busy pressing into yours, mind too busy being full of you. he wouldn’t have noticed your discomfort if not for the small wince you kissed into his lips.

the drop in his chest settled like an anchor in his stomach as he pulled off of you so quickly he surely gave himself whiplash, hands empty, body cold. 

“did i hurt you? i’m so sorry–i–”

he couldn’t even find the words if he tried. the vast library of knowledge that was his brain rendered completely useless. he was only thinking of himself. what he thought he’d done. aggressive, violent, unpredictable. he felt like he was once again looking over his shoulder when he was only looking at you. 

“what? no–i just slept weird the other night and have a kink in my back, it’ll pass… are you okay?”

you missed him. you wanted to simply hold him, wrap your arms around him and rock back and forth like a calm ship at sea. a soothing rhythm. though, you weren’t sure if he’d accept your touch if you tried. you’d never seen him so scared. 

all he wanted was to feel you. and when your hand tentatively met the flesh of his cheek, he melted into it so quickly it was hard to keep the threatening tears in his eyes at bay. you were too good to him. you were perfect.

“when you were drunk?”

he was asking about your sleep. something that felt extraordinarily minor in this current moment. you were far more occupied with his sporadically odd behavior and concerned with the fact that he was ignoring it. his touch was always welcome, but spencer had a way of pushing his needs aside, and his actions felt weirdly forced in a way you weren’t familiar with. his affection typically felt more natural. 

“yes i guess so, i kind of woke up sort of folded in half–i guess? i’m fine now,”

you made a small gesture with your hands, demonstrating the pretzel shape that had haunted your drunken dreams and left you with a deadly case of neck stiffness. entirely untreatable. fatal, judging from spencers abhorrent expression. 

hypocrite. this was a moment that required your concern for him. something that he did not offer up lightly. 

“so… when did you get back? how was the case? have you eaten?”

the strategy of bombarding him with so many questions that he was actually forced to answer at least one had yet to be patched (small wins), and spencer smiled as his hand stroked short circles at the small of your back. 

his touch was soft, skilled yet still delicate, as if you were something fragile and would shatter under the lightest impact. but not in a way that ever made you feel small. just, wanted.

he was so gentle with you now, the striking jump leaving you dizzy when his taste was still prickling on your lips. 

“everything went fine, don’t worry–it was local–but you know that…”

he was doing everything not to lie to you and still failed.

“i got in about an hour ago, i didn’t want to wake you i guess–sorry… let me help with your back and then i’ll make us something to eat? yeah?”

not exactly the truths you deserved. anything to deter from the fact that he had definitely been home for hours and definitely knew how much you missed him. 

“you didn’t want to wake me at nine o'clock on a sunday?”

your brow curved, spencer’s brain perceived that as an obvious message for something along the lines of i know you’re a pervert and now you have to explain yourself in excruciating detail you disgusting dog when he really knew you had only meant it as a tease. 

“yes… you like to sleep in.”

how had he circled the conversation back to you again?

“you didn’t want to wake me with a text… so you waited around for an hour and showed up at my door…”

it could be believable, he hoped. there truly was zero method to spencer’s madness over you. nothing had to make sense. it just was. he’d hoped you’d buy it so he would not be sent to the pound with his tail between his legs. 

“exactly. i just missed you too much. needed to see you.” 

he used his stupid looming-over-you-turned-bending to shove his nose into the crook of your neck and then proceeded to nuzzle himself in the warmth there as a means of disarming you. don’t be fooled by the shine in his eye and the way his arms wrapped your shoulders, he was evil. 

you mumbled a curt missed you too into his hair because it worked. you were easy. 

“let me fix it now?”

you could feel his teeth against your skin as he spoke, his breath sweltering against your already hot flesh. was this a practice of persuasion? some sort of profiling technique, making you malleable enough to blindly follow what he says without so much of a second thought?

“hmm? fix what?” 

you ran your fingers through his messy chestnut hair, two could play at that game, spencer. you could even out the playing field. you scratched his scalp ever so slightly, tips of your fingers worshiping, lulling, until he was just as dazed as you. 

he was easy too.

“lemme rub your back for you. get the knot out of your shoulders… please it’ll feel so nice.” 

and, fifteen minutes later your face was buried into the same pillow you’d gripped only hours before when you were… thinking of him. 

your top half was bare (because spencer swore it was better that way) and you didn’t have it in you to argue with science, or the fact that he had asked you to take your top off in the first place. a simply demure woman. 

shirtless face down while spencer’s left thigh cut into the curve of your right ass cheek. he was bony. long a spiraling and so devastatingly climbable and– if this was a ploy to take your mind off the insignificant sting in your shoulder, by making you ridiculously horny, it was absolutely working. 

if he moved a good four inches left you were sure you could make something else bony. 

you moaned when his thumb dragged over the harsh blade of your shoulder. he was really, really good with his hands. what wasn’t he good at? 

the cool metal of the watch he hadn’t removed was a striking temperature against the burning heat of your back, which had been lathered in some warm essential moisturizing oil you rarely touched, that he’d found in the mess of products in your bathroom. because lubrication was important (was everything he said sexual or had your brain already melted?)

his hands were big as they were long. sheer size most definitely spanning across the width of your face with ease, and currently covering large sections of your skin with ease. he practically kneaded your flesh like dough, following a strict stress reducing pattern he’d undoubtedly studied.

if he went just a little bit lower his hands would be on your ass. that was honestly what was keeping the fire between your thighs ablaze. that and his scent. and his voice. and him… come to think of it, spencer had never really touched you there, his hands always seeming to stop just a touch too low on your waist, yet still remaining too high to actually make themselves useful. 

maybe he just wasn’t an ass guy. 

actually. you’d caught him staring in the reflections of full length mirrors far more than once. you’d spared him his dignity when your eyes had met. you regretted it now as he drained what felt like years of weight off of your shoulders, and sent every electric shock straight to your cunt because he was incapable of achieving perfect domestic boyfriend status without turning you on. 

but that was as much your fault as it was his. 

back to his hands though. they were good. great even. gold star worthy (you knew he had a praise kink, and you’d use it against him if he wasn’t literally against you… you should be stronger than this.)

his deft fingers traced little beauty marks and blemishes you hardly recognized the existence of. you knew every pattern he found in your skin would be catalogued in the files of his brain, most definitely in his favourites folder. 

“feels good, spence.”

that was practically the first time you’d spoken to him since he’d started. you hadn’t even recognized the sound of your own voice. was that even you?

he’d sort of expected you to instruct him where to touch, how much pressure to apply, how fast, how slow. you were demanding (lovingly) and he liked when you told him what to do. 

weirdly enough you remained relatively silent throughout the whole process (minus every little open mouthed sigh that was muffled against the growing pile of drool under your chin.)

he had reduced your brain to slop, absolute mush, only senses remaining revolved solely around him and his touch and how you were clenching around nothing and–

“yeah? that’s good. told you, angel.”

why were you worried again? you could’ve sworn you were worried about something. 

right. he was acting weird. and also you wanted to fuck him. like right now.

spencer had stopped his endlessly strung together tangent regarding the benefits of back massages, and how they lowered stress and released endorphins and yada yada sexy science crap, loosening tight muscles (could’ve spent his time loosening something tighter) and all of the sudden you were begging him to continue talking. 

was it possible to reach climax via posture correction and induced blood circulation? it was, right? 

all he could make out were quite little whines which he had assumed were an okay to continue his ministrations. little whines that were definitely not you pleading with him to never stop talking. 

wow, covering up an all consuming guilt with a hands-on anatomy lesson for your girlfriend surely proved itself a great diversion technique. way to go spencer!

and then you started rolling over and his brain literally stopped working. 

spencer had been compared to a deer before, something about his lanky clumsiness and beautiful big brown eyes (your words, not his.)

and now said comparison was proving itself undyingly correct as he stared at your chest like your pretty nipples, which now consumed the entirety of his view and thoughts, were the headlights of the most beautiful semi truck he’d ever seen. 

spencer was lucky that thought was not one that ever left his mind. for the sake of his integrity and your confidence. don’t worry, every girl dreamed of being compared to a gigantic immovable force!

and oh look–he's dead. roadkill flat against the highway. he’d wear the tiremarks like a badge of honour, he’d proudly tell the whole world that his girlfriend’s stunning tits had actually killed him. 

he absolutely did not register how stupid he appeared in the moment, or how his jaw had slacked, his mouth was agape, or how you’d said his name. 

somewhere between the unheard begs and unchecked pulses between your thighs, you’d had enough. suddenly recalling that all confrontations were short-lived and you were exceptionally good at getting what you needed. (and there was also the months of becoming increasingly insecure about your sex appeal, which probably also contributed something.) 

so you flashed him–exposed yourself to him? whatever it was, it obviously caught his attention. seems not every plan had to be meticulously thought through!

“spencer.”

your voice of his name fell on completely deaf ears. 

his gaze followed your chest as you sat up, your face was level with the mid section of his frame, and his neck was cranked in a position that most definitely violated his previous lecture regarding the correlation between postural habits and back pain. he did not care. nor did he bother to notice the discomfort in his neck. 

your eyes were only slightly, embarrassingly teary, from the sexual frustration or from genuine hurt, you truly didn’t know. but you would simply not allow yourself to reach the low of getting off to a massage because you had literally nothing else to work with. 

“are you attracted to me, spencer?”

he wouldn’t have heard your words had they not been so paralyzing. he was both confused and growing red eared (and hard) from his perversion. 

before his loose, stupid lips could jumble together a useless string of yes of course, why wouldn’t i be? you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on–you saved him from mortification. 

“like physically… sexually. like do i even turn you on?” 

the words would’ve landed pervertedly condescending (because he was disgusting) if he hadn’t caught the break in your voice. suddenly his melted brain reformed and flipped the profiling-my-girlfriend switch on. his mind immediately darted to the unsteady beat of your chest and your averting gaze and the way your shoulders collapsed in on yourself and oh god. 

he was a horrible boyfriend. 

“of course you do–i don’t even… i couldn’t put it into words–what you do to me.”

your scoff came off more as more of a wounded cry than anything. frail and caught in a cruel trap that was your mind and his disregarding actions. 

“really? because–well i told myself i was okay with it... but i’m not. i can’t handle being undesirable and i need you so badly and i just don’t understand why you won’t–”

you stopped yourself because you were sure you would’ve literally choked on your own words had you not, and spencer only looked at you like you were all delicate and preciously pitiful until all that you felt was guilt. because how could you ever question his love when he looked at you like that? 

i can’t handle being undesirable.

he could live a hundred lives being the best possible version of himself and still remain undeserving of you. undesirable. you were the first thing that he thought of when he woke up and the last thing when he drifted to sleep. he saw you everywhere. in everything.  

his entire team knew practically every little detail about you. from the way you scrunched your nose when you read to how you always leaned into him while you slept. all he did was desire you.

he fell to his knees–albeit awkwardly, as if your words had literally stabbed him in the chest, he believed they did. he had said he would bleed for you.

and because he never learnt to articulate his emotions properly, his mouth started moving before his brain could stop it. 

“i heard you last night.” 

your eyes went unimaginably wide in horror. you spill your guts out to a man and he decides to leave you on the side of the road instead of stitching you up. great. 

“and i lied about it because. well because i didn’t want you to know how much it affected me. and–and i know how disgusting it is and i’m so unbelievably guilty at how much i… like it. and i swear. i swear i was going to stop and then you said my name and i just–couldn’t keep my hands off–and i know it’s disgusting and i understand if you want to scream at me… or–or hit me or run away–or even hate me.” 

oh.

“you touched yourself to… the sound of me touching myself to you…”

spencer ran a hand through the mess of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, fingers pressing into his covered corneas so hard that he prayed he would do irreversible damage to his vision, and would not have to face your repulsed expression. 

“yes. i’m sorry.”

spencer spared himself a glance at you, remembered your tits were out and now quite literally in his face, and closed his eyes again. 

“then why won’t you… have sex with me?”

“because… i’m scared,”

he breathed hard, making preparations to finally reveal a reality he’d completely hidden from you. from the fear that he was too much, held too much baggage and was too insecure and had too many deep rooted issues to ever truly love. 

and with how he’d changed. how he wanted to preserve a version of himself that no longer existed because he couldn’t bear to accept that he had changed into something festering with an unrestorable rot. 

that terrified him far more than any dirty confession could ever manage to. 

“because. a lot has happened to me. because a lot of bad things have happened to me.  I’ve become… bad. and i’m scared that if i indulge in you, i’ll only confirm that i’ve been lost for good. i’m scared i’ll hurt you.” 

he hadn’t realized he was crying until your soft hands cleared the blurred lines of his vision and pulled him close to you. his face found the crook of your neck like it always did and you soothed him by carding your fingers through his perfectly tangled hair.

he looked up at you as you cradled his face in your palms. 

“there was this unsub. and she–she did things… took advantage of me to gain a psychological upper hand, to hold something over my head. and i did time. because of her. and she made me feel–i had never felt so angry–or violent or… the things i did inside. they’re unfathomable. and when i got out… all i wanted–i wanted to hurt her. i did. she ruined me and now i’m this disgusting visicious–thing that i don’t even recongize. and if i ever hurt you i could never forgive myself–because you are the only good thing in my life and i will never be worthy of having you. i shouldn’t have lied. i should’ve told you what i really was instead of tricking you into loving me. i’m so sorry.”

it was almost too much to process–it practically hit you in the face and stole the air from your lungs. because your boyfriend just spilled a lifetime of traumatic experiences and you were shirtless questioning why he wouldn’t sleep with you. 

above all, your heart ached for him in ways you never knew were possible. 

“spencer,”

his eyes were searching yours for the inevitable look of shame, disdain, the words of contempt that he knew were tragically bound to spill from your untainted lips. 

but none of that came. you only held him closer. 

“you’ve spent months showing me exactly who you are. and i will do anything to prove how beautifully kind, and sweet–and gentle you truly are.”

spencer had taught you the importance actions held above all. behaviour spoke louder than anything. there was nothing he could tell you that could ever deter you from his light. not even for a second. 

you had never known someone like him. never been graced with something so pure and heavenly. perfect in every nook of imperfection. your love was so undyingly devout you weren’t sure how you would ever be capable of forming it into words. 

“i’m sorry if i ever made you felt like your experiences made you less than–and i’ll do anything to show you how much my love transcends anything–everything… spencer you could never. and i mean never scare me away. you’re stuck with me.”

he’d spent so long being terrified of who he’d become, living in a body he couldn’t recognize, that he’d lost sight of the fact that he was still himself. 

you’d help him find himself again. because you cared. because you loved him. because he deserved it. 

he shied away from you again, the soft curve of his nose meeting the skin of your collar bone. his favourite hiding place. you could feel his smile, the sun peeking out from behind a cloudy sky. 

“hey… let me see you.”

you chuckled, watching as he blinked back the last of tears that prickled the sensitive skin surrounding the warm gold of his eyes. 

“only if you’re okay with it–ready i mean, i want you to tell me everything. i want to be here for you, spence.”

you watched as his rosy cherub cheeks perked, his lips curved into the most tenderly compassionate smile you ever had the honour of being familiar with as he nodded. 

“i think i’d like that.” 

you pressed him closer to your bare skin, in the sense of shared proximity and loving intimacy, dragging his willing form up until you pressed a delicate kiss against his lips. 

“great! um… would you mind grabbing my shirt now–”

spencer snorted as he rose from your carpeted floor and fetched the garment that had previously been folded with a now practiced precision (because of course he folded it!)

his new found confidence had him feeling rather risqué, and he teased you by pulling it closer to his chest. 

“how about we have this conversation under the condition that i get to worship the beauty of your skin beforehand?” 

you only rolled your eyes and raised your arms so he could pull the fabric back over your body. 

“maybe next time.”

because there absolutely would be a next time. 

i remembered that neighbour reader loves sabrina and boom this fic was born! also… i was squealing writing this because!!!! them!!! i love them together so much im sick! yes i skipped far into their established relationship future, and yes, don’t worry, i will absolutely be back tracking!!! i just like needed to write this. ok i love you all!! thank you so much for reading🤍🤍 please reblog if you enjoyed! ^_^

[cno-inbminor]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication), mentions of alcohol and getting drunk , use of Y/N wc: 5.4k | part 1

a/n: thank you to everyone who has interacted with and enjoyed part 1! i sincerely hope that this final part does not disappoint. stay safe and hydrated, and i hope you all are well <3

You can do this for as long as you need to, no matter how draining it may be.

When you wake in the morning, you find yourself tucked into your blanket the way that Zayne would often do if he felt the material wasn’t doing enough to keep you warm. A pang of guilt makes itself known when you come to the realization, and it’s clear that Zayne had to leave early again. The side of his bed is cool beneath your fingers, but after a single grip of the cotton, you fling the blanket off your figure and get up to start your morning routine.

It’s a tiny hassle to make your own coffee and figure out a quick breakfast without Zayne – tiny in the sense that you had done it yourself before having moved in with him, and you shouldn’t be so reliant on a partner whose schedule is as crazy as his. There had been a time when things were more consistent and regular, but ever since Emcee returned…

Like clockwork, you step on the scale in your shared closet, letting the device gather all the numbers it needs. It gives you a chance to observe the sorry state of your feet. The bandaids that you slapped on are worn at the edges, your toenails looking a little rough, wrinkles and blisters decorating other parts of your toes. You feel the roughness on the balls and arches underneath. When you step off the scale, you move towards the counter and lean back against it so you can lift a foot up and get a better look at the backs of your heels.

The sight of them makes you wince internally, bloodied and skin peeling. Once pristine, the cotton pads of the bandaids are splotched with crimson, paint from yours truly. You take little care in replacing the bandages and dolloping some antibiotic ointment on them to make you feel like you’re doing something at least. After getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and deciding to buy coffee on the way instead, you’re out the door in your most comfortable pair of work flats.

As you walk towards the nearest bus station, your phone vibrates, and the music in your earbuds softens before returning to its original volume. The notification tone sends a spike of anxiety through your system, your fingers shaking as they push things around and fish your phone out from your bag.

Husband 💙: Have you left for work yet? I can come back and drop you off.

It’d be rude not to reply.

You: I have, so no need. Thank you though.

An immediate reply.

Husband 💙: Don’t walk around too much today, and replace those bandaids when you’re on your lunch break.

You: Okay, I’ll try.

Needless to say, you don’t – more like, you can’t. No one in your office has bandaids for some reason, nor can they remember where the first-aid kit is. To be fair, you hadn’t planned on changing them had Zayne not said anything.

The hours tick by, and your boss stops by your desk to ask if everything was okay yesterday. You thought you could fake it, but your voice is telling when you reply, “Oh yeah, everything’s just fine. We’re fine.” Your boss cocks an eyebrow at your tone, and you assume a facial expression that screams, “Really, we’re not fine but there’s nothing you can do about it, so thank you for even asking.”

Just as you’re putting your stuff away to leave work for the day, your phone buzzes.

Husband 💙: Don’t forget to eat dinner. I have a late surgery. Also, kettle corn is not a meal.

You can’t help but quirk a smile at his words, as they rarely fail to elicit a reaction from you. But you’re tired, still feeling the effects of everything that happened yesterday, and you type out a quick response.

You: Okay. Good luck.

In another part of the city, a man with hazel eyes reads his phone for a little too long, his eyes squinting slightly as they circle around those three words. Your bland, unfeeling response is highly unusual and unsettles him. But he has to toss it aside somewhere in his mind so that he can focus wholeheartedly on saving this upcoming patient.

You, on the other hand, have decided to camp out at the bookstore again until late. Unable to hide forever, you slip back outside and are greeted by a slight chill in the air. It seeps through your thin blouse, and it isn’t until your head hits your pillow that it is, in fact, the middle of a hot summer. 

-

Zayne has texted you more this week than he has in the last month.

At first, you thought things may be returning to a sense of normalcy, and that whatever you heard come out of his mouth that fateful day was just a fluke. But when he mentioned offhandedly that Emcee was gone for a week or two because of a mission a few hours away, you deflated and berated yourself for even hoping.

The second choice, weren’t you?

Every day, there is something. A reminder to change your bandaids, dry humor, some slightly snarky comment about the highly incompetent doctor in the neurology department that he swears must’ve bought his way to become board-certified, the occasional picture of his makeshift meals, general questions about your day – you don’t know how to feel about all of it. Because what happens when Emcee comes back?

What happens when you can no longer be the priority again?

The very question makes you throw a shot of soju back at this company dinner to celebrate someone’s promotion. You had taken it as a chance to, once again, stay away from your actual sanctuary, while also getting a free meal. A win in your books, right?

Even in your drunken haze, when your phone, face down, vibrates on your table by your chopsticks, you know immediately who it is. When you flip your phone over, your husband’s face greets you, and you have a slight moment of panic. Did you ever get around to telling him you were at a work dinner tonight?

“Fuck,” you murmur before nonchalantly swiping up the green circle.

“Hello?” you quietly answer, your voice already a little heavy.

Zayne seems to pick up on it almost immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Before you can answer, a crowd roars at some drinking game happening two tables down, and your phone cannot be bothered to filter it out.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Work dinner,” you reply while trying to step away from your table and towards somewhere quieter.

“Was it an impromptu dinner?”

“No,” you say, tone sheepish and sluggish, much like your steps towards the bathroom. “I think I forgot to tell you about it.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? I’m about to leave the hospital.”

You pull your phone back and search for the time. Was it already 10:30PM?

“You don’t have to, it’s late. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Several miles away, a tiny layer of ice decorates Zayne’s right hand.

“I can’t imagine you need to be there any longer. Surely your boss would understand. Where are you?”

For the life of you, you could not recall the name of the restaurant. Looking around, you hum, almost lackadaisical, until you catch sight of a flashy sign. “I think it’s called Chodang? Korean barbeque.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No,” you nearly whine, “it’s okayyy.”

There are the jingling of keys and two quick beeps in the background. “Y/N.”

His voice is final, stern, and sobers you just a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” you surrender with the cadence of an apology, your tone sheepish.

“Wait inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget to gather all your things.”

“Yessir,” and fingers mock salute to no one before hanging up. Well, at least you can finally be done with this event. If you’re lucky, you won’t have a hangover in the morning.

When you start grabbing your jacket and bag, your coworkers ask if you’re leaving, and you have to pretend that you don’t want to. “My husband’s picking me up.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about that then. See you tomorrow!”

You wave goodbye to everyone and do your best to remain as steady as possible. The warm summer night is a nice contrast to the aircon that had no business blasting as hard as it did. Your mind drifts off into another world as you stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused and slightly glazed over. Without any warning, you find yourself thrown back to the day you walked aimlessly around the park.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.”

That was not a “what-if” you could ignore. How could you, you think to yourself, a half-sob sitting lodged in your throat. Would you even be here in this position now, waiting for Zayne, your husband, to pick you up late at night out of love and concern? Would you have been a spectator at their wedding instead of his bride? Everything that you had built with him would be nonexistent – a life devoid of love, hazel eyes, tender care, and icy hands that could be so warm.

A sleek car pulls up in front of you with a gentle purr of its engine, causing you to blink and remove yourself from your stupor. How interesting, that’s the same color as Zayne’s car. And make. What are the odds?

Oh, the person even looks like your husband, too. What a coincidence.

Are you forgetting something important?

“Y/N,” the person says as they approach you. How do they know your name?

Cold hands hold you by your upper arms in an attempt to steady you. But your vision blurs, and you feel the desperate need to hide. You drop down to a crouch which is not wise in your dress, but there’s very little else you can do at the moment.

“I have a husband, and he’s coming to pick me up,” you announce with false bravado, voice barely loud enough for the person to hear because you have your head tucked against and your arms wrapped around your knees. To further bolster your argument, you throw up your left hand and turn it so your ring is visible. “See?”

The person in front of you lets out a deep sigh as if they’ve been dealt with the most cumbersome inconvenience possible, which makes you frown because how dare they display exasperation when they, themselves, of their own volition, approached a drunk person. A rustle of clothes, a shadow overcast, and against better judgment, you peek over your crossed limbs. The person is now crouched in front of you to meet you at eye level, which must be painful for someone so tall. However, it is not the time to feel sorry.

“I do see. In fact, I gave you that ring.”

You splutter and fail to scoff. “No, you didn’t. My husband gave me that ring, and I don’t even know who you are!” you argue and whine, failing to pull back when a cold hand rests against your head to pat down stray hairs.

“You’re telling me I don’t look familiar?”

With a pout, you shake your head, petulant and stubborn. “Nobody can really look like Zayne. He’s suuuper handsome, and no one,” you emphasize before wagging a finger in front of you, “can compare.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkle with mirth and affection, and he can’t help but indulge himself just a little bit more.

“Is that so? Anything else I should know about this…Zayne?”

Your eyes remain closed as you turn to the side, resting a cheek against your forearms. “He’s really, really sweet, which is funny because he’s – hiccup – like, obsessed with sweets. Annddd, he’s the best car–, cardi–, cardia–, heart doctor in the whooolleee world. Zayne saves lots and lots of lives all the time.”

“And what if I told you I was a cardiologist as well?”

“Doesn’t matter, because Zayne is the best. No one is better than Zayne. He’s really funny, and he makes me laugh a lot. He’s…he’s the best person I know.”

And he is. He really, truly is. The fondness brings you back to the earlier existential dread that you had been spiraling down before this man appeared in front of you. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself as your eyes begin to water, and you can’t help the sniffle that ensues.

The sound sends Zayne into a world of panic. He has long been able to differentiate between your crying sniffles and runny-nose-flu sniffles, and he knows you’re not usually an emotional drunk.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” – sniff – “and if he…if he ever left me, I know exactly who he’d leave me for.” Your voice warbles and shakes more and more with each word before you’re thrown into a fit of sobs. “And I wouldn’t blame him be – hic – because,” you try to elaborate before pausing, “because..”

Oh god, you can’t even get yourself to say it. The thought plagues you as the cries plague your chest, leaving you defenseless with no other option but to let it all out. It’s the last thing you do before you proceed to pass out from exhaustion.

Zayne catches you just in time and brings your barely conscious body home with a heavy heart. Any other day, he would’ve found your groggy voice and minor complaints on the way home to be endearing. But now? He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do besides taking off your shoes, changing you into your pajamas, and tucking you into bed. He doesn’t know what to do besides feeding you honey water by the mouthful because you refuse to drink from a cup like a sober person. He doesn’t know what to do when you so readily accept his kisses and the soothing liquid in your sleepy state.

When he finally lays beside you, all he does know is that you two urgently need to talk.

(He hears the last few grains of sand start to trickle through the neck of his glass timer.)

And soon.

-

Your eyes shoot open the next morning, and after recalling everything you word-vomited last night, you want nothing more than to plant yourself six feet under and turn into a tree. That way, you would never have to see Zayne again without being riddled with guilt, stress, and disbelief in your boorish behaviors. You two can never talk about this.

-

Zayne is this close to stabbing a cadaver from the nearby medical school’s anatomy lab with a scalpel in a manner that would laugh maniacally in the name of science. What does a man need to do to have just one – one, whole, uninterrupted – day to spend with his wife?

It has to be karma, at this point. He must’ve done something horrific to have emergencies land in his lap at the most inconvenient times possible. After all, it seemed that at every available opportunity, something unavoidable called for his attention. Whether it be an urgent consult, some patient code, nurses knocking urgently at his door, covering for someone at the last minute, Yvonne paging him, literally anything –

At this very moment, one could find Zayne leaning down in surrender at his desk – back hunched over, elbows on the glass, forehead resting against intertwined hands, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples, glasses cast aside atop a messy pile of folders in a haphazard fashion – all while muttering to himself, “I just need to talk to my wife, for the love of Astra.” After a long sigh, he rubs his eyes and looks up, his fingertips now meeting over the bridge of his nose. In his peripheral vision, a glass sand timer sits. To anyone else, it is an innocent decoration – but to him, its very existence now mocks him.

A cherished gift from you, despite its simplicity. But as he reaches over in a daze to turn it on its axel, he cannot help but wonder if it meant anything deeper. When you gifted this to him two years ago, was it supposed to remind him that time with you was finite?

“It’s a three-minute sand timer,” you had said, bouncing in excitement on your feet as you stood in front of his desk and watched him open the box. “I know you’re endlessly busy, but you should at least be able to have a few minutes to yourself when you want or need it.”

Zayne’s vision focuses on the grains of sand trickling through the neck and into the bottom bulb. As usual, he is mildly fascinated by its unique frosty blue hue, its looks more akin to snow gently piling up in a pristine tundra. He remembers the cheeky smile spread across your lips, the adoration in your eyes, the way your hands were crossed behind your back. He remembers holding out his hand, gently gripping yours when it had found its home in his, and pressing his lips against your knuckles as a gesture of gratitude, love, and respect.

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

Grayson’s words had unnerved him more than one could realize.

Zayne had never questioned his marriage before. Though there had been some hesitancy in moving on from Emcee and acknowledging that he felt some type of affection for you, the one he hadn’t been enamored with for many years, he learned to love you. It was easy, in hindsight, and it still is. Even when Emcee had come to the wedding, Zayne had felt nothing but appreciation that she had made it all the way out there despite her busy and chaotic schedule.

But what if she had stayed? What if she never moved across the country?

He groans and leans back in his chair, his head slightly hanging over the top edge. His shoulders protest, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders ache. If there was anything he could wish for at this very moment, it would be your presence behind him, your fingers kneading methodically to relieve him of his discomfort. “You’re too good to me,” he would say, and you would chuckle. “Nonsense,” you’d reply quietly. “If anyone is too good to me, it’s you.”

“See, that’s nonsense,” he’d argue and look over his shoulder, a hand reaching back to cover yours. And you would laugh before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, almost Spiderman style. He would relish in the tiny gesture, so wonderful and full of pure bliss, and know that he could make it through the rest of the day.

The pride in his gait as he has you on his arm during awards ceremonies, the peace in his eyes as he watches you snore in deep sleep, the reverence in his touch when he keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he kisses you with all abandon, the trained ear to hear your voice in a noisy crowd – every moment, every memory, every bit of life that he has lived with you, he would never trade it for the world. It doesn’t matter what would’ve happened if Emcee had stayed put six years ago.

And he really, really, wishes he had told Grayson that.

Zayne wakes his computer screen and pulls up his calendar to see what his schedule looks like for the afternoon and tomorrow. It’s relatively light compared to the last few months, and he feels like he can finally breathe. Reaching into his whitecoat pocket for his phone, and without looking, he uses your speed dial – 2, and only because 1 is occupied by his voicemail inbox. Each dial tone causes his anxiety to spike, but somebody must be answering his prayers because you answer right before it’s forwarded to your voicemail.

“Yes, Zayne?”

“Do you have any meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, umm,” you hum, and he can hear the faint mouse clicks in the back, “there’s nothing urgent. What is it?”

“Take the day off tomorrow,” he suggests in a gentle tone. “Call in sick, and spend the day with me.”

Zayne receives a few moments of silence, and he can practically hear the gears grinding in your brain, even miles away.

“I miss you,” he adds, his voice like a confession, and you cannot mistake his tone for anything but pure, genuine longing.

“...I miss you, too,” you reply, your own tone just as yearning as his. “I’ll do it.”

Zayne’s absolutely thrilled, already logging into his employee portal to submit his sick day absence. “We’ll sleep in, cook something together. Is there anywhere you want to go or do?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

Good. That’s what he was hoping for.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.”

“Will do. I’ll see you later.”

“One more thing, Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“...I love you, too.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye, A-Shen.” Call ended chime.

Despite the selfish desire to keep you on the phone until it’s time to leave work, he cannot help but smile at the use of his Chinese nickname. You’ve always said it so affectionately, so full of care and tenderness. His heart rate never fails to spike and simultaneously melt at the sound of it, even after all these years.

Who knew that, to get one free day with his wife, it takes one drunken rant, the impatience of a toddler, and two individuals playing hooky?

-

Part of you wishes you never have to wake up. You have a very, very bad feeling about this day off, seeing as Zayne, of all people, was the one to propose such a day. For the first time in months, you feel his presence as soon as you awaken. You stir, and lithe fingers brush away a few baby hairs with precision and care. Your eyes stay shut. You desperately beg yourself to fall back asleep, to deny reality for just a few more hours.

But Zayne has other plans – he kisses you on the cheek before moving slightly to murmur in your ear, “Good morning, dear.”

Fuck.

“G’morning,” you mutter. At the very words, your eyes flutter open. His smile is incredibly gentle and so rife with adoration that you find it almost…blinding.

 “What do you want for breakfast?”

God, even the thought of eating makes you nauseous. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

Zayne frowns. “But–”

You take an abrupt turn and roll out of bed. “Let me start the coffee and whip up something for you.” Anything to get you away from him, or you might just combust.

A few minutes later, you definitely are.

Zayne has caught up to you now, arms wrapped around your middle as you poke some eggs frying in a pan. His chin rests on your left shoulder, and you’re panicking. It has been so long that your body barely has the muscle memory to act at this moment. Do you remain slightly stiff? Do you relax in his hold? Do you nuzzle your cheek against his? Do you turn to kiss him on the cheek? Do you start light conversation and exchange sweet nothings?

“When was the last time we had a day like this?” Zayne asks, his voice soft against your ear.

“It‘s been a while,” you reply and attempt to mask the bitterness in your tone.

“I know,” he sighs and squeezes you a little tighter. “The hospital has been occupying too much of my time.”

Amongst other things…and people.

Your hands tremble slightly as one lifts the pan and the other uses the spatula to push the eggs onto the empty plate next to the stove. Right on time, two pieces of wheat toast pop out from the toaster, and you place them with the eggs. Zayne reluctantly unlatches himself as you grab the plate without a word and walk them to the round dining table. You place it at his usual seat, a silent gesture for him to sit and wait as you grab a knife, fork, and cup of coffee with a little too much sugar and cream. The best you can do is send him a half-smile before retreating to the sink and busying yourself with the dirty dishes. Washing a frying pan should not take long, but your motions never stray from slow, thoughtful, and methodical.

There’s a part of you that never wants this day to end – but the other part wants it to end now. You’re not ready for this conversation that you bet he’s trying to have.

-

Usually, Zayne would give you some time to settle before sitting down and having serious talks. But today? He’s restless, abuzz.

The two of you are cuddling on the couch with a random documentary on, his fingers tracing patterns across the length of your arm. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and Zayne takes it as a sign to drape the blanket from the back of the couch over both of you, but mainly your legs and lower torso. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Better?” he murmurs in question.

You hum and nod, allowing yourself to snuggle just a bit further.

Several minutes pass before Zayne bites the bullet.

“Do you…remember that work dinner you had last week?”

You gulp, and it’s not exactly subtle.

“Mhmm.”

“Do you remember what happened when I picked you up from the restaurant?”

Well shit. “Umm…it’s a bit fuzzy…”

Zayne hums, his fingers now running through your hair. “You said something to me.”

“Did I?”

He stays silent before grabbing the remote, pausing the show, and turning to look you in the eye.

“I think you’ve been avoiding me,” he lets out, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your face and studying every little reaction of yours, “and I think it has something to do with what you said that night.

“Well first, there’s the situation where you couldn’t even recognize me, but I also understand that inebriation can greatly affect one’s vision. What concerned me the most was,” he pauses before continuing, “this idea you had in your head that I would leave you for someone else.”

Zayne lifts his free hand to softly grasp your chin between his thumb and index finger – not too harshly, but not soft enough that you could escape him.

You watch all pretenses fall from his face, and something in his eyes breaks.

“Why,” Zayne starts, his voice gravelly and raspy with disbelief now, “would you ever think that?”

Is he serious?

“Have I done something, Y/N? To make you doubt me?”

You snap, “Think for maybe five seconds about that before you ask me again. You know I wouldn’t be irrational enough to be upset with you over nothing.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, the crease between them becoming more and more pronounced. “I…”

Perhaps there was no use to beating around the bush. Your voice trembles as you confess, “I heard what you told Grayson in your office a couple weeks ago.” Even as Zayne’s eyes seem to widen, you push through, “I was going to drop off lunch, but then I heard him ask about Emcee, and if anything would’ve happened between you two had she stayed all those years ago.

“And you said, ‘Perhaps’, Zayne.”

Even in the most harrowing surgeries, his hands could remain stable. But now they shake as they move to cradle your face, and you push yourself completely off the couch. “Tell me, Zayne Li. Tell me what things would be like if Emcee never took that job six years ago. Would we still be here today?”

“Of course we would–”

“Then why?!” you yelled, whirling on him with fresh tears tracking down your cheeks. “Why would you say that to Grayson if it weren’t true?! Obviously, there’s some truth to it!”

“Please, listen to me–” he begs, but you cut him off once more.

“How can you sit there and lie to me? You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it, Zayne. You are rarely, if ever, unintentional in your words. So, the fact that ‘perhaps’ even slipped out of your mouth means something.”

“I,” he starts then pauses, his brain fighting for the right words. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

His words trigger a sharp pain in your chest, and your cries begin to worsen. The feeling like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating draws closer and closer. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“No!” Zayne immediately fires back. “Not in the way you’re thinking, and not in the way that I love you.”

“She was your first love, Zayne, and it wasn’t the kind of first love that anyone can easily brush off. You,” your lungs scream for air in between your words, “you only went out with me because she left. Had she not…”

Zayne shakes his head with vigor. “No, I would still be here. With you.”

“Then why–”

“Even if she had stayed, if anything had happened between me and her,” Zayne interjects, looking straight at you. It takes everything in him not to crack at the sight of your grief-ridden gaze. “I firmly believe that I’d still end up here with you. I meant what I said to Grayson when I said there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs. The words didn’t come to me at the time, but I said it because I knew that no matter what, I would still be married to you.

Always encased in subtle pride and unwavering willpower, Zayne slides off the couch and plants his weight on buckled knees. He takes hold of your hands and is beyond relieved when you don’t pull away. There is no way to count the number of times he has held your hands with love and reverence – but he hopes, he prays, that this is the only time he will ever need to hold them in repentance, a sinner seeking divine forgiveness.

“Please believe me,” he implores, and you’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the desperation in his grip, tone, and eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” Zayne professes. “I told you on our wedding night that there isn’t a single moment when I’m not thinking of you, and that hasn’t changed at all. Astra permit, that will never change.”

Your silence terrifies him, but at least he hasn’t been greeted by an onslaught of fresh tears from you. “You were promised the world from me, and I have failed you,” he said softly, almost drowning in self-disappointment. “I’ve neglected you these past few months, and I am so, so sorry.”

Zayne can’t bear to look at you and drops his head in your hands. He presses venerating kisses on your fingertips and palms as he waits for your answer.

You can’t look at him either, begging on his knees like he would be nothing without you. It’s hard to imagine that of someone as established and renowned as him, but…

The sunlight that pierces through the blinds catches just right on a sliver of your diamond ring that hasn’t been covered by his hands.

You take a quivering breath, another, and then another.

“If you ever,” and Zayne lifts his head with the speed of light, “give me reason to seriously doubt what we have ever again…”

His heart pounds, and he waits with bated breath. God, is this what they feel like in all those romance movies?  

 “...I’m dragging you to marriage counseling, and if you refuse to cooperate with even one of those sessions, I will leave.”

A torrential wave of relief passes over, causing him to release all the tension in his bones. “Thank you,” he whispers against your hands, “and I understand. You will never be taken for granted – never in this life or the next.”

And when your fingers are running through his sweaty strands, his face pressed against your stomach, his arms wrapped around you,  his hands grasping firmly onto your shirt – really it’s his, but everything of his belongs to you and you only – you allow yourself to forget the insecurity that has laid dormant within you for all these years.

Zayne did not settle for you.

[tmrwsuns]

𐙚⋆˚HOW TO GET A GUY IN 10 DAYS — kjh

𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ⋆.˚.ᐟ [classmate!juhoon x reader] ...୨ᢉ𐭩୧... ss. 23 w. none! fluff 𑣲 trying to get juhoon in ten days! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

𑣲 step zero | step one | step two | step three | step four | step five | step six | step seven | step eight | step nine | step ten

𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ⋆.˚ .ᐟ two more chapters guys.... 𐙚⋆.˚ .ᐟ @xikskrrrs @dazzlingjaeyun @my-root-came-2006 @xionvlog @teacuplps @tiramisumin @lovhyeon @ilovegojosatoru13 @reinmyheart @chae-rries @lilbuzi@mitsubal0ver @ptolemaea4a @mattmeow @whlhql @hoszhe @emotiandon @dandeliongraveyard @sofisbelle @nolongeryoungbutbeautiful @kienhawon @st4rry-l4vender-sk1es @lovemashu @iloveducks102906 @snghyyn@cookyland @elliotsbeigeguitar @miisoluvsdeer @https-astrid2 @miles4eva @raratoulie @en-dream @toj1sgf @mxddi3-the-mnm-lover @sweettenderhearr227 @eunjjx @its-vante @cocopuffy @nyancatunicorn @kourt-kookie @simpqueen2025 @yurilover249 @enha7beshit @k1ssm3t @threeinchminimum @rawrxnne @coquettegirlyenha @hoe4hollis @h0neylemon@ikigaijo@chanellerie@letterstohyeon @mbella607 @sunoosun00@monniemoody @thelastoneonthisplanet @haneurin @melodiessvy @pearlywhitefics @taelvvrzz @isthiscool @annoyingbitch83 @woniesdae @aesthelia @jjura @basking-in-sunlight-shark @myuekii @blossomxie @cokewithcameron @hyeoncake @helimura @elliesmelliebuggie @dzywshh @mcflurry057 @aeminju @bananabread785 @wgucigu @freesofxx + lmk if you want to be added ! 𐙚 back to the masterlist 𐙚 please do not copy, adapt or steal any of the content !!!

© tmrwsuns, 2026

[rryyuuws]

kiss me and I might drop dead

SYPNOSIS ── One night, bored in bed and unable to sleep, y/n does what any curious girl would do. She searches up Kim Juhoon, the university's star football player everyone seems to adore. It was supposed to be harmless, just a little curiosity. After all, what's the worst that could happen from stalking a handsome stranger on Instagram?

pairing ᥫ᭡ kim juhoon x fem!reader

info ᥫ᭡ FLUFF! hopeless romantic, slightly loser reader, use of profanity, mentions of drama/manhwa characters, slightly rushed

word count ᥫ᭡ 15.7k

PLAYLIST ! drop dead electric love it's not living (if it's not with you) like the movies kiss me

full playlist

“I didn’t mean to fall for you, but somehow, you became my favorite part of every day.”

"AAAAAHHHH!" I rolled across my bed, burying my face into my pillow before kicking my legs dramatically.

Why couldn't real life be this romantic?

A sharp smack landed on my butt. "OW!" I shot upright, clutching the offended area. "That hurt!"

"I wouldn't have done that if someone wasn't being so noisy," Minju said flatly. I pointed accusingly at the book in my hand. "Come on! This is so romantic! The male lead is such a green flag."

That finally earned me a glance. Minju stared at me for a long second before saying, "You love romantic crap this much but can't even get yourself a boyfriend." I gasped, placing a hand over my chest. "Excuse me? I have standards." 

"You mean none of the guys you've met are exactly like the men in your books and movies?"

She rolled her eyes before laughing. "You seriously need to get a boyfriend eventually, you know." "I know, it's just..." I sighed, hugging the book against my chest. "What if I never find someone like this?"

Minju's expression softened immediately. "Okay, okay. I'm not forcing you." She shrugged. "I just think it's funny that the biggest hopeless romantic I've ever met is also the most single person I know."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "That's rude."

"You know I'm right."

"...Unfortunately."

Minju grinned. "Besides," she said, wiggling her eyebrows, "college is starting soon. Who knows? Maybe your fictional male lead is out there waiting for you." I snorted. "Please. Men like that don't exist."

—

"Crap. This is killing me," I muttered under my breath.

I'd been sitting in this class for almost two hours, nodding along to whatever my professor was saying while retaining absolutely none of it. Every few minutes, my eyes drifted to my bag resting beside my chair. More specifically, to the kindle tucked safely inside it. It was waiting for me.

Mentally, I let out the most dramatic cry imaginable. "Shit. I can't take this anymore." As if the universe had finally decided to take pity on me, the professor concluded his lecture a few minutes later.

"Oh, thank God." I was this close to dying. I packed up my things and immediately headed outside to meet Minju and her boyfriend, Han, who were already waiting near our usual spot.

"Oh, there she is," Minju said around a mouthful of fries. Han spotted me and gave me a friendly wave and smile. I dropped into the vacant seat across from them and let out a long sigh.

"Thirdwheeling for the hundredth time again." "Oh, don't complain," Minju scoffed, pointing a fry at me. "It's been two weeks since classes started, and all you've done is reject every guy who's tried to approach you."

Han laughed. "At this point, she's closer to marrying a cardboard cutout of Izek Van Omerta than getting a boyfriend in real life." Minju nearly choked. She gagged, frantically covering her mouth before she could spit out the food she'd just eaten.

"You say the most ridiculous things."

"It's true, though." Han shrugged. "I've never seen someone more committed to fictional men."

I opened my packed lunch. A chorus of shrieks erupted nearby. I turned toward the commotion, trying to figure out what on earth was happening.

"GIRL! JUHOON IS COMING BACK TOMORROW!" The scream came from a group of girls seated a few tables away. Suddenly, it was everywhere. People were checking their phones. Some were already squealing excitedly to their friends.

I blinked. "Who?"

Minju froze. "...What?"

I looked at her, confused. "Who's Juhoon?"

Minju stared at me in horror. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHO'S JUHOON?"

I frowned. "Who's Juhoon?"

"Kim Juhoon!" she whisper-screamed, lowering her voice just enough not to attract attention. "THE Kim Juhoon!"

"The... who?"

"GIRL!" Minju clutched my arm. "HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING UNDER A ROCK?"

"Well," Han started thoughtfully, "she does spend 90% of her life buried in books and mov—"

Minju immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. "That's not the point!" She whipped her head toward me, looking genuinely offended. "How do you not know him?" I blinked. "Then can you tell me who he is?" Minju crossed her arms over her chest and turned away with an exaggerated huff. 

"No way. I'm upset with you."

"What? Why?"

"Because Kim Juhoon is practically university royalty, and the fact that you don't know him feels illegal." Han carefully removed Minju's hand from his mouth. "To be fair," he said, "y/n's ideal man is a fictional character with over the top green flag personality."

"Exactly!" Minju pointed at him before turning back to me. "You need to stop living in romance novels and pay attention to real people." I took another bite of my lunch. "Real people are disappointing."

Han snorted. Minju looked like she was one sentence away from shaking me by the shoulders. "You know what? Forget it. I'm not telling you." 

"...Okay."

"You're seriously not curious?"

I shrugged. "If he's that famous, I'll find out eventually." Minju narrowed her eyes at me. "Oh, you will."

At the time, I didn't think much of it.

I definitely didn't think that a few hours later, bored out of my mind and lying in bed, I'd be typing Kim Juhoon into Instagram's search bar.

Okay, in my defense, I wasn't stalking him. I just happened to glance over and see one of my blockmates looking through his account earlier. The username had stuck in my head. That was all. Pure curiosity. Nothing more.

I typed it into the search bar anyway. His account appeared almost immediately. The profile picture alone made me pause. "...Oh." I tapped on it.

There he was. The Kim Juhoon. The university's beloved football player. The guy who had apparently caused half the female population on campus to lose their minds that afternoon. 

I scrolled. One picture was of him in his football uniform, grinning with his teammates after a match. Another was a candid photo someone had taken of him laughing, his head tilted back slightly. There were a few pictures from trips, some random posts with captions that consisted of nothing but a single emoji, and an embarrassing amount of comments from girls calling him handsome.

I blinked at my screen. "Okay." I paused for a moment before scrolling again. "I get it..." I hated that I got it. He was attractive. Very attractive.

I tossed my phone onto my pillow and stared at the ceiling. Then, after exactly three seconds, I picked it up again and reopened Instagram. Just out of curiosity of course.

I tapped on his profile again. Then his tagged photos, then somehow, I found myself scrolling all the way down to posts from years ago. I frowned.

"Why am I this invested?" I kept scrolling. Honestly, his Instagram was... normal. Which felt strange. I'd expected something ridiculous. Shirtless gym mirror selfies. A carefully curated feed designed to make girls faint on the spot. Instead, it looked like the account of an actual person. A ridiculously attractive person.

I rested my chin on my pillow. "Huh." Maybe that was why I kept scrolling. Because somewhere between the victory photos and blurry snapshots with friends, Kim Juhoon stopped looking like the campus celebrity everyone had been screaming about earlier.

He looked like just a student. One who happened to be unfairly handsome. I paused on another photo, it wasn't even anything special. He was sitting at what looked like a convenience store at night, wearing a hoodie while one of his teammates made a weird face in the background.

But for some reason, I stared at it longer than the others. Then my brain betrayed me. I imagined sitting across from him, the two of us at some convenience store at midnight. Sharing snacks, arguing over which instant ramen flavor tasted better.

I immediately locked my phone. "Oh my God." I pressed it against my face. "No." I lowered it. "What is wrong with me?"

I had never spoken to this man a day in my life. I didn't even know what the sound of his voice was like. Yet here I was, imagining hypothetical convenience store conversations because of a single Instagram post.

I buried my face into my pillow with a muffled groan. "This is why Minju thinks I need help." Silence filled my room for all of ten seconds. Then—I unlocked my phone again. Opened Instagram and tapped on Juhoon's profile and scrolled. Just for five more minutes. That's it. Five minutes. Surely, nothing life-changing had ever happened because a girl spent five extra minutes stalking a handsome stranger's Instagram account.

...Right?

I adjusted my position on the bed and shifted my grip on my phone. Then my thumb slipped the screen refreshed the blue Follow button disappeared. My heart stopped. I stared at my phone.

"Oh my God…”

I sat upright so fast I nearly launched myself off the bed. "OH MY GOD."

Following.

It said I was following Juhoon. Kim Juhoon. The university's football guy whom I'd only learned existed approximately six hours ago.

"No, no, no, no, no—" My fingers scrambled against the screen as I jabbed the button again. Unfollow. I stared at it for a few seconds, waiting for it to change back.

Okay.

Okay.

I wasn't following him anymore. I let out a shaky breath and collapsed back onto my pillow. "...That was close."

Then another horrifying thought hit me. "...Does Instagram notify people when someone follows them and immediately unfollows them?" I froze. Slowly, I grabbed my phone again and opened Google. 

And typed, does instagram notify someone if you accidentally follow and unfollow them immediately

—

The three of us were walking toward our usual spot when people suddenly started sprinting past us. Girls. A lot of girls.

Some were practically running for their lives as they rushed toward the school field, excited screams echoing across the campus. That hit me. "Oh shit." Minju's eyes widened. "He's here!" Before I could even process what was happening, she grabbed my arm. "Minju—!" "Move!"

I barely had enough time to clutch my bag before she dragged me along, weaving through the crowd of equally determined girls. Han jogged behind us with the expression of a man who had long accepted this as his fate. "Why am I even here?" he called out. "You love me!" Minju yelled back. "I do, but not enough for cardio!"

By the time we reached the field, the area beside the benches was already packed. I leaned forward slightly, finally catching sight of the source of all the chaos. The university's beloved football team.

"...Wow." I blinked, I hadn't expected them to be this big of a deal. The field buzzed with energy as students called out names and waved excitedly from the sidelines. And, admittedly... they were all ridiculously attractive.

I glanced at Minju. "You weren't exaggerating." "I never exaggerate." Han snorted beside us. "You absolutely do."

Then, suddenly, the screams grew louder. Louder than before, the kind of screams that made my ears ring. My gaze instinctively followed everyone else's toward the entrance of the field.

And then I saw him. Kim Juhoon. He walked onto the field with effortless ease, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over one shoulder while one of his teammates said something that made him laugh.

For a brief moment, everything around me seemed to blur. I finally understood why Minju had looked personally offended when I admitted I didn't know who he was.

Because...

Woah.

He looked unfair. Unfairly handsome. Not like the untouchable celebrity I'd somehow built in my head after stalking his Instagram until one in the morning. Just a student walking onto a football field. And yet, surrounded by the deafening cheers of half the campus, he somehow still looked exactly like the boy from those photos.

I stared. "Oh." Minju immediately whipped her head toward me. "Oh?" she repeated. I didn't take my eyes off the field. "...I really get it now." Beside me, Minju looked dangerously close to tears. "Finally," she whispered dramatically. "She sees the light."

"I don't see the light," I said immediately. "You literally just said, 'I really get it now.'"

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything."

"It means I understand why everyone is screaming," I corrected. "That's all." Minju narrowed her eyes at me.

"You stalked his Instagram last night, didn't you?" I nearly choked on my own saliva. "What?" Han gasped. "You stalked him?"

"I did not!"

"You know," Han said thoughtfully, "that's exactly what someone who stalked him would say."

"I was curious!"

Minju pointed at me accusingly. “Aha!"

"That is not an admission of guilt!"

"It absolutely is."

I opened my mouth to argue back when another wave of screams erupted around us. Instinctively, my eyes drifted back toward the field. The team had begun warming up. Juhoon jogged across the grass with the rest of them, his hair slightly tousled by the wind. Every now and then, he'd exchange a few words with his teammates before laughing at something one of them said. He looked..really, really attractive. As if sensing my stare, Juhoon lifted his head.

My breath caught. His gaze swept across the crowd. Closer, closer and closer—I immediately looked away. "Oh my God."

"What?" Minju snapped her head toward me. "What happened?"

"He looked over here."

"He looked at the crowd," Han corrected.

"No," I whispered, pressing a hand against my chest. "He looked over here." Minju grabbed both of my shoulders. "Did you make eye contact?"

"I don't know!"

"You don't know?"

"It was, like, half a second!" Han blinked. "You guys are acting like he proposed." I ignored him. My heart was beating way too fast for someone I'd never spoken to.

I glanced back toward the field. Juhoon was already focused on practice again. Of course he was. Why wouldn't he be? He didn't know I existed. I was just another face in the crowd. A girl standing by the benches with her best friend and said best friend's long-suffering boyfriend. Someone who accidentally followed him on Instagram at one in the morning before immediately unfollowing him in complete panic. Someone who had imagined sharing instant ramen with him because of a convenience store picture. Someone who had only learned his name yesterday.

I stared at him for another second before tearing my eyes away. "...I think I'm in trouble." Minju's mouth slowly fell open. Then she grabbed my hand so tightly I almost yelped.

"You like him."

"What? No."

"You like him."

"I don't!"

"You absolutely do."

I looked back at the field just as Juhoon laughed at something his teammate said.

"...Okay," I admitted quietly. Minju let out the loudest gasp I'd ever heard. "Oh my God." I buried my burning face in my hands. "Oh no."

"Don't make a big deal out of it," I muttered into my hands. "Don't make a big deal out of it?" she repeated in disbelief. "y/n, you haven't liked anyone in years!"

"I don't like him."

"You just admitted you did."

"I said I might."

Han, who had been quietly observing this entire interaction, suddenly spoke. "You know what's crazy?"

"What?" Minju and I asked at the same time.

"You've never had a real crush before." I blinked. "...What?"

"You've liked fictional characters," Han clarified. "You've loved romance novels. You've rooted for couples in movies. But an actual person?" He pointed toward the field. "I don't think that's ever happened."

I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it. Because annoyingly enough...he wasn't wrong. The guys who approached me were nice. Some were funny, some were sweet. There had been confessions, awkward attempts at flirting, and DMs that started with hey followed by increasingly creative pickup lines.

But I'd never looked at any of them and wondered what their laugh sounded like when they weren't trying to impress someone. I'd never caught myself imagining random conversations with them. I'd never accidentally followed and unfollowed them on Instagram and then googled whether notifications disappeared fast enough.

Minju slowly placed a hand over her heart. "This is huge."

"It's not huge."

"It is huge."

"It's a crush."

"It's your crush."

I stared back at the field. Juhoon was listening to his coach now, absentmindedly spinning a ball in his hands. The crowd screamed every time he did something remotely noteworthy. He smiled politely and waved once. The screaming somehow got louder.

"...How embarrassing," I murmured.

"What is?"

I sighed. "Having a crush on someone this famous." Minju softened immediately. "Y/N." I glanced at her.

"You're allowed to like people."

"I know."

"But?"

I watched Juhoon jog back toward his teammates, the afternoon sun catching on the damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

"...I don't know." I tightened my grip on my bag. "It just feels ridiculous."

"Why?"

"Because..." I gestured vaguely toward the field. "Look at him." Minju and Han followed my gaze. "He's Juhoon." I said it like that alone should explain everything. "The Kim Juhoon. The football player everyone knows. The boy girls scream for during matches. The one half the university probably follows on Instagram." 

Then, without thinking, I pointed at myself. "And I'm just..." I trailed off. "You're just what?" Minju asked. I looked down at my shoes. "Ain't no way he's ever going to like me." The words came out quieter than I intended. I was the girl who spent lectures thinking about the novel waiting for her. The girl who got more emotionally invested in fictional men than real ones because fictional men couldn't disappoint you. The girl who never quite understood the loud excitement over campus crushes everyone seemed to have. The girl who always stood at the edge of things, watching instead of participating.

Minju snorted. "Oh, please." I blinked. "What?" "Can you stop sounding like the female lead from one of your books for two seconds?"

"What does that even mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean." She pointed at me accusingly. "'Oh no, he's handsome and popular. Whatever shall I do? Surely a man of such status could never acknowledge my existence.'" She dropped the act and looked at me. "You realize you've read way too many novels, right?"

Han let out a laugh. "You forgot the part where she trips, falls, and somehow lands in his arms." 

"I do not sound like that," I said weakly. "You absolutely do," Minju replied. "You say, 'I'm just me,' like that's supposed to be a bad thing," Han added. I frowned. "It's not a bad thing. It's just..."

"It's just what?"

I hesitated. "I don't know." I looked back toward the field where Juhoon was laughing with his teammates. "It feels unrealistic." Han hummed thoughtfully. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're overthinking this." Minju grinned. "You don't have to marry him." I nearly choked. "What?"

"You don't even have to date him," she said. "No one's asking you to start planning your future together. You don't need to figure out what your kids would look like."

"I wasn't—"

"You were halfway there," Han deadpanned.

"I was not!"

Minju ignored me. "Just enjoy having a crush for once."

"A normal, harmless, slightly embarrassing little crush," Han added.  I stared at them. "...Embarrassing?" Minju tilted her head. "Would you prefer pathetic?"

"...I don't like either of those options." Han nodded solemnly. "Understandable." Then Minju and Han looked at each other. A second later, they burst into laughter. "Why are you two laughing?!"

"Because," Minju managed between giggles, "this is the first time you've liked someone who isn't trapped inside a book." Han wiped at the corner of his eye. "We're just happy to witness the occasion."

—

It was one in the morning, and I was still tossing and turning in bed. The events from earlier kept replaying in my head on an endless loop. I couldn't sleep because of it, which was ridiculous. Because what exactly did Minju mean when she said I liked Juhoon? What did she mean?

More importantly—y/n, what do you mean? I stared at the ceiling. "No," I muttered into the darkness. "Absolutely not." Then I turned to my other side. "...Right?"

I buried my face into my pillow, this was insane. I had spent the last hour arguing with myself. No. No. It was ridiculous. It wasn't like he was Sang Yan from First Frost.

He was just...Juhoon. A guy. An unfairly handsome guy with an annoyingly nice smile and—

No.

I sat upright so abruptly that my blanket nearly fell off the bed. Okay. Okay. I got it.

I immediately climbed out of bed, shuffled to my desk, and pulled out my journal. "This is crazy," I mumbled, flipping to a blank page. "I'm crazy for writing this." Still, I uncapped my pen. At the top of the page, I wrote:

I stared at the list. Then, after a moment of consideration, I added,

Because knowing myself, that one might actually be the hardest. I nodded firmly to no one in particular before closing the journal. Simple. I could do that. 

Probably?…

—

Here I was, stuffing my things into my bag as the professor dismissed the class just a minute ago. It was honestly impressive. For the past five days, I had been trying my absolute hardest to avoid that guy. Was his name even worth mentioning?

Thankfully, the university was huge. Thousands of students, dozens of buildings, different schedules. Avoiding one person shouldn't have been difficult and for five glorious days, it wasn't. Not until—

"y/n, why are you so slow?" A voice suddenly appeared beside me, I nearly jumped. Minju stared at me with narrowed eyes. "So what?" I shot back. Minju gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Excuse me? Did you just attitude me?"

"You interrupted my packing."

"You were packing like you’re a turtle.”

"I like organizing my things."

"You were staring at your pencil case for a full minute."

"I was thinking."

"That's even worse." I zipped my bag shut. "Why are you here?" Minju's grin widened. "Come with me."

"Uh, why?"

"It's your vacant period, right?"

"Uh... yeah?" I answered cautiously.

"Then c'mon." Before I could react, she grabbed my arm and I stared at her. "Do you have some kind of obsession with grabbing people's arms?"

"Yes."

"You admitted that way too quickly."

"Because if I let go, you'd run away."

"I would not."

"You absolutely would."

"Okay, maybe a little."

"See?" She tightened her grip. "Now move." I let out a dramatic sigh. This friendship was built on affection, trust, and Minju violating my personal space

As we exited the building, I slowly realized where we were headed, toward the field. My entire body froze.

Oh no.

No.

No, no, no.

I had successfully avoided that area for five whole days. Rule Number Two existed for a reason. Do not go to football matches or practices. Do not go near the field. Who knew? Maybe their team was practicing there. Maybe he was there. Maybe—

I suddenly placed a hand over my stomach. "Ow." Minju didn't even glance at me. "Ow..." I groaned louder. "Minju... I think my stomach hurts. I need to go to the bathroom."

"Oh, fuck you," she replied immediately. "You ain't trolling me with that shit acting." I looked offended. "I'll have you know I got Best Actress in kindergarten." Minju rolled her eyes. "Relax. He's not there." She finally released my arm. "I just want to try playing football once." I blinked. 

"...Football?"

"Yes."

"You?"

"What does that mean?" I stared at her, then at the field, then back at her. "...I don't know why, but this feels like a trap."

"It isn't."

"That's exactly what someone setting up a trap would say."

Ignoring me completely, Minju marched ahead. Near the field, Han was already there, stretching. He waved once he noticed us. Oh, finally." And beside him stood another guy.

"Are we even allowed to do this?" I asked. "Don't worry. I asked permission," Han said. Then he gestured toward the other boy. "Oh, by the way, this is James. He's from my class. He's part of the football team too." James gave us an easy smile.

"Hi."

"Hi," Minju replied enthusiastically.

"…Hello," I said awkwardly. Introductions over, everyone turned toward the field. I immediately took a step back.

"I don't think I'm gonna play..." I said quietly.

Because me? Playing football? That was ridiculous. I had spent most of my life carrying books, kindle, and ipad around like emotional support objects. The only running I did voluntarily was when bookstores announced sales. I treated stairs like personal enemies. I had survived PE classes through strategic disappearances, questionable excuses, and the occasional group project that required minimal movement.

And now they expected me to chase a ball? A ball? A round object with no thoughts, no feelings, and an alarming tendency to head directly toward people's faces? Absolutely not.

"I'll just support you guys emotionally," I offered.

"Nope," Minju said.

"I'll keep score."

"Nope."

"I'll hold your water bottles?..."

"Nope."

Before I could come up with another excuse—a football rolled to a stop right in front of my shoes. I stared at it. Apparently, I could never back out whenever Minju was around.

"I hate all of you," I muttered.

"We love you too," Han said cheerfully.

The first ten minutes were humiliating. I missed the ball repeatedly. Sometimes I kicked air. Sometimes I kicked the ground. Once, I spun too fast and almost collapsed.

"Did you just lose a fight against gravity?" James asked.

"I wasn't built for this lifestyle."

Minju burst into laughter. "y/n, the ball is over there!"

"I know where the ball is!"

"Then why are you running the opposite direction?"

"I don't know!"

Despite my complaints, laughter gradually replaced embarrassment. Every failed kick became a joke. Every near miss turned into dramatic commentary. "Please understand," I said after tripping over my own feet. "I've only ever exercised my imagination." "You say that like it's an Olympic sport," Minju laughed. "It should be."

Eventually, something surprising happened. I stopped worrying about looking stupid. Because everyone had already seen me look stupid. There was freedom in that. And somehow... I started having fun.

"Again!" Minju shouted. This time, we actually tried. James passed the ball, Han intercepted, Minju nearly missed. Then somehow—the ball rolled toward me. "Oh." I blinked. Everyone stared. "Y/N!" Han yelled. "Kick it!" I took a breath, stepped forward and kicked.

The ball flew beautifully across the field. For a brief, glorious second, time slowed. I had done it. "Oh my God!" I screamed. "I DID IT!" Minju gasped. "You actually did!"

"I'M AN ATHLETE!"

"You absolutely are not!"

My confidence skyrocketed immediately. "I've discovered my hidden talent."

"You've kicked the ball correctly once," James said.

"Natural ability can't be taught."

"Please calm down."

The ball eventually made its way back to me again and I positioned myself confidently. "I got this."

"Y/N—"

"I said I got this." I kicked. Hard. Too hard.

Instead of soaring toward my teammates, the ball launched in the complete opposite direction. Straight toward the bleachers, everything happened too fast. The ball shot through the air.

Someone sitting on the bench looked up, there was a metallic clink. A water tumbler slipped from someone's hand. And then—

Thud.

Silence.

Every single person froze. My smile slowly disappeared.

"...Did I just hit someone?" I whispered.

Nobody answered. A figure stood from the bench. Tall. Dressed in a black shirt and training shorts. His hand moved up to rub the side of his head before he bent down to pick up the fallen tumbler. Slowly, he looked up. And my soul left my body.

No.

No.

No, no, no.

Out of all the people in this entire university. Out of all the students. Out of all the football players. Out of all the benches. Kim Juhoon stood there staring at me. I think my Rule Number Two had just filed for resignation.

My entire body went cold.

"y/n?" Minju said carefully. I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because Kim Juhoon was standing there. Alive and conscious. Rubbing the side of his head where my football had made contact.

The tumbler lay on the ground beside him. I swallowed.

Then I turned to Minju. "I need you to kill me."

"What?"

"Right now."

"y/n—"

"I had a good life," I said numbly. "Tell my future children I loved them."

"You don't have children."

"Then tell Zachary De Arno."

"Y/N!"

"I can't do this." I spun around.

"You are not running away!"

"I've always wanted to live in a small countryside town where nobody knows my face!" Before I could take even two steps, Minju grabbed my arm. Again. "See?" I pointed accusingly at her. "This is exactly what I mean! Why are you always grabbing people?"

"You hit him with a football!"

"I know!"

"Then apologize!"

"I'd rather throw myself into the ocean."

Han pinched the bridge of his nose. "y/n." I looked at him desperately. "Please tell me you buried the body."

"...He's standing right there..."

"Oh my God."

I slowly turned back around. Juhoon was still looking at us. At me. He blinked once, then twice. I wanted the earth to open up beneath my feet. He started walking over.

No.

Every step he took felt like the countdown to my execution. I suddenly understood why people in dramas fainted dramatically. Maybe they were onto something. My heart started pounding. Not in the cute romantic way novels described. No, this was pure survival instinct. Unfortunately, my body chose freeze. Juhoon stopped a few feet away. Up close, he looked even more unfair.

His hair was slightly messy, probably from practice. A few strands fell over his forehead. There was still condensation on the tumbler he was holding. And there was a very real possibility that I had given him brain damage.

He looked at me. I looked at the ground, then his shoes, then the grass. Anywhere but his face.  "...Sorry," I blurted out. Then I bowed, too fast and too hard. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I wasn't aiming for your head." Why would you say that? I squeezed my eyes shut. Of course I wasn't aiming for his head, that implied I could've been aiming for it.

"I mean—" I looked up in horror. "I wasn't aiming for anyone's head." Oh my God. "I mean, I wasn't aiming for the bleachers." I inhaled sharply. "I mean, I wasn't aiming at all."

Silence. I stared at him, Minju stared at me and Han stared at the sky as if asking for divine intervention. James had both hands covering his mouth. I could physically feel my soul trying to leave my body.

"I should stop talking now," I whispered.

"...Yeah," Minju muttered.

A beat passed, then another, then—

"...You weren't aiming at all?" Juhoon repeated. His voice sounded amused. Slowly, I nodded. "...That somehow makes me feel worse."

For a second, he just stared at me, then the corners of his mouth lifted. He laughed. Not a loud laugh. Not mocking. Just one surprised, disbelieving laugh that escaped before he could stop it. "Sorry," he said, still smiling a little. "I just didn't expect that answer." I blinked. He wasn't angry. He wasn't glaring at me. He wasn't threatening legal action. 

"You okay?" I asked before I could stop myself. The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to smack myself. You hit him. Why were you asking if he was okay like you weren't the reason he got hit? Juhoon touched the side of his head. "I think I'll survive." Relief flooded through me so quickly my knees nearly gave out. "Oh, thank God." I pressed both hands over my face.

"I genuinely thought I was going to end your football career."

"You thought getting hit by one ball would end my career?"

"I don't know how sports work!" I cried. "For all I know, you could've gotten a concussion and then forgotten how to kick." James snorted. Han looked like he was fighting a smile and Minju is fighting not to burst out of laughter.

And Juhoon—Juhoon looked at me for a moment before shaking his head. "You know," he said, "most people just say sorry." I lowered my hands enough to peek at him. "I panicked…"

"I noticed." Heat rushed to my face. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to evaporate into the atmosphere. I wanted to become one with the grass. Instead, I stood there in complete humiliation while Kim Juhoon looked mildly entertained.

Then he glanced toward the football lying abandoned near the bleachers. His eyes shifted back to me. "You made that first shot too, didn't you?" 

"What?"

"The one before this." He nodded toward the field. "That was pretty good."

I stared at him, then at the ball, then back at him. "You saw that?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "I've been sitting there the whole time."

Oh.

Oh no.

My smile slowly faded. "The whole time?"

"Yeah."

I felt my stomach drop. "The whole time... as in..." A pause. "...You saw me miss the ball five times?"

"Six."

"You saw me trip over my own foot?"

"You were fighting for your life out there."

His mouth twitched. I covered my face again. There it was. The exact moment I realized something far, far worse than accidentally hitting Kim Juhoon in the head with a football.

Juhoon had witnessed me being an absolute idiot for the last thirty minutes. And somehow—he was smiling at me like it was the funniest thing he'd seen all day. 

"No, but seriously," I said, looking back at him. "I'm really sorry." I bowed again, though significantly less aggressively this time. "If your head still hurts, I can accompany you to the nurse's office." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I mean, I hit you, so I feel morally obligated to make sure you don't collapse somewhere five minutes from now." Silence.

Then, because apparently my mouth had declared independence from my brain, I added, "I also don't know if head injuries are one of those things where you're fine at first and then suddenly start seeing the light."

"y/n," Minju hissed.

"What?" I whispered back. "I'm being responsible."

"You're making it worse."

"I don't know how to be normal under pressure!"

I turned back to Juhoon. "I'll pay for your medical expenses."

"y/n," Han said.

"I don't even know if students have enough money for that, but I'll figure it out." Juhoon blinked at me, then glanced at Han, then back at me. "...You know it was just a football, right?" 

"But it hit your head." 

"I've been hit by worse."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

I hesitated before asking, "Are you sure you don't want to go to the nurse?"

"I'm sure."

"You don't feel dizzy?"

"No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

"Blurred vision?"

"No."

I studied his face suspiciously. "...Do you still remember your name?" There was a beat of silence. Then, "Kim Juhoon."

"Okay."

"Do you want my student number too?"

Heat rushed to my face. "No!" I said a little too quickly. "I mean—that wasn't—I wasn't trying to—"

I stopped. "...I think I should stop talking again." A snort escaped James. Han looked down, shoulders shaking. Minju covered her face with both hands. “I don't know her," she mumbled.

For a second, Juhoon simply stared at me. Then he laughed. Not the polite kind people gave out to avoid awkwardness, a real one. Soft at first, before it slipped out more freely. 

"You really don't have to worry," he said, amusement lingering in his eyes. "I'm okay." I stared at him for another moment before finally letting out the breath I'd been holding.

"Okay…."

Then I pointed a finger at him.

"But if you suddenly forget your own name later, I need everyone here to know that I offered to take you to the nurse."

"You're trying really hard to avoid liability," James said. "I'm trying really hard not to end up as the girl who accidentally took out the soccer team's player before a competition." Juhoon's smile widened slightly. "I'll make sure to testify in your favor."

—

Han and Minju had been staring at me intensely for a couple of minutes now. I pretended not to notice, poking at my lunch instead. Then suddenly, the silence was broken by James. "Hey man, whatchu got for lun—" He stopped.

"Uhm... are you guys okay?" He looked between them, then at me.

"Shh."

Both Minju and Han raised one finger and shushed him. "Okay, dang. What's happening?" James asked as he sat down on the vacant seat next to me.

"You haven't been sleeping," Minju said.

"What?" I blinked.

"You look exhausted," Han added. "And don't even try denying it."

"I've been sleeping."

"You almost walked into the classroom door this morning," Minju deadpanned. James frowned. "Wait... is this because of the accident?"

"No..."

Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

"…Maybe."

I let out a groan and buried my face in my hands. "It's been two days and I still can't stop thinking about it." "Y/n," Minju sighed. "You accidentally hit someone with a ball. You didn't commit a crime."

"It was Juhoon," I muttered.

"That does make it worse." James said.

"What if he remembers me as the girl who almost knocked him out?"

Han snorted. "I think you're the only one who's been replaying it this much."

"...I know," I mumbled. "I just can't stop thinking about it."

After that scene at lunch, since our schedules aligned, we headed to a coffee shop near the university. "Gotta make some use of this vacant period of ours," Minju said.

A few minutes later, Minju suddenly stood up. "Oh, y/n, can you order for us? Me and Han are just gonna check out the store nearby real quick."

"Yeah, sure."

Since there weren't that many people, our order was ready pretty quickly. Still no sign of Minju and Han. I shrugged and picked up the drinks from the counter.

I had barely taken a few steps toward our table when a voice beside me made me flinch so hard I almost spilled everything. "Careful," he said. "Don't want any more accidents."  I froze. Slowly, I turned my head. 

Kim Juhoon.

Well.

Fuck me.

Every survival instinct in my body immediately screamed at me to run. Instead, I bowed so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. "S-Sorry," I blurted out. "Again." Juhoon blinked. "...For what?"

"For... everything."

His eyebrows lifted slightly before the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "You know you've apologized enough, right?"

"...Right."

I practically speed-walked back to our table before my dignity could suffer any further. I sat down, staring intensely at the condensation on my cup.

Maybe if I focused hard enough, I could evaporate with it. Please let Minju and Han come back. Please.

A chair scraped against the floor, I looked up. Then immediately wished I hadn't. Because out of all the empty seats in the coffee shop, Kim Juhoon had just sat down at the vacant table right beside ours.

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

I immediately looked away. Maybe if I didn't acknowledge his existence, the universe would take pity on me. It didn't.

I could hear the soft tapping of fingers against the table beside mine. The rustling of paper. The occasional sound of a cup being set down. I pulled out my phone. Opened it, locked it, and nlocked it again.

Please come back, Minju. Please come back, Han. I risked a glance. Juhoon was looking at something on his laptop. Okay. good. He wasn't paying attention to me. I relaxed a little.

"You look stressed." I nearly jumped out of my seat. "I-I'm not!" Juhoon glanced over. "You kind of are." I stared at him for a few seconds before looking down at my drink. "I'm just embarrassed." His expression softened.

"Because of the ball?" I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. "...Yes." He was quiet for a moment. Then, "I promise it wasn't that serious." I blinked and slowly looked at him. "You don't.…hate me?"

Juhoon looked genuinely confused. "Hate you?" He let out a short laugh. "You accidentally hit me with a ball, y/n.“ My eyes widened. "You know my name?"

The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to slam my head against the table. Juhoon paused, then one corner of his lips lifted. "I'd be a little concerned if I forgot the name of the person who's apologized to me too many times."

For a second, there was silence. "You can relax, you know," Juhoon said. "I don't think you're weird." I blinked. "...You don't?" He shook his head. "I think you're just overthinking it." I opened my mouth. "I do that a lot." "I noticed."

I let out a small, horrified groan and buried my face in my hands. I quickly took a sip of my drink just to have something to do with my hands. Juhoon's gaze briefly dropped to the cup.

"You like matcha?"

I looked down at it. "Uh, yeah. My usual order." He nodded once. Almost absentmindedly. Like he was filing the information away somewhere in his head.

"I didn't expect that."

I blinked. "What was I supposed to drink?"

"I don't know." He glanced at me. "Something sweeter."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

"You just seem like the type."

I stared at him. "You've talked to me for, like, 5 minutes." A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "And?" "And that's not enough time to profile someone."

"It was an observation." I let out a quiet huff. "Well, for the record, I don't like overly sweet drinks." 

"Noted."

"You're saying that like you're taking notes."

Juhoon shrugged. "Maybe I am."

Before I could come up with a response to that, movement near the entrance caught my attention. Minju and Han had returned. They took exactly three steps into the café before stopping.

Then their eyes landed on me, and Juhoon. At the same time.

Han slowly looked at Minju and Minju slowly looked at Han. Then both of them looked back at me. I stared right back.

Don't.

Minju's eyebrows shot up so high they practically disappeared into her hairline. Han's mouth fell open. I shook my head almost imperceptibly.

Don't.

Minju glanced at Juhoon, then at me, then at the empty seat beside me, then at Juhoon again. "...Interesting," Han said.

"It's not what it looks like," I blurted out immediately. Juhoon glanced between us before looking back at me.

"What does it look like?"

"It doesn't matter," I said way too quickly.

Minju smiled. "Oh, no. I think it matters a lot." I wanted to disappear.

—

Sitting in class, I tried my best to pay attention to the professor. I really did. My notebook was open, my pen was uncapped and I was even facing the front.

But after nearly an hour of lecture, all I could hear was

"Communication blah blah... audience analysis... media ethics... blah blah blah..." I stared at the PowerPoint projected onto the screen. Then at the clock. Then back at the PowerPoint. "... Please end my suffering," I muttered under my breath.

"As I was saying," our professor continued, immediately snapping my attention back to reality, "since there will be an upcoming competition for our varsity players, you'll be working on a special project." The room quieted.

"You are Communications students, so this will serve as practical experience. Your task is to produce a video feature on one of our varsity teams. This includes planning, conducting interviews, filming, and editing the final output." A few students exchanged excited looks. "You'll be divided into four groups," he continued. "Each group will be assigned a different sport to focus on."

"Yes, sir," the class replied.

"You can choose your own group members. Make sure everyone contributes equally. I don't want any freeloaders." That immediately caused the classroom to erupt into movement.

"y/n, group with us!" I turned to see two of my classmates waving me over.

A few minutes later, everyone had settled into their groups. Our professor looked down at the list in his hand. "Group One will cover basketball." A few cheers erupted. "Group Two, volleyball." Someone near the back groaned. "Group Three..." He adjusted his glasses. "Football."

I blinked. Group Three.

No.

One of my groupmates gasped. "Wait, football?" she said excitedly. "Isn't that the team with Kim Juhoon?" I froze. "...What?" Another classmate nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! He's pretty popular, isn't he?"

My brain stopped functioning.

No.

No, no, no. Out of all the teams. Out of every single varsity team in this university.

"...Sir," I raised my hand slowly. "Yes, Ms. y/n?"

"Hypothetically speaking…," I began carefully, "if someone were to suddenly develop an intense fear of sports journalism..."

The professor narrowed his eyes. "No."

I lowered my hand. "I haven't even asked the question yet."

"You were going to ask if you could switch groups."

"You may not."

A few snickers spread throughout the classroom. I slumped back in my chair. This was fine. Completely fine. All I had to do was interview the football team. The football team that just so happened to include Kim Juhoon. The same Juhoon whose existence had somehow become a recurring source of embarrassment in my life. 

Easy. I stared blankly at the front of the classroom.

Maybe if I dropped out, no one would notice.

—

A couple of days passed in a blur of group meetings, frantic messages in the group chat, and repeatedly hearing the phrase, "We'll figure it out." We did, somehow.

One classmate handled the shot list. Another prepared the equipment and checked the camera batteries every ten minutes. Someone else worked on lighting and audio. And me? I was one of the interviewers. Which meant I had to speak. On camera. To actual varsity athletes. Wonderful.

"Are you okay?”

I looked up from the cue cards I had been rereading for the twentieth time. My groupmate frowned. "You've been staring at that paper for like five minutes." I looked down at the list of questions.

I nodded stiffly. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm experiencing a perfectly healthy amount of academic stress."

"You look like you're about to throw up."

"Also that..."

Before they could respond, our director clapped their hands together.

"Everyone ready? The football team should be here any minute." Immediately, my stomach dropped.

No. No, actually.I wasn't ready. Not even remotely. I adjusted the microphone clipped to my shirt for what had to be the fifteenth time.

The football field buzzed with activity. Students carried tripods across the sidelines. Someone tested the audio equipment. "Check, check."

"Can you hear me?"

"Move the reflector a little to the left."

The cameras were positioned, the questions were prepared. Everything was set. Except for me.

I rubbed my sweaty palms against my jeans. Maybe I could fake a sudden illness. Maybe I'd lose my voice. Maybe I'd get struck by lightning.

"...y/n?"

"Hm?"

"The players are here."

I froze.

"...y/n?"

Slowly, I lifted my head. And there they were. The football team walked onto the field, talking amongst themselves. Some laughed loudly while others adjusted their uniforms or carried sports bags over their shoulders.

Then—I spotted him. Kim Juhoon. He said something to one of his teammates before laughing softly. Then he glanced toward our production setup. Toward us. Toward me. Our eyes met. Oh. Oh, no. I immediately looked away.

"y/n?"

"You okay?"

I inhaled deeply. Then another. "I think," I said calmly, "that I'm having an out-of-body experience."

"What?"

"I can physically feel my soul leaving my body."

"What are you talking about?"

I gripped my cue cards tighter. The papers crumpled slightly in my hands. This was fine. I could do this. I had prepared for this. I had rehearsed these questions in front of my mirror. I had practiced my smile. I had—"Hey."

A familiar voice cut through my internal monologue, I slowly turned. Juhoon stood in front of me. Up close. Again. For a brief second, neither of us spoke. Then his gaze dropped to the cue cards clutched in my death grip.

"You're interviewing us?" he asked.

"Unfortunately."

His eyebrows lifted. "Unfortunately?"

I stared at him.

"Respectfully," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "I would've preferred editing." For a second, he blinked.

Then, to my horror—he laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as he looked at me. "You know," he said, "most people seem excited about interviewing us."

"I'm sure they're very happy for the opportunity."

"And you're not?"

I tightened my hold on the cue cards.

"I haven't recovered from the fact that I accidentally hit you with a ball."

Juhoon stared at me. "You're still thinking about that?"

"You weren't…?"

He looked genuinely surprised. "No..."

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Of course. Of course he wasn't. I'd spent days replaying one embarrassing moment while he'd moved on with his life.

"...Right," I said weakly. "Makes sense." He tilted his head slightly. "You really do overthink everything, huh?" I buried my face in my cue cards. "Please don't analyze me before the interview." Another laugh escaped him. "Relax," he said. "You'll do fine." I peeked at him over the edge of my papers. "...You don't know that."

"You've memorized those questions enough to wrinkle the pages."

"That's fair."

Then someone called his name from behind. "Juhoon! They're starting!" He glanced back before looking at me one last time.

"You haven't even started yet, but I know you’re gonna do just fine.”And somehow—that made my heart beat even faster. I stared at his retreating figure.

"...Did Juhoon just encourage me?"

"Y/N!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. My groupmate stared at me. "We're starting!" Right. The interview. The reason I was currently standing on a football field instead of safely hiding behind editing software.

I swallowed. "Okay," I muttered to myself. "You're a Communications student. You communicate. It's literally in the title." I stepped into position. One of my classmates stood behind the camera.

"Audio?"

"Good."

"Camera?"

"Rolling."

"Lighting?"

"We're outside. The sun's doing most of the work."

"Fair enough."

Our director gave me a thumbs-up. "You got this." I nodded. Immediately regretted it because I definitely did not have this. "Three..." I took a breath. "Two..." I adjusted the cue cards in my hands. "One." The camera started rolling and I forced a smile.

"Hello! We're Communications students, and today we'll be interviewing members of the football team as they prepare for the upcoming varsity competition."

Okay. That wasn't terrible.

"We'll be talking about their experiences as student-athletes, their preparation for the competition, and what motivates them both on and off the field." I glanced toward my interviewee. It’s not Juhoon, thank God. 

The captain smiled politely. "Can you introduce yourself?" The interview flowed surprisingly smoothly after that. The captain talked about discipline. Another player spoke about time management. Someone else mentioned how the team had become his second family. I found myself relaxing. Maybe Juhoon had been right. Maybe I could actually do this.

"...And finally," I asked, glancing at my cue cards, "what message would you like to give students who want to pursue sports but are afraid they won't be good enough?"

The player thought for a moment. "Just start," he said. "Nobody's great in the beginning. You improve because you keep showing up." I smiled genuinely. "Thank you."

"Cut!" A wave of relief crashed over me. I immediately lowered the microphone. "Oh my God."

"You survived!" one of my groupmates exclaimed.

"I survived," I echoed weakly. I was free. I had escaped. I could retreat behind the camera and never speak again. Then—"Okay!" our director announced. "Next interview!" I frowned. "...Next interview?" They looked at their notes. "Kim Juhoon." My soul left my body.

"No."

"Huh?"

"No."

"You literally just interviewed three players."

"I know."

"So what's wrong?"

I stared at them. "This one is Kim Juhoon…”

"...Okay?"

I looked around desperately. "Can someone switch with me?"

"No."

"Please?"

"You've been doing great."

"I'll buy you lunch."

"No."

They shoved the microphone back into my hands. "Places, everyone!" I looked down at the microphone.

Then at Juhoon, who had just finished talking to one of his teammates before walking over. He stopped in front of me. "You look stressed again."

"I was free," I said miserably.

"Hm?"

"I thought I was done."

His gaze shifted toward the microphone in my hand. "Oh." He studied me for a second before nodding toward the microphone.  "Then let's get this over with."

"Rolling." 

I adjusted my grip on the microphone. "Could you introduce yourself for the viewers?" Juhoon glanced at the camera. "I'm Kim Juhoon, second-year student and a member of the football team."

"Thank you." I looked down at my cue cards. "Can you tell us what inspired you to pursue football?"

The interview began. Simple questions. Simple answers. At first, my voice was a little shaky. I stumbled over a word once, accidentally skipped a question. Had to glance down at my notes more times than I'd liked. But Juhoon never rushed me.

Whenever I paused to reorganize my thoughts, he'd wait. Whenever I needed a second to find the next question, he didn't fill the silence. He answered carefully, like he understood exactly what I was trying to ask even when I didn't phrase it perfectly. Eventually, my shoulders relaxed. I stopped sounding like someone being held hostage.

"...And what would you say has been the biggest challenge as a student-athlete?" I asked.

"Probably expectations," Juhoon replied. "You don't want to let people down."

I nodded thoughtfully. "Your teammates?"

"Teammates. Coaches. Yourself."

I glanced down at my notes. When I looked back up—Juhoon was already looking at me. Not the camera. Me.

"...And how do you deal with that pressure?" His eyes blinked back into focus. "Hm?"

"The pressure," I repeated.

"Oh."

His gaze shifted somewhere over my shoulder before returning to the camera. "I just focus on what I can control."

"Last question," I said.

"If you could give one piece of advice to students pursuing something they're passionate about, what would it be?"

Juhoon was quiet for a moment. Then— "Don't quit just because you're scared."

I looked up. "That's it?" A small smile appeared on his face. "Most people are scared." His eyes drifted toward me again. "You just do it anyway."

"Cut!"

The cameraman lowered the equipment.

"That was great!" The atmosphere immediately loosened. One of my groupmates started reviewing the footage while another adjusted the audio settings. I finally let out the breath I'd been holding.

"Oh my God," I whispered. 

"I sounded normal."

"You sounded good," my classmate corrected.

I looked down at the microphone in disbelief. "I didn't embarrass myself."

"You really didn't."

Relief flooded through me. Maybe this project wouldn't be the death of me after all. "You okay?" I turned. Juhoon was still standing there. "Yeah," I said. "I think so."

"You did well."

The compliment caught me off guard. "Thanks." A brief silence settled between us, then I hesitated before asking,

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why do you keep looking at me?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it, Juhoon's expression changed instantly. "What?"

"You keep..." I gestured vaguely between us. "Looking at me."

For the first time during the entire interview, he seemed unsure of what to say. His eyes flickered away before returning to me. "I didn't realize I was."

"...Oh."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

"No!" I said a little too quickly. "I was just wondering." Then, quietly, almost like he was thinking out loud, he said,

"I think..." He paused. "...I was checking if you were okay."

I blinked. "What?"

"You looked nervous at first."

"Oh."

"So I kept looking over."

His gaze met mine again. "But then..." He stopped.

Somewhere behind us, one of my groupmates shouted, "Y/N! We need you to review the footage!" I blinked rapidly. "R-Right!" I hurried away before my brain could process whatever that conversation had been.

Behind me, I heard one of Juhoon's teammates say, "Dude."

"What?"

"You've been staring at her the entire interview." A pause. Then Juhoon's voice, quieter than before.

"Have I?"

"Bro…."

And for reasons I absolutely refused to examine, my ears felt very, very warm.

—

Time passed in a rhythm that quickly became familiar. Film, review footage, lunch, edit, meetings, refilm whatever someone decided wasn't "cinematic enough” and repeat.

Somewhere in between all of that, Juhoon became...close. We exchanged greetings, occasional comments about filming schedules, small conversations that never lasted long enough to become anything more.

We were always interrupted by something. A teammate calling for him and a groupmate needing me. Another meeting, another take, another deadline. And somehow, despite spending so much time in the same space, I still didn't know much about him.

It was lunch break when I escaped outside. The weather was nice enough so I sat on one of the benches near the field, my backpack beside me and my ipad balanced on my lap. Life sucked. I had forgotten my Kindle at my unit.

Which meant I had no choice but to read on an obnoxiously large screen for the entire world to see. Tragic.

I tapped the page, then the next, then the next, just completely absorbed. The world around me slowly disappeared and the chatter from nearby students faded into background noise.

The sound of the football team training became distant. I wasn't sitting on a bench anymore. I was somewhere else entirely. "His fingers brushed against hers before quickly pulling away, as though even touching her frightened him..." I stared. Oh. Oh no. He was yearning.

I immediately turned the page, then another, and another. I was so invested that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice suddenly spoke beside me.

"You read romance?" I looked up, it was Juhoon. He had somehow sat down beside me without me noticing. My eyes widened then immediately darted toward my iPad.

Too late. The giant font on the giant screen was impossible to miss. I let out an awkward laugh. "I—uhm. Uh... yeah?" Fucking huge ipad, of course he saw.

Juhoon glanced down at the screen again then back at me. "You sound surprised."

"Well, I wasn't exactly planning on advertising it to the general public."

"It's not exactly a secret."

"It feels like one."

His gaze returned to the novel.

"'His entire universe narrowed down to the girl standing before him.'" I froze. "Were you reading over my shoulder?" A tiny pause. "Maybe." I stared at him in horror.

"You can't just quote it back to me."

"You had the brightness all the way up."

"I forgot my kindle."

"I don't know what that means."

"It's an e-reader."

"Oh."

I buried my face in my hands. "This is humiliating."

"Why?"

Slowly, I lowered my hands. "Because." I gestured helplessly at the ipad. "Now you know I spend my free time reading fictional characters fall in love."

Juhoon looked genuinely confused. "A lot of people read romance."

"Not on a screen this size." He glanced at the iPad. "It is pretty big…"

"Thank you for pointing that out."

A small silence settled between us, I expected him to leave but instead, he remained seated beside me. "Is it good?" he asked. I blinked. "What?"

"The book."

I looked down at the page. "Very."

"What's it about?" I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.

"You actually want to know?"

"You seem invested."

I hesitated then glanced back at the screen. "It's basically about two idiots who are obviously in love with each other."

"Hm."

"But they don't communicate."

"Hm."

"So they spend the entire book misunderstanding each other."

"Hm."

"They're both painfully aware of each other."

"Hm."

"But neither one says anything."

Juhoon was quiet for a moment. "That sounds frustrating."

"It is."

"Then why are you reading it?"

I stared at him. "Because I need to know if they figure it out."

He looked at me and I looked at him, then unexpectedly—

the corners of his mouth lifted.

"You like watching people suffer."

"What? No."

"You just spent two minutes describing their misery."

"It's called yearning."

"I don't know what that means."

I gasped. "You don't know what yearning means?" I stared at him like he'd just admitted he didn't know how to read.

"It's when—" I stopped. "Actually, never mind."

"What?"

"You wouldn't get it."

"Why not?"

I turned back to my ipad. "Because romance readers and non-romance readers operate on entirely different frequencies." Juhoon didn't answer immediately.

"What if I wanted to understand it?" I glanced sideways at him. "Why?" He shrugged. "You seem to like it."

"...That's a terrible reason."

"Maybe." He didn't sound particularly bothered by that. I looked down at my novel again then back at him.

"Do you read?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you read?"

"Whatever's assigned in class."

I stared at him. "That's depressing."

Juhoon let out a quiet laugh, the sound was soft enough that I almost missed it. Then he glanced at the page still open on my ipad. "So," he said, after a brief pause, "do they end up together?"

I looked at the progress bar at the screen. 80%.

"I don't know yet."

"You're 80 percent through."

"That means absolutely nothing.

"How?"

"People break up at ninety percent all the time." His eyebrows lifted.

"That's evil."

"I know."

He nodded thoughtfully. Then, after a moment—"You'll have to let me know how it ends." I blinked. "You want updates?"

"You seemed passionate about it." I looked away before he could see my expression soften. "Fine." I tapped the next page. "But if they don't end up together, I reserve the right to be dramatic about it."

"How dramatic?" I thought about the stack of one-star reviews I'd left in the heat of betrayal. 

"You'll find out." Beside me, Juhoon laughed quietly.

—

Later that night, I was lying in bed. Just freshly showered and had comfortable pajamas on. My kindle had finally been reunited with me. Peace had been restored.

I adjusted my pillows, opened my novel, and prepared to spend the next few hours emotionally investing in fictional people making terrible life decisions.

ding.

I frowned. Who was messaging me at this hour? I reached over to my nightstand and grabbed my phone.

kkimjju started following you.

What? I sat straight up. "...Huh?" I blinked once, then twice not believing it. Then I opened Instagram. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe this was one of those fake accounts.

Maybe—No. It was him. The profile picture, the username. Kim Juhoon. He had followed me. "...What?"

Then another notification appeared. 

Message Request from kkimjju

I stared at it for a moment then tapped.

kkimjju: no follow back? :(

I dropped my phone onto my blanket from shock, I Immediately picked it back up and ead it again, then again, then again. "What does that mean?"

I looked around my empty room and returned to the message. No follow back? :( There was a sad face. A sad face. I buried my face into my pillow. "Why is there a sad face?"

I checked the time, 10:43 PM.

I typed.

sorry, I just saw it.

Deleted it, it’s too formal. Then typed again.

OMG HI

Deleted. No, absolutely not.

following back now 👍

Deleted.

I stared at the blinking cursor. Then another message popped up.

kkimjju: you're thinking too hard about this, aren't you?

I froze, I looked down at the three dots beneath the chat.

Seen 10:44 PM.

Oh. Oh, no. He could see that I'd opened the message and hadn't replied for over a minute. I immediately typed.

No.

Sent.

"Why did I send that?" The typing indicator appeared almost instantly, then disappeared, then it appeared again.

kkimjju: that response alone tells me yes.

I stared at my screen, heat crawled up my neck.

you: I wasn't expecting a DM from you.

This time, his reply took a little longer.

kkimjju: is that bad?

I blinked, my fingers hovered over the keyboard.

you: no, its just surprising

kkimjju: we spent almost every day together for your project. I figured we were at least Instagram mutuals.

I read the message twice and looked down at the keyboard, then finally tapped his profile.

Follow Back

Almost immediately, another message appeared.

kkimjju: there it is.

you: happy now?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

kkimjju: a little.

I had expected the conversation to end there. A follow back. A few awkward messages. Maybe a goodnight. Instead, one topic somehow turned into another. It started with him asking about the romance novel I'd been reading earlier. Which turned into me passionately defending slow burns. "The point isn't just them getting together," I typed furiously. "It's the process. The tiny moments before that. The realization. The yearning."

kkimjju: you're using that word again

you: because it's important

kkimjju: i still don't fully understand it

you: imagine watching someone gradually become the person another person seeks out first

choosing them without realizing they're doing it

it's all the little things before the confession

There was a brief pause before his reply came.

kkimjju: you think about this a lot.

I looked at the clock in the corner of my phone. 11:37 PM.

I blinked. Hadn't it just been ten-something? I had spent nearly an hour talking to Kim Juhoon. Most of it had been me rambling about fictional couples and why the journey of falling in love mattered just as much as the ending itself.

And somehow...he never told me I was talking too much, he never changed the subject, he kept asking questions.

I hugged my pillow closer to my chest, unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips. Maybe romance readers really did operate on a different frequency. Or maybe... It just took the right person to listen long enough to understand why you loved the things you did. I started to look back at the rules I wrote to my journal weeks ago. Yeah, fucking shit I broke that.

—

Days spent with Juhoon. Somewhere along the way, we had actually become closer. Minju and Han would constantly bug me for updates, acting like they were personally invested in whatever strange friendship this was. And slowly—ridiculously, embarrassingly—real and legit feelings started developing. Which made absolutely no sense.

I was the same person who had spent years rejecting every guy that slid into my DMs because none of them felt like the characters I read about.

I loved romance. I just never expected it for myself. Mostly because my standards had been shaped by fictional men written by women with unrealistic expectations.

Real life wasn't supposed to compete with that. Yet somehow—Juhoon kept doing things that felt straight out of a romance story. The other day, I was sitting on a bench scrolling through my phone when he suddenly dropped down beside me.

"What are your thoughts about Romance 101?" I nearly launched my phone into orbit. "What?" He looked confused by my reaction. "What?"

"How do you know Romance 101?"

"I saw it on your highlights."

I stared at him. "You looked through my highlights?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He blinked. "Because I was bored." 

"I tried reading it." I felt my soul leave my body. "You what?"

"It's actually good." He shrugged casually. "I get why it's your favorite now." I think I stopped functioning for a solid thirty seconds. Because who does that? Who sees a random manhwa on someone's profile and decides to read it just because it matters to them?

Apparently Kim Juhoon.

And the worst part? He acted like it was completely normal, like he hadn't just permanently altered my brain chemistry.

Then there were the little things. The way he'd casually walk over whenever he spotted me on set, the way he'd start conversations as if we'd been talking all day, the way he'd call out my name from across the room.

Every single time it happened, I could practically feel people staring. And every single time, my brain immediately forgot how to behave like a normal human being.

"Hey." A simple greeting, and yet somehow my heart would react like he'd just confessed his undying love. It was pathetic really. Actually, pathetic wasn't even a strong enough word, because the more time I spent with him, the more I found myself looking for him without meaning to.

Looking for the familiar figure in crowded hallways, looking for his messages, looking for that stupid smile that always appeared whenever he saw me.

And maybe that was when I realized I was in trouble. Not because Juhoon was handsome, not because everyone liked him. But because for the first time in my life, someone felt less like a fictional character I was chasing—and more like a real person I genuinely wanted to know. 

And somehow that was much scarier.

Because for weeks I'd been hanging around with them, I kept hearing people talk, way too many people. I mean, Juhoon was ridiculously popular. Of course people talked about him. Most conversations were the usual.

"He's so handsome."

"Did you see him at practice?"

"His smile is insane."

Normal stuff, but lately the conversations had changed.

"There was a girl with him."

"I heard they're close."

"No, seriously. Apparently they talk all the time."

And every single time I overheard something like that, my entire body would freeze. Because there couldn't possibly be that many girls hanging around Juhoon.

...Right?

Thankfully, nobody seemed to know who the girl actually was.

Yet. Which should have made me feel better. 

It did not.

Because my brain immediately started supplying worst-case scenarios. Oh my God. This is how it starts.

I stopped walking, minju nearly walked into my back. "What now?" I slowly turned toward her. "I've read this before." She stared. "What?"

"I know exactly where this is going."

"You do?"

"Yes."

I pointed dramatically into the distance. "The side characters discover the female lead."

"The what?"

"The rumors spread, then jealous girls unite, then the female lead gets cornered in a bathroom, they would start to throw food at her."

"What kind of stories are you reading?!"

"And then the male lead finds out too late and they're forced apart by misunderstandings!" I grabbed Minju by the shoulders. "Minju."

"What?!"

"I don't think we're in the fluffy part anymore." She looked genuinely concerned. "We were never in a novel." I gasped. Then immediately pointed at Juhoon, who was standing across the hallway talking to his teammates. "That's exactly what a side character would say before the plot gets worse."

"You're insane."

"No, listen."

I lowered my voice.

"What if somebody already knows?"

"Nobody knows."

"What if they have photographic evidence?"

"Photographic evidence?" Minju stared at me for three whole seconds, then she smacked the back of my head.

"Ouch!"

"Trust me," she said. "If this were a romance novel, we'd all know."

"Why?"

"Because the female lead would've figured out she likes him and confessed their feelings at least twenty chapters ago."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. "That's actually a good point."

"Thank you."

"Wait."

"No."

"What if this is the slow burn arc?"

“Slow burn arc my ass.”

—

“You probably didn’t see it, but I actually bought this.” Juhoon pulled a book from the paper bag hanging from his wrist. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

“NO WAY.”

“What?”

“You don't look like someone who would actually read that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don't know. You look like the type to read sports magazines or something.”

He looked offended. “Sports magazines?”

“I'm just saying.”

I grabbed the book from his hands and immediately froze “Wait.” Juhoon looked suspiciously pleased. “Is this—”

“Yep.”

“Villains Are Destined to Die?!”

“I figured I'd see what all the hype was about.”

“You willingly spent money on this?”

“Should I be concerned that you're this shocked?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Also,” he added casually, “I'm like 60% with My Password is 002.”

I nearly dropped the book. “WHAT?”

“Why are you reacting like that?”

“Because that's two manhwa!”

“Two manhwa?”

“Two manhwa that I recommended!”

Juhoon shook his head, smiling. “You make it sound like a crime.”

“It is. Since when do you read this much?”

“Since someone wouldn't stop talking about them.” The heat that immediately rushed to my face was embarrassing.

Days passed like that. Somehow, without either of us noticing, spending time together became normal. After class, I'd often find him waiting outside my classroom. Sometimes we'd stop by the bookstore and spend an hour arguing over which covers looked better. Sometimes we'd end up at the park, sitting on the swings while eating ice cream and talking about everything and nothing.

He started sending me pictures of books he thought I'd like. I started sending him voice messages whenever I encountered a character that annoyed me. Being around him stopped feeling unusual, it started feeling expected.

Like if a day passed without talking to Juhoon, something was missing from it. The rumors around school only got worse, but strangely enough, neither of us cared as much anymore.

Because while everyone else was busy trying to figure out what we were—we were too busy spending time together.

Who knew hitting him with a ball would somehow bring me this close to him?

—

Now back on the field again, just a few days before the final match against the other university—the match that would determine who'd be taking home the championship trophy.

The atmosphere was noticeably different. There were more cameras, more spectators watching practice from behind. Everyone knew what was at stake. "Do you have anything to say for the upcoming final match?" one of my teammates asked, holding the microphone toward Juhoon. "Do you think you can bring home the trophy once again?"

Fortunately, I wasn't the one doing interviews today. I stood off to the side beside the cameraman, watching everything unfold while pretending I wasn't paying attention.

Juhoon rubbed the back of his neck before giving a small smile. "We're not thinking about defending a title," he said. "We're thinking about earning it again." One of the reporters nodded. "Confident?" "I trust my team." He glanced toward his teammates warming up on the field. "We've all worked too hard to let this opportunity slip away."

Another reporter chimed in. "So what's motivating you the  most heading into this match?" For the first time, he paused, his expression softened—just slightly. "...There's someone I want to make proud." The words were simple, and yet...my stomach tightened.

For reasons I couldn't explain, I instinctively looked up.

At the exact same moment—his eyes were already on me.

Not for long, just for a second. Then he looked away as if nothing had happened, answering the next question like usual. No. Absolutely not. There were dozens of people standing around me he could've been looking at anyone....Right?

One of the reporters grinned, clearly interested. "Someone special?" A few of the players nearby let out quiet laughs. Juhoon only chuckled under his breath. "Maybe."

The reporters immediately leaned in. "So if you win..." He looked toward the row of cameras lined up along the sidelines before answering. "I already know they'll be there to see it." A few people exchanged knowing looks, one even laughed.

"So they're coming to the finals?" Juhoon smiled. "They don't really have a choice."

My heart did something stupid. No. Don't do this. Don't assume. Maybe he wasn't talking about me, maybe he was talking about his maybe a childhood friend? Maybe... I slapped myself mentally. Maybe I haven't seen his true colors yet, like maybe he's just naturally like this with everyone and maybe he's secretly talking to three other girls like he's one of those guys who smiles at you while collecting phone numbers like photocards.

Okay. Stop. I've read way too many romance novels.

The interview ended, but the conversation around campus didn't. By lunchtime, everyone was talking about it.

Kim Juhoon has someone he likes.

No one knew who, it is quite surprising. Every theory sounded more ridiculous than the last. And somehow...that uncertainty bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Maybe that's why I've always preferred fiction. In novels, you know who loves who, you know which lingering glance means something, you know when a confession is coming.

Real life doesn't come with highlighted passages or an author's notes. People look at you for a second too long....and suddenly you're left wondering if you imagined the entire thing.

—

Cheers echoed from every corner of the stadium.

Students dressed in our university colors filled the bleachers until there wasn't an empty seat left. Banners waved through the air. The marching band played somewhere in the distance. Every few seconds another chant erupted from the crowd, only to be drowned out by an even louder one. It was chaos.

Meanwhile...I was trying very hard not to throw up.

Minju and Han had already gone up to the bleachers while I stayed near the players' tents, microphone in one hand and cue cards in the other. I was one of today's sideline reporters. A sentence that sounded much cooler in theory than it felt in practice. I inhaled, exhaled, drank water and repeat. 

My hands still wouldn't stop shaking. "What if I stutter?" "What if I forget the questions?"  I was spiraling. A familiar hand landed gently between my shoulder blades. "You'll do fine." I turned. It’s Juhoon, already dressed in his uniform.  His hair was slightly damp from warming up, and there was still sweat clinging to his forehead. Despite the championship being only minutes away...he looked calmer than I did. "...You're supposed to be nervous."

"I am."

"I feel awful."

"Hm?"

"You're the one about to play the biggest match of the season..."

I looked back up at him. "...Yet somehow you're the one encouraging me."

For a second...he didn't answer, he just looked at me. Not the way people usually look at someone. Not casually, like...like I had his full attention, completely. His voice came out quieter this time.

"y/n"

"...Yeah?"

"If we win today..."

He took one step closer. "...Would you go out with me?"

...

My brain stopped functioning. Excuse me? No. Wait. Hold on. What?

Did—Did Kim Juhoon...The Kim Juhoon...from the football team, the same guy half the university had a crush on, just...ask me out? No. No, no, no. This has to be a prank.

Maybe one of his teammates dared him, maybe there's a hidden camera somewhere, maybe I'm hallucinating.

"...W-what d—"

"I like you."

...

No hesitation.

"I've liked you for a while." His eyes never left mine. "I know this isn't exactly the best timing..." A tiny laugh escaped him. "...Actually, it's probably the worst timing." "But if I walk onto that field without telling you..." He shook his head. "...I think I'd regret it."

I couldn't speak, not because I didn't want to but because every single word I'd ever learned had apparently abandoned me. He smiled at me softly. "...You don't have to answer now." My heart was pounding so loudly I was convinced he could hear it. He reached up slowly. "May I?" I nodded before I even realized I was doing it. His fingertips brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face before gently cupping my cheek. Just warm.

and careful, like I was something precious.

He leaned in slowly. My eyes fluttered shut. Then—"JUHOON!" One of his teammates shouted. "We're lining up!" We both froze. Juhoon let out a quiet laugh through his nose, resting his forehead against mine for the briefest second. "...I guess fate likes dramatic timing." I laughed too, mostly because if I didn't...I thought I might actually explode. He stepped back. 

"I'll ask again after the match." He held my gaze. "And this time..." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "...I hope you'll say yes." Then he turned... jogged toward his teammates and disappeared onto the field leaving me standing there...still processing the fact that reality had somehow become more unbelievable than every romance novel I'd ever read.

I think...I finally understood why female leads always forgot how to function after the confession scene.

—

The referee's whistle pierced through the stadium, the championship had begun. Immediately, the crowd erupted. Our university's cheers crashed against the opposing school's chants until they became one overwhelming roar. I barely heard my own breathing and I made it through my opening report without tripping over my own words.

"You did great," my teammate whispered.

"Did I?"

“Yes.” He laughed and mine came out weaker because my attention had already drifted back onto the field. To him. Juhoon jogged onto the pitch with the rest of his teammates, exchanging quick fist bumps before taking his position. Then—he glanced toward the sidelines, towards me. It wasn't dramatic really, no slow motion and no cinematic soundtrack and all of that. Just the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

For 90 minutes, it felt like my heart had forgotten what a normal rhythm was. One team attacked and the other defended. The ball flew from one side of the field to the other so quickly my eyes struggled to keep up. Every near miss made the stadium gasp, every successful tackle earned deafening cheers, every counterattack had the crowd rising to its feet.

"Come on..." I whispered without realizing it. The score remained tied and the clock kept ticking, the pressure only grew heavier and both teams were exhausted now. Sweat soaked through their jerseys.

One of Juhoon's teammates intercepted the ball near midfield, the crowd immediately came alive. A quick pass and another. The defense scrambled back into position. "Juhoon!" Someone screamed from somewhere in the stands. The pass rolled perfectly into his path and he controlled it with one touch. A defender rushed him, he shifted left. Another defender closed the space, he pushed the ball just beyond the tackle.

The goalkeeper stepped off his line, I forgot to breathe.

Juhoon drew his leg back and struck. Time stopped, the ball curved through the air, past the goalkeeper's outstretched fingertips. Into the back of the net.

GOAL.

The place exploded, students leaped from their seats, the marching band erupted. Everyone was screaming, everyone was celebrating.

His teammates rushed toward him—but before they could reach him...Juhoon turned and started running. Not toward the bench, not toward the coaches, but towards me.

At first, I thought I was imagining it, like no, there's no way. He's probably running past me.

"Y/N!" My heart stopped. Before I could even process what was happening, he was already there, he threw his arms around me so suddenly that I let out a startled yelp.

"J-Juhoon?!" He laughed, but this time it was different. It was the laugh of someone who had just achieved the biggest victory of his life, before I knew it, my feet had left the ground. "Wait—!" He lifted me effortlessly, spinning me once...twice...the world became nothing but flashes of confetti, bright stadium lights, and the sound of thousands of people screaming around us.

I couldn't stop laughing and neither could he. When he finally set me back down, I had to grab onto his shoulders just to steady myself. "You're going to make me dizzy." I looked up at him, his hair was a mess, his face was glistening with sweat, his chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath.

And somehow...I'd never seen anyone look more beautiful. We simply stood there looking at each other, like the rest of the stadium had disappeared. His smile slowly softened. "I told you..." he said quietly. "I'd ask again." I laughed, still trying to catch my own breath. "I know." He took one small step closer. "So..." His voice was almost swallowed by the roaring crowd. "...Will you go out with me?" For once...there wasn't a single overthought in my head. No imaginary scenarios, no romance-novel logic trying to predict what happened next. Just him standing in front of me waiting patiently, like my answer mattered more than the championship he'd just won.

"...Yes." I barely managed to whisper it, he simply stared at me, as if he needed to make sure he'd heard me correctly. "...Yeah?" I laughed, tears already blurring my vision, and nodded. "Yes." "I'll go out with you." The smile that spread across his face... I don't think I'll ever forget it, like he'd been carrying those words inside him for so long that finally hearing my answer allowed him to breathe again.

Slowly, he lifted one hand, giving me every chance to step away if I wanted to. His fingertips brushed against my cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear before his thumb rested lightly against my skin. "So..." he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the roaring stadium. "Can I kiss you now?"

I don't remember answering. Maybe I nodded, maybe the smile I couldn't stop wearing answered for me. Whatever it was...he understood. He leaned in slowly. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that every nervous beat of my heart seemed impossibly loud.

He paused, he was waiting. Giving me one last chance. Instead of pulling away...I closed the remaining distance. Our lips met softly, like we were both afraid this might disappear if we moved too quickly.

The first kiss lasted only a moment. Just enough for us to realize—this was real. When we parted, neither of us moved very far. Our foreheads almost touched and our noses brushed, we were both smiling. Then he let out the smallest, breathless laugh. "...I've wanted to do that." I felt another laugh bubble out of me. 

His eyes searched mine, almost asking the question again without words. This time...I was the one who leaned in first. The second kiss wasn't hesitant, it was warmer and longer.

My fingers instinctively curled around the front of his jersey as he gently cupped my face. The cheers around us blurred into meaningless noise, the announcer's voice echoed through the speakers. Confetti drifted through the air, camera shutters clicked relentlessly.

Somewhere in the stands, I was certain Minju was screaming loud enough to lose her voice. None of it mattered. Because somehow...standing in the field filled with hundreds of people...It felt like there was no one else in the world.

When we finally pulled away, neither of us said anything at first. We simply looked at each other, the kind of look that says everything words can't. His forehead rested against mine. "...Hi." I burst into laughter, the laugh that comes when you're too happy to hold it in. "Hi..." He chuckled too.

"I can't believe you actually said yes." I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. "I can't believe you asked before the biggest match of your life." 

"Yeah." He laughed, shaking his head. "...That was probably the craziest thing I've ever done."

"And hitting you with a football wasn't?"

He grinned. "No." He looked at me with that same soft expression I'd fallen for. "I'm pretty sure that was the best thing that ever happened to me."

We both laughed again, around us, reality finally came rushing back.

"Oh my God!"

"HE RAN TO HER!"

"THAT'S THE GIRL!"

"I KNEW IT!"

Camera shutters clicked endlessly, my teammates were staring at us with their mouths hanging open. And somewhere in the bleachers—Minju was jumping up and down so violently she almost toppled over the railing. Han had both hands on his head, laughing like this was the greatest plot twist he'd ever witnessed.

The rumors, the whispers. Every question people had been asking for weeks...had just been answered in front of the entire university. And somehow...I couldn't find it in me to care because I'd spent so many years falling in love with fictional stories believing romance was something meant for other people. For female leads, for characters whose endings had already been written, never mine, never me. I thought I was destined to stay on the sidelines—watching, reading, dreaming. Content with borrowing someone else's happily ever after. 

But as Juhoon reached down and intertwined his fingers with mine...I realized something. Maybe...the reason I'd always loved romance so much...was because one day—without even realizing it—I was going to become the main character of one.

extra

I never expected that one badly kicked football would change my life. Practice had ended a little earlier than usual. Most of the team had already gone back to the locker room, while a few stayed behind to cool down. I decided to sit by the benches for a while.

The weather was nice, the field was quieter than usual.

I took a drink from my tumbler and let my eyes wander across the pitch. That was when I noticed James, he was laughing. Teaching someone how to kick a football, apparently.

Curious, I looked a little longer, it was a girl. She looked...completely hopeless. She'd miss the ball entirely then she'd kick too early, then too late. James looked like he was trying his hardest not to laugh. I couldn't help smiling.

"Cute."

She looked so genuinely determined despite being absolutely terrible at it. It was strangely entertaining. She crossed her arms, said something to James I couldn't hear. He tossed the ball back to her, she took a deep breath and backed away. Then pointed dramatically at the goal like she was about to score the winning shot in a championship match. I chuckled under my breath.

"This should be interesting."

She ran forward.

"I said I got this!"

She swung her leg....hard, very hard. The moment her foot connected with the ball...I knew that wasn't going anywhere near the goal. The ball flew in an entirely different direction straight toward the benches, toward...me. "...Huh?" There was a metallic clink. My tumbler slipped from my hand.

Thud.

"...Ow."

A sharp sting spread across the side of my head, for a second, everything went quiet. I rubbed the spot where the ball had hit me before bending down to pick up my fallen tumbler then I looked up. The girl stood frozen in the middle of the field.

Her eyes were so wide I thought they might actually fall out, she looked less like someone who'd just hit me with a football...and more like someone who'd accidentally committed a crime.

I almost laughed. She just...stood there, absolutely horrified. I don't think I've ever seen someone's face cycle through denial, panic, regret, and the five stages of grief that quickly. For a brief second...our eyes met. She somehow looked even more terrified.

I started going towards them. When I was getting closer, now I see her face more clearly. It felt familiar. I wondered where? 

Then suddenly something came to my mind, someone had followed me but unfollowed right away. Her username had been stuck to my head, and was curious so I looked through her profile. 

It finally clicked. "Oh." "It's her." The girl from that account, the one who accidentally followed me.

—

I’ve got to learn that she loves reading, especially the romance genre. One afternoon, out of pure curiosity, I searched for one of the books she'd recommended on her highlights. I told myself it was just because I wanted to understand why she liked them so much.

That was all. At least...that's what I kept telling myself. Days later, one of my teammates caught me standing in a bookstore. Romance in hand, he stared then looked at the book then back at me. "...I have never seen you read something like that."

"Are you sick?…"

I laughed. "No…”

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

"So why are you buying romance novels?"

I looked down at the cover before smiling to myself. "Because someone I like loves them." He stared at me for a full five seconds. "You're serious." "I am."

Looking back now...I don't think I fell in love because she hit me with a football or because she accidentally followed me or because she loved books. I fell in love with the way she laughed without realizing it. The way she'd overthink every little thing, the way she'd light up whenever she talked about stories she loved. The way she made ordinary days feel a little less ordinary.

People always ask me when I started liking her. I don't know. Love was never one big moment, it was a hundred small ones. A glance, a simple conversation, a shared walk home, a bookstore, a park swing, an ice cream melting faster than either of us could finish it.

I kept thinking love would arrive all at once. It didn't, it arrived little by little. Conversation after conversation, walk after walk, smile after smile.

Until one day...loving her simply felt as natural as breathing.

Funny. She spent years reading romance novels...never realizing that she had quietly become my favorite story of all.

[jinjoohaaa]

Loser's luck

pairing : nerd gojo x reader

content warning : explicit sexual references - toxic relationships - emotional manipulation - heartbreak & devastation - jealousy & possessiveness - strong language - smoking - anxiety & guilt - mature, heavy, explicit. read with caution. mdni, 18+.

synopsis : you lost a stupid bet and your bestie told you to fuck the biggest loser in class. you thought it’d be a one-time thing. but it turns out the loser’s packing and once you get a taste you can’t stop thinking about that loser's dick.

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Chapter 6

It’s brutal.

Really fucking brutal for Satoru Gojo.

How could it not be?

Life handed him everything on a silver platter—money that never runs dry, a mind sharp enough to cut through any problem, a face that turns heads if he could atleast put enough effort, and a last name that opens doors before he even has to knock. It seemed to be mocking him in the cruelest way possible, dangling something he never even knew he even craved right in front of his face and then yanking it away every single time.

He’d never really cared about girls before. Not much. His head had always been buried in books, eyes fixed on the next perfect grade, the next higher rank, the next piece of proof that he wasn’t just some spoiled rich kid riding his father’s name. Got scholarship to a college his family could have bought twice and make it a parking lot. Girls were nothing more than background noise, meaningless distractions he could tune out without a second thought.

Then you just had to walk in like that.

On the first day, orientation hall packed and quiet except for the professor’s droning speech. The door swung open with a bang that felt like a personal insult to the room. You strolled in late and completely shameless, your skirt so short it dared anyone to look away, your top cut low enough to make half the crowd choke on their own breath. The professor snapped at you for the interruption. You rolled your eyes, clicked your heels across the floor like you owned every damn inch of the place, and dropped into an empty seat without a shred of apology. Everyone stared, some in awe, some in disapproval, but you didn’t give a single fuck.

Satoru should have been annoyed. Instead his heart slammed against his ribs, his cock twitched traitorously in his pants, and in that single moment he was already amused, obsessed, and utterly ruined.

From then on he noticed everything about you. Every one of your skirts, every pair of your jeans, every new shade of gloss that caught the light, every pair of boots that made your legs look downright criminal. He started coming ten minutes early just to watch you walk in, his pulse racing like an addict waiting for the only fix that mattered.

You never noticed him staring. Why would you? Your mind was always elsewhere: the next guy you were going to fuck, the club you and Aira were dying to hit, that new top you saw online and absolutely needed to buy. Guys ogled you constantly—hot ones, confident ones, the kind who actually had a shot. Satoru was just background noise, another pair of eyes in the crowd. Nothing except just a nerdy guy who’d been staring at you like you hung the damn moon since the very first second. Nothing special. Nothing new.

He began to wonder if this was his type now. He used to think he wanted something soft, pink dresses, shy smiles, cute giggles, girls who were easy to love and easy to keep. Then you appeared like a little demon wrapped in leather and sin, sassing people without hesitation, laughing loud enough to fill the room, flirting shamelessly with guys who actually knew what they were doing. You were the opposite of safe, a siren who could seduce and ruin a man with one smirk and make him thank you for it.

So why the hell did the thought of you ruining him make his dick throb and his chest ache in equal measure? Why you, of all people? Why did the idea of letting you destroy him for anyone else feel so fucking exciting?

He loved the way you laughed with your friends. He loved how you'd snap back at professors who dared scold you for your "inappropriate" outfits, voice dripping with sarcasm until they backed off red-faced. Every time, he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. He wanted to make you his so badly it hurt, wanted to be the one you turned that fire toward, the one who got to feel it burn.

But admiration wasn't the only thing stirring in him. It was filthy, desperate need.

On the days you showed up looking especially lethal, red gloss smeared across your lips like fresh sin, hair loose and wild, knee-high boots hugging your calves, leather skirt so tight it looked painted on, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the swell of your tits—he could barely breathe. Sitting through those lectures became torture. His cock would thicken painfully against his thigh, balls heavy and aching, every shift in his seat a reminder of how badly he needed relief. He refused to sneak off to the bathroom like some desperate fuck; he held it together until he got home, where he could lock the door, strip down, and take his time.

He'd pull up your socials like a man possessed. He’d find the perfect photo of you laughing, lips parted, tits pushed up in a mirror selfie that felt custom-made to wreck him. He’d stroke himself slow, imagining it was your mouth wrapped around him, your cunt clenching tight, your nails digging bloody lines down his back.

Porn didn’t do it anymore, every video twisted into visions of you on all fours, riding him reverse, tits bouncing while he fucked you stupid. When he came it was blinding, your name slipping out like a broken prayer, and then the shame crashed in immediately, hot and familiar.

But that was it. That was all he could manage: staring at you in class like a lovesick puppy, watching you flirt shamelessly with guys who actually stood a chance, then going home to fuck his hand to your pictures. It wasn't enough anymore. Greed had crept in, hot and insistent. He needed more.

So he pulled a few strings, until he landed in the same big group project as you. A massive assignment, the kind that required mandatory meetups. The night before the first group session, he couldn't sleep; he lay there grinning like an idiot, fantasizing about how it would go. You'd have questions, you'd ask him for help because he was the smartest one there. He'd explain things clearly, patiently, watching your eyes on him for once. Maybe you'd thank him. Maybe you'd smile at him. Maybe—

You actually showed up. A miracle. You dropped into the chair across from him, skirt riding up just enough to make his throat go dry. He sat up straighter, palms slick with sweat, ready to play the helpful tutor, ready to exist in your orbit for even five minutes. You scrolled your phone in silence. Ten minutes dragged by without a single glance or word from you. Then your phone buzzed. Your face lit up real and bright, the kind of genuine smile he’d never earned and you giggled, actually fucking giggled, before snatching your bag, muttering “gotta go” to the empty air, and bouncing out without a backward look. You hadn’t asked for help. You hadn’t even registered he was there. He sat stunned for a full minute afterward, staring at the empty chair like it had personally betrayed him.

You didn't come back. Satoru ended up doing your entire portion of the project himself. You never asked. You never noticed. You never thanked him.

He finally gets it, doesn't he?

You’re way out of his league. Untouchable. Not just difficult, not just playing hard to get, completely, viciously impossible. Over the years he’s watched you move from one guy to the next, lips dragging down necks that weren’t his, hands slipping under your top that weren’t his, laughter spilling out for someone else’s ears.

Each time it carved another piece out of him. Jaw clenched until it ached, fists balled so tight his nails drew blood. He could never do shit about it. Never had the right. Two fuckin years of this bullshit, staring from the edges and you never once gave him more than a passing glance.

So why now?

After all this time of being air, why did you finally walk straight up to him? Asking for “help” in that soft, syrupy voice, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t spent years not bothering about his existence. For a second he thought he was breaking, hallucinating from wanting you too badly, brain finally cracking under the weight. But no. You were real. You pulled him in, cracked him wide open, took his virginity like it was loose change in your pocket. Then you vanished. Ghosted him like he was nothing more than yesterday’s mess to wipe away.

You’re cruel.

Vicious in a way that should make him run. You're not good for him. He knows that. He fuckin knows that. And still—he wants you more now than he ever did. All he wanted was a little taste of you but instead got a full feast. He devoured every second of you. Every moan that slipped from your lips, every flutter of your cunt around him like your body had been waiting for his cock, every time your nails dug into his shoulders and left marks he traced in the mirror later.

For those few perfect weeks he was happier than he’d ever been in his life. Some nights he slapped his own face just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Woke up grinning, already hard, because you’d be there again. Every single day.

Then it ended.

Heaven slammed shut and dropped him straight back into hell. No texts. No calls. He replays every moment obsessively—every kiss, every thrust, every time he gently cleaned his cum from between your thighs while you dozed, every time he brought you cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate like some lovesick fool. He was good. Always good. Fucked you until you were boneless and smiling in your sleep.

So why? Why leave him choking on tears in the middle of lecture like a broken thing? Why hurt him when all he’d ever done was worship the ground you walk on?

And who the fuck is this Sukuna?

He knows your history. Knew you have slept around a lot. But after him, you were his. If you weren’t in class, you were in his bed, legs locked around his waist, cunt stuffed full of him, moaning his name like it was the only word left in your vocabulary. When did you even have time for anyone else? How could another guy slip between you when the two of you were fused together every night?

His head pounds like it’s splitting open. Thoughts scream. Chest caves in on itself. He bolts from the lecture hall mid-sentence, chair scraping loud enough to make heads turn, eyes burning, drives home like a man possessed, stumbles through the door, and collapses face-first into the sheets that still carry the ghost of you.

He breaks. Sobs come ugly and heaving, wet and childlike. Sheets soak through under his face. His whole body shakes with it. He checks his phone every few seconds to find nothing. No you. He cries harder until exhaustion finally drags him under, tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes.

When he wakes, the room is dark. Eyes swollen almost shut. Nose stuffed. Throat raw and scraped from crying. Phone still clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Still nothing. Any man with even a shred of pride would stay right there. Delete your number. Block your account. Get rid of the pictures. Move on.

Not him. Not when it’s you. He needed you, needed to see you. Atleast needed to breathe the same air as you.

He drags himself upright, hands trembling, grabs his keys to go where? How does he even know where the party is? Simple. All he had to do is scroll through socials to find Aira's story, “Mark’s tonight!!” with the location tagged. He drives there shaking, parks three streets away and walks the rest.

The house throbs—bass rattling windows, red and purple lights flashing through thin curtains, bodies spilling onto the lawn like spilled liquor. He hesitates at the threshold. Uninvited. Wrong in every way, sweater too soft, hair too messy, eyes too red from crying. People glance. Some stare. Most don’t care. He knows if you see him here you’ll end him for real this time. But sanity left him a long ago.

He slips inside. The crowd swallows him whole. Sweat, booze, weed, cheap perfume thick in the air. He weaves through bodies, eyes darting, frantic—searching for ypu, the sound of your laugh cutting through the noise. Anything.

That's when a hand clamps around his wrist. Hard. Yanks him sideways into a darker corner—hallway stretching toward the bedrooms, shadows thick, music muffled behind walls. He stumbles and looks down.

Aira’s nails bite into his wrist like she’s anchoring him in place, her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits in the dim hallway light. The bass from the main room thumps through the walls, distant and muffled now, like the place belongs to another world entirely. She release him stepping closer, voice dropping low and razor-sharp. “What the hell are you doing here, Gojo?”

He freezes. His heart slams against his ribs so violently it feels like bruising. If you see him here, uninvited, slinking through shadows like a desperate creep, you’ll end him. That cold, cutting stare you sometimes wore would finally finish what the days of silence started. He stutters, words fracturing before they can form. “I—I didn’t mean—I just—”

She doesn’t ease up. Her eyes narrows, demanding again. “Why are you here? This isn’t your place. Who invited you?”

He tries again, throat closing around the panic. “A-Aira, I—I wasn’t—I didn’t—” Nothing coherent makes it out. Just broken sounds. His hands tremble uselessly at his sides, mind blanking under the weight of her glare.

Aira finally lets out an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms tight across her chest. She mutters under her breath, eyes flicking away like she’s furious with the entire situation. “God, this is all my fault. I never thought it’d be headache like this.”

He blinks, confusion slicing through the fear. “What… what are you saying?”

She snaps her gaze back to him, cutting off whatever half-formed protest he was trying to make. “I never should’ve pushed her into it. Now look at you, stalking her, asking around about her like some obsessed freak. What the hell is wrong with you, Gojo? You’re acting like she owes you something.”

He shakes his head slowly, the words not quite connecting. His stomach twists into cold knots, sweat prickling along his spine. “I don’t—I don’t understand. What do you mean you made her…?”

Aira lets out a short, bitter laugh, mocking, almost pitying. “You really think she was into you? That she looked at you and just had to have you? That’s adorable. And completely fucking delusional.”

She leans in closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “She only went near you because of me. And I swear I was fuckin' joking when I told her to fuck you. I didn’t think she’d actually do it!! She's that dumb sometimes like that.”

The hallway tilts. His knees give out, the world cracking open beneath him. A joke? How could that be true? How could you kiss him like you were starving, moan his name like it was sacred, if it was all pretend? How could you arch into him, beg for more, clench around him like your body was made for his, if it was just a stupid joke? And it wasn’t once either. Every single night—your legs locked around his waist, holding onto him for dear life, your body trembling as he filled you again and again. That couldn’t have been fake. Could it? There was no fucking way.

"Y—you're lying, that's not true.... It—It can't be."

Aira just sighs, almost feeling bad for him, before fumbling her phone out and scrolls through the chats until she finds it—the photo you sent her that first night, him asleep against your chest, mouth latched to your tits like he’d never let go. Under that, the text from you, "Happy?"

“See? Here's your proof. Forget her, Gojo. Move on. I'm saying this for your sake.”

He shakes his head harder, tears already blurring the edges of his vision. “No—no, it wasn’t just that night. We were together every day—I swear. It can’t—it can’t just be—”

Aira’s expression flickers, pity flashing through the irritation as she watches him come apart, tears slipping freely down his cheeks now. But she’s done being gentle. Her voice sharpens. “What the hell are you even saying? Who are you tryna' fool? Fine. You don’t wanna believe me? Go upstairs. Corner room in the right. See for yourself.”

His breath catches. Confusion crashes against a sick, twisted spark of hope. “She… she’s there?”

Aira laughs again, cold, hollow, mocking. “Yeah. Go see where she is. What she’s doing. Who she’s with.”

He didn't even register the last part she said. He didn’t think. He just runs.

Up the stairs, heart hammering louder than the music below. The hallway is lined with doors, some cracked, moans leaking from one, drunken laughter from another. He walks through the hallway until he reaches the corner room. The door isn’t fully shut. Just ajar, enough for light and sound to spill out.

He slows. Stops halfway down the hall. Hears your laugh—light, familiar, the sound that used to flood his chest with warmth. He leans in, peeks through the narrow gap. And everything shatters.

He sees you. Pressed against the wall. Legs wrapped tight around a guy with pink hair and weird black tattoos curling up his arms. He’s looking at you like you’re prey he’s finally caught, hungry, feral, possessive. You’re smiling back at him, soft, real, the exact smile Satoru had convinced himself was going to reserved for him alone. Then you kiss. Deep. Messy. Hungry. His hands roam freely, sliding over your waist, up your neck, squeezing your breasts like they belong to him.

Satoru can’t look. But he also can’t look away.

He pinches the inside of his arm hard enough to leave bruises. Rubs his eyes until they burn. Blinks. Blinks again. And again. It’s still there. Real. You, up there with someone else. Smiling. Kissing. Letting him touch you like that.

He wants to storm in. Grab you. Demand answers. Why did you make him feel like he mattered? Why moan his name like it carried weight? Why let him fall so completely, so stupidly, just to discard him like garbage? What did he do wrong? He was good. Always good. Always a good boy for you. Cleaned you up. Held you while you slept. Fucked you just how you like it and kept you safe in his arms. Why that guy? Why anyone but Satoru?

Sadness hits first, cold, suffocating, pulling him under. Then anger surges up behind it, hot and ugly, twisting into something nameless and violent. Fresh tears burn tracks down his face. He backs away slowly, silently, slips down the stairs, pushes through the crowd, and escapes into the night air before anyone can see him break completely.

*****

You wrap your arms around Sukuna one last time, pulling him in so close you can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against your chest. He doesn’t want to let go. His arms lock around your waist like iron bands, refusing to loosen, face buried in the crook of your neck as if he could keep you there by sheer force of will. You feel the tension in every muscle, the quiet desperation in how he holds on a second too long. Then he exhales slowly, pulls back just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, warm, almost tender in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Doll,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough, thumb brushing your cheek one final time. “If he fucks up… lemme know, yeah? I’ll make damn sure you never fall for anyone else but me again.”

You let out a small, broken chuckle and give him a playful tap on the chest. “Bye, Kuna.”

He lets you go. The moment your back turns, the easy smile drops from his face. Jaw clenches hard enough that the muscle jumps under his skin. He digs a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with a quick flick, inhales deep like he’s trying to burn every trace of your scent out of his lungs. It glows bright in the dim room as the door clicks shut behind you.

You descend the stairs with your heart strangely light for the first time in days. Your mind is hazy, full of him—Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. You wanted to call him. Wanted to hear his voice. You don’t know exactly what you’ll say when you call. The words haven’t formed yet. But the plan is clear: reply to him first. Drive to his place. Say you’re sorry. Say you’ll never do this again. Say you finally understand how much he means, how badly you fucked up, how much you need him. Your steps feel lighter, your chest loose for once. Everything is going to be okay. You’ll make it okay.

You spot Aira downstairs near the drink table and head straight for her, already reaching for your bag. “Hey, I’m taking the car—”

She turns. Looks at you strangely, eyes sharp, mouth tight. “Come with me.”

You pause. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. Just grabs your arm and pulls you toward the backyard. The sliding door opens to cool night air, string lights flickering over empty lawn chairs and scattered cigarette butts. She lets go once you’re outside, crossing her arms with a heavy sigh.

“I know you’re not gonna like this,” she starts, voice careful, “but that guy was here.”

Your stomach drops. “What guy?”

“You know. That guy. Gojo.”

Your eyes widen. “W—what? He… he was here?”

“Yeah. Fucking creep. I told him off.”

The blood drains from your face. “You did whattt??? Did he leave?”

“Yeah, he did.”

The words hit like punches. Satoru was here? Why? To see you, there’s no other reason. Then why leave without finding you? Something cold and heavy coils in your gut, twisting tighter. Did Aira say something to him?

You grab her shoulders hard shaking her without meaning to. “What did you say to him?”

Aira winces. “Jeez, Y/n! You’re hurting me—”

You pull back fast, hands trembling. “Sorr—sorry. Just… tell me what happened. Please.”

She rubs her shoulders, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What the hell’s gotten into you? He came asking about you. Been creeping around for days, asking me and a few others where you’ve been. I told him to fuck off. First of all, I didn’t even think you’d actually fuck him. See what happens when you mess with these kind of guys, babe?”

“Aira,” you cut in, voice shaking. “What exactly did you say to him?”

She rolls her eyes. “I told him the truth, ofcourse. He didn’t believe me, so I showed him the pic you sent me. He needed to see it. He really thought it was something," she said with a laugh. "Now he won’t bother you again. Thank me, come on.”

Your vision tunnels. Furious heat floods your face, eyes burning. What you just heard can’t be true. She didn’t just say that to him. She didn't just mess it all up. Not when everything was finally okay. Not when you’d finally sorted the mess in your head and were ready to fix it. You grab her hand, harder this time. Nails digging into her soft flesh. “Tell me you’re joking. Tell me you’re fucking joking, Aira.”

Your eyes are furious, but damp too, tears threatening to spill. Aira blinks, confused, trying to pull free. “Girl, what’s wrong with you? Let go—ouch!”

You release her. Hands shaking so bad you can barely feel them. “Just—tell me you didn’t.”

“I’m not joking. I said what I said.” She soothes the red marks on her hand. “What the hell’s gotten into you? Where’s Sukuna anyway? I told him you were upstairs. Did you two get high or something? Why are you acting like this?”

You can’t speak. Words stick in your throat. Aira stares at you, blinking, waiting for an explanation you can’t give.

“Gimme the keys,” you manage, voice cracking.

“Girl, where are y—”

“Gimme the fucking keys, Aira!”

“Goddd, fineee.” She digs them out of her pocket, tosses them to you. “Here. Take it.”

You don’t walk. You run to the car. Fumble the keys. As the door opens, you dive inside, searching for your phone—there, on the passenger seat. You snatch it and unlock it open.

No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing. What were you even expecting? You tap the screen hard, like force will make notifications appear. “Shit… shit shit shit—”

You dial his number. Once. Twice. Five times. It just sent straight to voicemail. You text him, with fingers shaking so bad you misspell half the words.

“where are you”

“are you at home??”

“toru please reply”

“i'm sorry"

You stare at the screen. It’s laughable. That audacity of yours. All those days ignoring him like he was worthless, and now you demand he answer? Reply? When you didn’t bother before?

Your legs weaken. Chest aches so sharp you can’t breathe right. You were finally happy. Finally sorted the mess in your head. Ready to fix it. Ready to tell him you’re sorry.

And now this? You don’t know.

You don’t know anything anymore, only that the ache in your chest is screaming louder than the silence on your phone, louder than every mistake you’ve made since the day you walked into his life pretending it was a game.

But you have to make this right. You have to find him. You have to look him in those stupid pretty eyes and tell him everything Aira said was wrong. That It was never the whole truth of what happened between you two. That you need him, only him. That you love him, even if saying it out loud still feels like swallowing glass.

Sitting here staring at dead chats isn’t enough. The screen stays dark no matter how hard you will it to light up. No new messages. No sign that he’s even seen your pathetic “toru please reply.” Your thumb hovers over his name one last time before you lock the phone and toss it onto the passenger seat. Enough.

You start the car. The engine growls to life beneath you, headlights cutting through the dark like they know where to go even if you feel lost. You pull out of the lot, tires crunching over gravel, and merge onto the familiar roads that lead to him.

Your heart is in your throat the whole drive. It hammers so hard you can taste it, a frantic rhythm that matches the pulse on your chest—the same pulse that used to race every time you pulled up to his house knowing he’d be waiting, desperate and yours. You hope he’s there. That he’ll open the door. That he’ll let you inside long enough to hold him, to apologize until your voice gives out, to press your body against his until he forgets why he was ever crying in the first place.

You turn onto his street. The house comes into view—lights off in the windows, driveway empty, quiet like it’s holding its breath. You park crooked, kill the engine, and sit there for a second staring at the front door. Your hands are shaking on the wheel. This is it. You’ll knock. He’ll answer. You'll talk it out and fix it.

With a heavy heart, tou step out and walk up the path and raises your fist to knock.

The house stays silent. No footsteps. No lights flicking on. No him.

You knock again—harder. Still nothing. Your stomach sinks. You try the knob. Locked. You press your forehead to the cool wood, whispering his name like a prayer, like he might hear it through the door and open it just to shut you up. But he doesn’t.

The realization settles slow and sick: he’s not here. Maybe he never came home. Maybe he drove somewhere else to hurt alone. Maybe he’s done letting you in.

But where could he possibly be? Where do he might have gone? And how would you possibly know that? All these unanswered questions tear you apart. You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the cold step, knees to your chest, phone clutched useless in your hand. Tears burn hot behind your eyes but don’t fall. Not yet.

Everything was going to be fine. You were finally ready. Finally understood. Finally going to say the words that could have changed everything. And he’s gone.

You sit there in the dark, waiting for headlights that never come, whispering apologies to a house that can’t hear you, not knowing yet that the boy who loved you more than breathing has already decided he’s done letting you break him.

To be continued in the next chapter

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[hugnkiss]

ts goated asf, awaiting the next part 👅

[fancyfrequency]

the sloppiest makeout session where we can’t keep our hands off each other would absolutely heal me right now

[saetiate]

the princess demands you jack off in front of her. no she does not care if you feel shy. yes right now

[shogunish]

𝗹𝗮𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝘆.

pairing. pervy roommate! gojo x f! reader

genre. (implied) friends to lovers, smut

warnings. panty sniffing, gojo jacks off with reader's panties, hair-pulling, pet names (doll, love), loss of virginity, rough sex, unprotected sex, big dick gojo, choking, gojo and reader are in their late teens ok (18 - 19), fingering

words. 6k

summary. satoru always hated laundry day, but now he's quite fond of it. after all, he gets to see all your cute panties and steal a pair for his personal use.

note. i want to use his cum as a face mask and this is the result 👩🏻‍🦯

comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! <3

"Satoru, you're–"

"Handsome, intelligent, charming and funny." A smirk graces Satoru's features and he probably would've flipped his hair if it was any longer. He sends you a cheeky wink as he leans against the kitchen counter, as full of himself as ever as he strikes a pose that would make any girl swoon for him. "Yeah, I know."

Well, any girl but you.

Sometimes, you wonder why you agreed to be Satoru's roommate. Maybe it was the fact that Jujutsu dorms cost so much that you couldn't handle the finances on your own and like the snake in Adam and Eve's garden, Satoru seduced you into this hilarious arrangement.

"I've got the money," he said.

"It'll be fun," he said.

A sigh slips your lips and if it weren't for the laundry basket in your hands, you would've put your palm to your head. This man is the sole cause of all your headaches. "You're doing the laundry today."

And with an echoing smack, you drop the laundry basket in front of his feet with your infamous are-you-kidding-me look.

"Again?!" Satoru pouts as he begrudgingly picks up the basket of dirty laundry and glares at the clothes like they're his sworn enemy, his arch nemesis. "I did them like two weeks ago, right? This counts as roommate abuse, I'm certain!" Is that a whine you hear in his voice?

Crossing your arms over one another, you pop your hip to the side and raise a fine eyebrow at your stupidly handsome roommate. "And I did them last week. It's your turn now, Satoru," your voice is stern as you bend over slightly in an accusing way. "While I signed up to deal with your chaotic ass, you signed up to do the laundry every two weeks!"

The daggers your eyes throw at Satoru make him think twice about dishing out another smart comment, but he can't help it. He thinks you're cute when you glare at him like this, hands on your hips and the hint of your cleavage blessing his Six Eyes. It's the only reason why he winds you up like this.

"Whoa there! If you keep glowering like this, you'll get wrinkles!," Satoru snickers as he dashes into the bathroom before you could cuss him out or toss another piece of laundry at his head. For some reason, you had once managed to toss a pair of his dirty boxers at his head from around the damn corner.

Satoru swears up and down that you put cursed energy into your throw, but you deny all accusations like you're a saint.

"No idea what you're talking about," you smiled.

"Maybe it got possessed by the laundry curse," you said.

He still calls bullshit on your claims.

Satoru finds himself sitting on the cool tiles of the bathroom. It's a little small with the laundry basket by his side, but he'll survive..right?

A bored look settles down on his face as he glances at the laundry, sighs in agony and grabs two articles of clothing, one being white, the other being a bright baby blue. In the back of his head, he can hear you nagging him about something..something seemingly important.

What was it again..?

Ah, right.

"Remember to separate the whites from the colored ones," Satoru mocks you in a high-pitched voice as he disregards your advice with purpose and stuffs your baby blue summer dress into the washing machine along with his snow white dress shirt.

Honestly, what could go wrong? The laundry coming out fresh and clean? Boohoo, what a bummer. It'd be a shame if the two of you had good-smelling clothing. How scary.

Pettily, Satoru tosses the laundry into the washing machine piece after piece. As he reaches the bottom of the laundry basket, interest gleams in his eyes as he spots the couple of bras and panties you hid underneath all the clothing and his underwear (which he always boldly and responsibly puts in the laundry!).

After several months of living together, Satoru has seen your underwear more times than he can count and he wonders why you're still so embarrassed about it. He's seen all your granny panties.

A pair of simple, dark purple panties catch his attention. Nimble fingers are quick to pick them up and Satoru regards them with..intrigue. They're plain and it's obvious you haven't gotten laid yet, but there's a cute little bow at the front. These must be new, he concludes.

Your nude feet are still parading around the kitchen as you diligently clean the space just like the two of you agreed on and it'd take a while for you to finish your part of the deal. Nevertheless, Satoru quietly shuts the door just in case..

"These are cute..," he muses to himself and stretches the fabric with his two index fingers. Lips pursed in thought, brilliant blue eyes scrutinize the panties with a certain glint like he's assessing, judging them over the rim of his pitch black sunglasses.

This is a good pair of panties, but nowhere as cute as the ones with the floral patterns; those are Satoru's personal favorites that are still hidden in his nightstand's drawer. He swears he's no pervert, but he can't help himself!

You're nothing but sweet to Satoru, always offering him the last slice of pizza and taking care of him when he's sick. A cute red hue dusts your cheeks whenever he teases you and oh, the way you stumble over your words when he compliments you! You get so awkward, it's cute.

What does Shoko call you? Ah right, a girlfailure.

Luckily for you, Satoru is very much into the girlfailure he shares the dorm with, although he hides it well behind an exterior of teasing, banter and his natural charm.

Once Satoru is done inspecting your panties, he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales your scent, feeling a little ball of heat form in the pit of his stomach. He gulps down the lump in his throat. There's no scent sweeter than that of your pussy when you got your own panties wet. It's obvious on that little wet patch darkening the fabric a tad bit.

Oh, how adorable you have to be when your little cunt gets excited, soaks your panties and you can't do anything about it.

"Hmm..," Satoru hums in thought before stuffing that certain pair of panties into his pockets. "I'll keep these for research purposes."

It's late at night when Satoru tosses and turns in his bed. It's not the summer heat that makes it hard to fall asleep, but the thought of you. The way you'd show off your legs in those little shorts, your cleavage blessing his glimmering eyes from underneath the top and the way you are..you around him.

All of it gets to him in ways that he could never say out loud or else you'd kick him out in an instant.

"This sucks," Satoru groans and tosses an arm over his eyes, rolling around in self-pity. Who would've guessed that he'd fall for the cute new classmate who has as much of an attitude as he does? Maybe if you weren't like this, he wouldn't be lying on his back, fighting back a raging boner as he thinks about your sweet smile.

Satoru tries ignoring it. He thinks of Yaga's cursed corpses, Shoko calling him a loser for staring at you like a love-struck puppy and the way you felt in his arms when he had to save you from a curse.

He sighs in agony. Enough is enough!

Satoru hooks his fingers into the elastics of his sweatpants and boxers, pulling them down in one swift motion. A wet smack bounces off the walls as his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen, twitching and throbbing. Satoru groans.

The tip is flushed a pretty shade of red and pre-cum oozes from the slit, pooling on his heated skin. His cock is curved upwards and certainly doesn't lack in thickness or length. A pretty vein runs across the sensitive skin, starting from the base and going all the way up to the flushed tip.

Shit..," Satoru cusses softly and briefly leans his head back against the headboard with a dull thud. Just thinking about you wearing those cute panties, pushing them to the side and sheathing his cock in your tight hole is enough to get him this hard, to get him this eager to fuck you.

But he can't.

You'd likely slap the living daylights out of him.

Satoru wraps your used panties around his hand like he's done many, many times before before he fists his cock. One drag up and another one going down. The soft fabric of your panties rub him just the right way, drawing a deep groan from the depth of his chest.

"Fuck, [Name]..," he breathes out and gradually begins rubbing his cock at a steady pace. "You'll be the death of me.."

Satoru can no longer help himself. His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps, thinking of your cute smile. The way you call out his name, come crawling to him when you need comfort and not to mention you accidentally flashed him your panties when you were up against a curse.

But that's not all. He can only imagine sinking himself into your cunt, stretching you out and making you cry as he fucks you into the mattress. Certainly, he'd leave your greedy pussy leaking of his cum and wanting more until he'd overstimulate himself.

Satoru moves his fist faster and tightens his grip around his cock. Pre-cum stains the dark fabric of your panties that slide along his length so effortlessly, like you've chosen that specific pair just for him to use.

"Crap, just a bit more..," he mumbles, voice thick with a mix of longing and lust alike.

One tight drag upwards, he uses his thumb to massage the swollen head of his cock, squeezing some more pre-cum out. The white essence stains his fist, your used panties and trickles down the length of his cock until the drops pool at his heavy balls.

Would you let him use your hand like that?

Scratch that, why would he cum over your delicate hand when he could fuck your mouth, have tears streaming down your cheeks and cum down your little throat?

Yeah, that seems much better.

"Fuck, yeah.. Just like that.." Satoru's abs twitch in anticipation and his cock twitches in his hands as he gradually speeds up. The scent of your panties invades his nose, making him delirious and clouding his mind. All he can think about is cumming in your pretty panties.

His hips buck up into his fists and he quickly wraps the crotch of your panties around the tip. He's so close he can taste it. "Ah.. Ngh.. Fuck.. Yes, yes, yes!"

The movement of Satoru's fist is messy, almost needy as he finally cums with your name on his tongue. "Ah fuuck, [Name].."

Pearly white cum stains the fabric of your panties and soaks them as Satoru rubs himself through his orgasm, milking himself of every last drop. Groans and moans generously spill from his lips as he thinks of you, your perfect lips wrapped around his tip and swallowing his cum like a good girl.

Sweat trickles down his temple as he comes down from his high, soft huffs escaping his lips. Pulling the panties away from the head of his cock, Satoru stares at the pool of cum like he's entranced.

He wonders if you'd wear those with his cum on them, his seed sticking to your pretty pussy all damn day.

"Shit.." Satoru wants to discard the panties, let them join the laundry basket so you wouldn't notice but when his brilliant blue eyes flutter open, they suddenly meet your gaze.

Your eyes are wide, lips parted and your tongue slides out to wet them. A glimmer of shock swims in your eyes and a hue of red dusts the apples of your cheeks.

All you wanted was to seek out his company since you had trouble sleeping, but when you opened the door just a tiny bit, you suddenly watch Satoru shamelessly jacking himself off with your newest pair of panties. As embarrassed as you are, you cannot deny the throb between your legs or the wetness pooling there.

He looked..pretty when he came.

Satoru groans. "Instead of watching, you could help a guy out, you know?"

"Excuse me..?" Your ears must be deceiving you just like your eyes. Certainly, this has to be a very realistic dream in which you catch Satoru jacking off, but you'd wake up soon, right? You'd wake up and keep this dream to yourself to save yourself from Satoru's onslaught of teasing words.

Clicking his tongue, Satoru sits up on his bed and pets the spot beside him. "You can't sleep, right? C'mere, I'll help you out."

Yes, this definitely has to be a fever dream of yours.

Against your better judgment, you sit down right next to your roommate who still has your panties - which are stained with his cum - in his fist. The mattress dips with your weight and you shyly fold your hands in your lap. You can't bring yourself to look Satoru in the eyes. Not when his cock is out in the open and standing at attention again.

"Look at me," Satoru demands and for a brief second, you do look at him only to bashfully avoid your gaze again. He thinks nothing of it. Grabbing your chin, he makes you look at him and your lips part in shock once more. "What's wrong, hm? You're usually not so..shy," he teases in low, raspy tones.

In the dim light of the little lamp on his nightstand, being dipped in soft orange hues, your eyes glimmer. Words don't come to you easily, your throat feels tight. How the hell are you supposed to react?

"This is..weird," you manage to squeak out and squeeze your eyes shut for a moment.

Satoru looks at you and then down at himself. He must admit that it is quite the entertaining situation with his dick whipped out, but with the way you're not pushing him away, he knows he's got you on the hook. All you need is a little bit of..coaxing.

"It's only weird if you want it to be." Satoru leans in until his lips are on your ear, whispering right into it. His hot breath sends a pleasant tingle down your spine and his lips press a gentle kiss to the shell of your ear. The kissing sound is soft, yet so wet.

"Satoru, you're–"

"Shh, just relax..," he whispers into your ear. Cupping your jaw lovingly, slow kisses travel from your ear to your cheek and end up on your lips. His kiss is firm, slow, yet there's a certain amount of desire laced into it like he wants you to drown in the pleasure along with him.

You hold Satoru's gaze through half-lidded eyes as your lips move in perfect sync; the result of having worked together for several years now. A firework of butterflies goes off within your tummy, sparking a fire and setting the blood within your veins ablaze. You can't fight it anymore.

Not when he kisses you like he loves you.

When Satoru sneaks his tongue past your lips and draws a soft moan from you, he smiles into the kiss. He finally has you where he's been wanting you for so long. You melt into his strong arms and paw at his chest like you want something more from him, but all he does is chuckle at your silent plea.

Breaking the kiss, a thin string of saliva connects your lips to his and your breath comes out in short huffs. Satoru smiles as he sees the hazy look on your face. "That's a good girl," he praises. "In the end, you're just my girl, aren't you?" He's oh-so-gentle when he strokes your cheeks and you swear..you're falling for him. Hard.

You nod your head. "Yes. I'm..your girl."

"Come here." Satoru cups your jaw and pulls you into another kiss, this time sneaking his tongue past your lips. He draws a surprised gasp from your lips, but he pays it little to no mind as you melt into the kiss. Freely, he explores your mouth and shoves his tongue in just a bit deeper.

Your fingers bury themselves in his hair as you let your back down onto the mattress, pulling Satoru down with you. He gets comfortable between your legs and uses one hand to caress the skin of your upper thigh. Oh, you're so soft compared to his calloused hands.

He trails kisses from your jaw down to your neck where he playfully nibbles at the sensitive skin. Frisky lips suckle your skin between his teeth, sucking pretty hues of purple and blue into your skin. Your hands grasp his tee, a pleasured hiss slips your lips. "S-Satoru.."

Satoru smiles. You sound so cute.

But he doesn't stop there. No. Calloused hands grip your waist and Satoru trails his kisses and bites lower towards your collarbone and furrows his brows when he comes into contact with the sorry excuse of a top you're wearing. It irritates him, but he knows just the way to solve it.

"Off with it." With one swift motion, he pulls your top up and off, tossing it into some corner of his room. Sitting up on his knees, brilliant blue eyes drink your body in.

Those rosy cheeks and shimmering eyes, the curve of your collarbone and your perky little tits begging for his attention. Your waist feels just right in his large hands.

Satoru can't help but smirk. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?," he muses more to himself than you and before you can say anything, he dips his head low and greedily. sucks your nipple into his mouth.

Arching your back off the mattress, you moan his name in broken syllables. White strands of hair tickle your skin, but that's not even the most distracting thing. It's the way he grabs your tits, gropes them and swirls his tongue around your nipples.

"A-ah, Satoru!" Your hands fly into his hair, tugging at the roots, but Satoru pays you no mind. In fact, he groans in appreciation. "Slow down!," you beg but he skillfully ignores your pleas like always.

"Are they sensitive?" Satoru pulls away from your nipple with a wet pop and smirks as it glistens in his saliva. "They look sensitive." Grabbing a new handful of your tits, he squeezes them harder until you whine, kiss-swollen lips parted and all. You curl your toes and dumbly nod your head. "Of course they are.."

Wrapping his strong arms around your waist, Satoru leans in until his lips brush against the conch of your ear. He gives it a slow, tantalizing lick. "You're so responsive and sensitive. I can't wait to hear you when I sink my cock into you," he whispers into your ear, voice rough and thick with primal lust.

"Then do it," you whine and buck your hips up into his. Your clothed pussy grinds into his cock in delicious ways. You can feel his size through the material and briefly wonder how he's supposed to fit. "Just fuck me already, Toru.."

Your begging catches Satoru off-guard. He blinks at you once, twice before his lips crack into a mischievous smile. "My, my, you're so impatient and demanding for a virgin." It feels like he's mocking you as he's pulling his tee off, revealing his toned abs to your greedy little hands. "I've gotta prep you a bit, doll. Or else you'll whine about how it's too big."

With blazing, fond eyes, Satoru watches you as your hands appreciatively wander from his toned stomach all the way up to his muscled chest. Your gentle touch is enough to leave a burning path behind that makes his muscles twitch underneath the tips of your fingers.

"I would never..," you mumble absent-mindedly, soft palms stroking his flexing biceps all the way down to his forearms. You've seen Satoru shirtless countless times and yet, you never quite realized just how..built he really is. It's about damn time you appreciate him, right?

"Oh baby.. Yes, you would.." Satoru grabs your hand and presses a kiss to the center of your palm before guiding it to the elastic of his shorts and boxers, encouraging you to pull them off completely.

You take a steady breath through your nose and hold his gaze while pulling off the rest of his clothes, tossing them away like he did earlier. For a moment, you don't dare to look any lower than his mesmerizing eyes. It felt..indecent, but isn't that the fun part?

"There we go," Satoru snickers once the remaining clothes are off your body and on his bedroom floor. He's shameless as he grabs your knees and forces your legs open to stare at your leaking cunt. The lips are glossy and sticky with arousal. If he looks closely, he can see your tight walls fluttering around nothing. "Fuck..gonna loosen you up a bit first, okay? It'll feel good, trust me."

"Y-yes.." You nod your head, voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru kneels in-between your legs and uses his fingers to spread your pussy lips open. Long fingers massage your messy lips to get you used to the feeling, steadily rubbing them up and down before his fingers go to brush your clit.

"Ah!" You curl in on yourself, your thighs want to squeeze shut but are stopped by Satoru's slim waist. "Satoru, that's–!"

"Good, isn't it?" He finishes your sentence with a smug expression on his face and cocks his head to the side as he watches you squirm. His thumb teases your clit in slow circles, playfully flicking the nub a few times until you're moaning his name. Oh, Satoru's having way too much fun touching you like this.

"Yes, yes! O-oh!" Your eyes go wide as Satoru lathers his fingers in your essence and glides his middle finger down to your entrance, slowly sliding it into your tight cunt. "It feels..funny.."

Satoru laughs. It's loud and melodious and makes you blush deeply. "Don't worry. You'll feel good in a moment. Just relax and enjoy it, doll."

Gently, Satoru curves his finger upwards and thrusts it in and out of your cunt. The initial uncertainness on your face morphs into pleasure and your head drops back into the pillows. Soft moans and sighs spill from your lips, your legs fall open. Pleasure begins to cloud your mind.

"Good girl," he praises you and lowers himself on top of you to press a kiss to your cheek. "All you have to do is take my fingers one by..," Satoru trails off and eases his ring finger into your cunt, gently rubbing that sweet spot within you. "..one."

"Ngh..ah..oh god.." You dig your fingers into the sheets below and arch your back, pressing your tits flush against his hard chest. With twitching thighs, you grind your hips into Satoru's skilled fingers and moan your praises right into his ear. "More.. Need more.."

"You're still a bit too tight for my cock, love," Satoru chuckles as he picks up the pace, fingerling your little pussy in scissoring motions. "I don't wanna see you cry about it..yet."

Each time he drills his fingers into you, his skin smacks against yours, making your hole squelch embarrassingly loud. Moans and whimpers spill from your lips as Satoru effortlessly pokes that sweet spot that you could never reach. Excitedly, your walls flutter around his fingers, sucking them in deeper and welcoming his index finger.

The stretch burns in delicious ways as he spreads his fingers a bit, making sure to spread you a bit before he'd fuck you.

"There we go," Satoru murmurs once you can take all three of his fingers and your juices drip onto the sheets. The smile gracing his lips almost seems to be one of pride. "Think you can take me yet, doll?"

Hastily, you nod your head. "Yes, please! I want you so bad, Toru.."

Satisfied with your answer, Satoru slowly pulls his fingers from your pussy, a thin string of arousal following the tips of his fingers. Your juices are webbed between his fingers and he can't help but admire it for a moment before licking his fingers clean.

"Mhh..I can't wait to put my mouth on you next time," Satoru muses as your taste clouds his taste buds. But where's the fun when he's the only one tasting your juices? With a smirk, he pries your lips open and slides his fingers into your mouth. "Go on. Taste yourself."

A soft expression falls over your face as you wrap your tongue around Satoru's fingers and suck on them. The taste of your cunt has you flushing from your chest up. This is filthy, something you've never even thought of doing, but with Satoru..you'd nearly do everything he demands of you. And so you eagerly suck his fingers clean with a little moan.

Once he's certain you've done your job right, Satoru pulls his fingers out of your mouth and absent-mindedly wipes them dry on the sheets. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he pulls your body flush to his and pushes you into the mattress with his weight. His breath fans across your cheeks.

"This might sting a bit, doll. But you'll get used to it, yeah?," he assures you. Although he appears so composed and level-headed, one glance towards his cock is enough to let you know that he's just as impatient as you are.

Your eyes fall back to his and you wrap your arms around his neck. "It's okay..I can take it."

Satoru smiles and locks your lips with his as he swiftly thrusts his hips against yours, sheathing his cock within your tight walls. It's a messy kiss; you whine into his mouth as he stretches your cunt out and slowly goes deeper, deeper, deeper. Your nails are buried in his scalp, pulling at his hair and your breath comes out in pathetic huffs.

Once he's balls deep in your pussy, Satoru breaks the excuse of a kiss and rests his forehead on your own, composing himself. A steady huff slips his lips as he tries his best to keep still. "Fuck.. I loosened you up and you're still so fucking tight," he groans.

Satoru's words send a shiver down your spine and your walls seem to suck him in a bit deeper. "Shit.. You're b-big..," you say, voice a bit high-pitched but sugary sweet.

He laughs, gently. That's the sort of ego boost someone like Gojo Satoru definitely doesn't need. "I told you it'd be a tight fit."

Large palms caress your thighs and hips while he's peppering kisses up and down your neck. "Tell me when I can move, doll.."

For a moment, you bask in the attention Satoru so generously provides you with. Little kisses, gentle caresses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear. The pain of the stretch slowly ebbs away and you nod your head. "Move, Toru..," you mumble with a desperate edge. "Please move.."

You don't have to tell him twice. Satoru pulls his hips back until only the tip remains and slowly thrusts back into your cunt with a deep grunt. Dull fingernails bury themselves into the skin of your hips as he sets a slow pace and draws moan after sweet moan from your lips.

Your toes curl. Satoru's cock presses into all the right spots that you could never reach on your own. He wipes all worries and every possible thought from your mind. You throw your head back into the pillows and arch your back, tits bouncing with each thrust he delivers to your freshly popped cunt. "Ah..mh..fuck yes.."

Your moans increase in volume and pitch; he picks up the pace and buries his face in the crook of your neck where he bites into the skin to muffle his own noises, claiming you as his. "Crap..so tight..so wet.." A few curses fall from Satoru's lips.

Pushing you further into the mattress, Satoru grabs your wrists and pins them up above your head; you don't even seem to notice. He finishes each thrust with a roll of his hips and groans whenever your gummy walls flutter around him, needing him to stay right where he is.

Suddenly, your eyes go wide and a little scream is torn from your throat. "Ah! Toru! Right there!"

"Right here?," Satoru rolls his hips into yours again, placing his large palm on your lower abdomen, only to draw the very same reaction from you. You rapidly nod your head, lip bitten between your teeth. He smirks. "So that's the spot, huh.."

Satoru interlaces your fingers together and begins abusing that spot for good measure. His cock drills into your poor pussy over and over again as you moan and squirm underneath him. Around his waist, your thighs shake. Your juices drip down your ass and his balls, making each smack just a tad bit louder, filthier. His groans mix with your moans and little babbles.

The way you look at him through half-lidded eyes, taking his pounding like you're made for him specifically and offering your body for his pleasure. It's all too much for Satoru.

"Shit..can't make love to you when you're looking at me like this." Letting go of your hands, Satoru swipes his sweaty strands of hair back and briefly pulls out of you. Calloused palms grip your waist and easily flip you flat on your stomach.

A squeak of surprise slips your lips as your face is suddenly in the pillows and the way you look at him over your shoulder is probably awkward, too. "Toru..?," you ask through heavy pants.

Hands still on your waist, Satoru uses his strength to push you into the mattress, to keep you from squirming. "Hold still. I need to fuck you, doll."

There's no need to question what exactly he means by that when his cock bullies its way into your small cunt again. This time, you cry his name into the pillows and lightly kick your legs as he drills right into that spot that makes you see stars.

Satoru is no longer gentle with you as he fucks into you over and over again, shamelessly using your body like he's dreamed of for so long now. All the cute noises you make only fuel him more until he's pounding you into the mattress.

Eyes rolling into the back of your skull, all you can do is moan his name loud enough for everyone to hear. Any bit of decency or shame is wiped clean from your mind as Satoru drills his cock into you with precision.

"Still such a tight little pussy..," Satoru laughs, his balls slapping against your clit repeatedly. "Do you like it that much when I use you like this? Tell me."

A rough hand grips the roots of your hair on the top of your head as Satoru leans over your body, pressing his front flush to your back as he continues to pound away at your pussy. His mouth is right at your ear, groaning into it. "C'mon, use your big words like you always do, doll."

Tears gather at your eyes and they're quick to run down your cheeks. You can hardly think straight, much less form a coherent sentence with the way he's treating you. It takes you a moment to pull yourself together before your voice comes out as a broken moan paired with sobs. "I love it, Toru! Don't stop, please.. Please, please don't stop.. Feels too good.."

Satoru groans at your words and rewards you with a particularly sharp thrust. The hand in your hair slides down around your throat, choking you lightly as he catches your lips in a sloppy, heated kiss.

Your eyes roll back again as Satoru easily dominates your tongue. The slippery muscles slide against each other, getting all tangled up and making saliva slip from the corner of your mouth. "Fuck, you're so pretty," he grunts into your mouth, his lips finding yours a few times like he needs more of your taste.

"Toru..," you whine, lips swollen from all the kissing and glossy with his saliva. "I'm gonna.. Ah! Oh God!"

"I know baby," Satoru hushes you softly. By the way your cunt clenches around him sporadically, your shaking thighs and those hot tears rolling down your cheeks, he can tell you're close. "Let it go. I've got you."

Your orgasm comes crashing down on you with one skilled roll of Satoru's hips. A yell of his name tears through your throat as you cum all over his cock, making a mess of his lap and the sheets below. He keeps you in check as you squirm and sob and he whispers sweet praises into your ear that go in one ear and out the other. He helps you ride the waves of your high.

"Fuck, gonna fill this sweet pussy up..," Satoru groans and thrusts into your abused cunt a few more times before he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name loudly as he squirts thick ropes of cum right inside. His hips come to a halt as he grinds his essence deeper into you until it seeps out from where he's plugging your hole so deliciously.

For a while, you bask in Satoru's weight collapsing on top of you as he holds you impossibly closer and caresses your lower stomach with sweaty palms. Lazily, he peppers sweet kisses along your neck and pushes your sweaty hair away from his path so he can nuzzle into you all he wants. Snowy strands of hair tickle your face.

"That was..," you start, still out of breath.

"..amazing," Satoru finishes for you with a chuckle.

Not long after, Satoru is kind enough to pull out of you and clean up the mess he's caused. Every once in a while, he claims that it's mainly you who caused the mess since you were, quote "dripping wet", but he's just teasing you, changing not only the sheets but cleaning you up with a damp cloth as well.

Satoru slides right underneath the covers with you and lets you rest your head on his chest while holding you close to his body. Although the room smells like sex, the two of you savor the post-orgasm glow and just..hold each other.

"You know, you're quite the pervert for watching me jack off," Satoru breaks the silence and draws a faux offended gasp from you. Playfully, you smack his chest and he snickers. You always give him such perfect reactions.

"It's you who's the pervert! You jacked off with my panties!" It explains why all your panties disappear for a while only to suddenly spawn from the washing machine.

Satoru rolls his eyes. "Duh? How could I help myself when they're so cute? It's your fault, obviously."

The both of you banter back and forth for a while, mixed with laughter and giggles that fill the room. Despite the fact that Satoru is a panty stealer, the moment is quite sweet. You're glad that you can still laugh with him like this after having done..unspeakable things.

Once the laughter dies down and your eyes grow heavy, you feel like you should confess one more thing before drifting off to dreamland in Satoru's arms. Your voice is quiet and soft as you speak. "I've..used a pair of your boxers.."

Satoru tightens his arm around you and takes a breath through his nose. "Have you touched yourself in them?"

Silence follows, speaking volumes about the deeds you have committed.

"..Can I sniff them?"

"You pervert!"

"Objection! You're just as messed up as I am!"

feel free to send me your jjk thirsts/thoughts and i'll write a lil' something <3

[kisssan]

pairing﹢song mingi x fem!reader genre﹢smut. pwp, strangers to lovers, big dick mingi agenda, unprotected sex, just the tip, overstimulation, praising, marking, implied size kink/difference, mentions of multiple orgasms, creampie, usage of petnames (baby, princess, pretty), minimal aftercare. synopsis﹢your pizza delivery guy is late with your order, and there's really only one way to compensate and make it up to you. word count﹢3,8k

a few things about university life are that sometimes the fridge is full, sometimes it’s empty, and every time you open it, you're expecting something to appear magically. in moments like this, you wish you had a genie like aladdin. you’d wait a lifetime for something gracious and divine to be bestowed upon you, because you’ve been waiting an hour and a half for your damn pizza to arrive. 

by the time the doorbell finally echoes through your apartment, you’ve already scavenged a half-eaten bag of chips and some questionable grapes from the back of the fridge. pausing your minecraft horror mod video mid-jumpscare, slightly annoyed since those saved videos were meant for when the food was here, not when it clearly wasn’t. dragging yourself to the door, you swing it open with a frown already forming on your lips.

you’re still irritated, but also distracted. because why is your delivery guy kind of… cute? tall, blonde, pretty boba-like eyes, there’s a guilty smile tugging at his lips that somehow softens the whole picture. the dark blue uniform only makes his hair stand out more, and for a second, your annoyance stutters.

"hi, and i am so sorry," he says, and the deepness of his voice catches you completely off guard. it doesn’t match the softness of his face at all. he also looked a little disheveled, clearly stressed. "the car broke down, and there were no available backup drivers."

you sigh, leaning against the doorframe. "it’s been an hour and a half… so let’s just get this wrapped up."

turning to grab the money already waiting on the nearby dresser, but when you glance back, he’s looking down, biting his lip. he knows the drill — late delivery means no tip, maybe even a complaint that messes with his shift… or worse, his monthly bonus.

"i know… look, it’s on the house. i already marked it as delivered and paid for in the system, so you won’t get charged.” he was unfairly attractive for someone who had just battled a car breakdown. “i just… i feel bad."

you glance at the box in his hands, raising a brow. “cold pizza isn’t exactly a great apology.” there’s a hint of teasing in your tone, but it hits its target as he shifts slightly, gripping the box tighter. you didn't want to make him feel even more at fault, but the sadist in you just had to do something about it. and on top of that, it's not every day that the delivery guy is so handsome and young, someone your age, probably, maybe a little older.

"then let me make it up to you," he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “your next order is free or anything on the menu. i can make sure it gets to you on time.”

“anything?” you tilt your head by repeating, and he nods quickly. “yeah, anything.”

you hand him the money, and he passes you the pizza, but neither of you says goodbye. not right away. he lingers, unsure whether to leave, and you can tell he didn’t expect someone like you to open the door, pretty enough to make him hesitate. because he definitely doesn’t offer free orders, and bends rules like that, not even for his closest friends, so… you should feel a little special.

"what’s your name?" you ask, softer this time.

"MINGI."

you hum, leaning a little more into the doorframe. "well then, mingi… that’s a pretty big offer." your eyes trail down his frame, as he swallows, then straightens slightly, like he’s trying to gather some confidence.

"i said i’d make it up to you."

"how far are you willing to go for that tip?"

far enough, apparently willing to offer one of his own. you didn't expect tuesday night to go this way... you had planned to be on the couch, sure, but not with you ending up in a stranger’s lap, his hands on you, kissing as you both moaned into each other's mouths.

you pull back just enough to breathe, lips tingling, mind a little foggy from how fast this escalated. one second, you were annoyed about cold pizza, the next… this. your fingers stay curled into the fabric of his uniform, keeping him close even as you narrow your eyes at him, pretending to think.

“you’ve been out delivering all day…” you murmur, gaze dragging over him. “you at least showered before your shift, right?”

“yeah,” he looks at you properly now, taking in how little you’re actually wearing. his hands squeeze your waist like he’s asking you the same thing without words, “i did even on my break. promise.”

dark eyes flicker over your face before dropping lower to your oversized shirt and bare legs. you are wearing shorts that barely count as shorts, enough for the comfort in your home. he wouldn't lie that the moment he saw you, something literally snapped inside him: love at first sight is a strong statement, but he couldn't deny the attraction he felt towards you.

“you always answer the door like this?” he asks quietly, one eyebrow slowly rising as you smirk a little, “you always show up an hour and a half late?”

a small grin tugging at his lips as he thinks fair enough. his hands settle at your waist again, but this time there’s no hesitation. his thumbs brush lightly over the thin fabric of your shirt before slipping underneath, and you don’t stop him. his fingers are a little cold at first, contrasting against your warm skin, and the contact makes you shiver and arch slighty. 

“mm.” you hum, leaning in again, your lips brushing along his jaw. your fingers slide into his hair at the back of his head, tugging just slightly. “you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“not when i’m working.”

you smile against his skin, unconvinced but entertained, letting your lips trail lower, along the line of his jaw and down to his neck. you take your time there, pressing a little firmer, teeth grazing just enough to make it count. he reacts instantly when something between a whimper and a gasp slips out from his mouth, and it makes you pause for half a second, surprised… and then your lips press again, a little slower this time.

“wait,” stopping yourself just before you decide to give him something permanent, “you don’t have a girlfriend, right?”

“not anymore,” mingi exhales, head tilting slightly, giving you better access without even thinking about it. “broke up four months ago.”

you hum, satisfied, finally pulling back to look at him properly. your hands slide from his hair to his shoulders, and god. you didn’t really notice before, but now that you do — he’s big. even with the uniform jacket still on, you can feel it. broad shoulders under your palms, filling your space in a way that makes something in your stomach flip. your eyes flick down without meaning to, taking in how his frame carries, the hint of strength in his thighs when he moves. where has he been all your life?

“what a relief… i mean–” you whisper, slightly correcting yourself. “didn’t feel like being someone’s regret tonight.”

something in his expression changes at that as he becomes less nervous and more confident. big hands move again, he’s mapping you out and learning along the way. you close whatever space is left between you, and a second later, you’re the one pulling back to tease and ask questions.

“is this how you apologize to all your customers?” you tease, breathing a little uneven as your fingers curl against his shoulders.

he chuckles in return, “only the ones who wait an hour and a half.”

“oh, really? i should order late more often.”

“i wouldn’t recommend it.”

and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, as he figured you out already to be confident about it. his grip tightens slightly, pulling you flush against him, and any lingering irritation you had melts away completely, along with any thought of the pizza still sitting forgotten in its box on the table.

the air in the room is heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and cold pepperoni, but neither of you cares. his hands are no longer just resting; they are active as you feel the sudden, firm hook of his fingers against the waistband of your shorts and underwear. it’s a singular motion, as he tugs downward. pressing your weight into your knees and rising from his lap to give him the clearance he needs. the fabric sliding down your thighs is followed immediately by the hunger of his gaze.

you’re barely aware of the rustle of denim and polyester. your focus is entirely on the stretch of skin at his throat, your teeth grazing and your lips pulling until the flush of red hue deepens, a vivid map of marks that will undoubtedly be a bruised purple by morning.

by the time you pull back to admire your handiwork, the reality of the situation hits you. you’re both stripped from the waist down, the discarded clothes a messy pile on the floor. he looks at you with emotions you can't decode, that alone makes your pulse throb, but your eyes wander up, hitting the barrier of that stiff uniform jacket.

“if we’re going to do this,” you sound a little commanding and curious, “remove that jacket. i want to see if you’re actually as muscular as you feel.”

“picky, aren’t we now?” but his hands came up to the zipper.

“god forbid a girl likes someone with muscles,” you retorted, leaning back to give him the room to shrug it off.

the jacket hits the floor with a soft thud. underneath, the thin fabric of his shirt does little to hide the truth. the broadness of his chest and the sharp definition of his arms are finally on full display, and you just can't believe how someone can be so goddamn hot.

“satisfied?” for some reason, he’s towering even while seated, a mountain of lean muscle that makes you feel impossibly small as he guides you to straddle him.

before the main event, he’s all patience and devastating focus. his large hand cups you, his thumb finding your clit like someone who knows exactly how to touch you and make you feel good. he massages it in slow and rhythmic circles, fingers slicking themselves in your heat, spreading it until you're a whiny mess. your hips stuttering against his palm. he’s priming you, stretching you out with his digits alone just to make sure you're ready for the sheer scale of what’s coming.

then, the moment he lines up against your entrance… you swear you are going to die. you’ve never seen anything like this, let alone take it inside you. massive is one way to describe it, the girth of him looks like a physical impossibility. as you begin to lower yourself, the sensation isn't just fullness, it’s a total gut-wrenching and rib-creaking stretch.

"oh my god," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails leaving white crescents in his skin.

it hurts, really fucking hurts. it’s a stinging pressure as your body tries to accommodate the impossible width of his tip. tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the sight of his collarbones. mingi freezes, his large hands moving to your waist to steady your trembling form.

"is it too much, princess?" he rumbles, expression softening with genuine concern. "tell me. we can stop."

your breath is coming in shallow pulls as you stare down at where you’re joined. you’re barely even on him, just the crown of his cock is forcing its way inside, and you’re already at your limit. but the primal throb of it, the way he fills every microscopic space within you, is too addictive to quit.

“no.” you grit your teeth, a stray tear sliding down your cheek as you shake your head. "just... give me a second."

he doesn’t let you drop any further while you are trying to adjust; he knows you can't take the full length. instead, he maintains this cowgirl position, his hands locking onto your hips to keep you hovering right where it’s tightest. and then he begins to move, but it’s not a full thrust. it’s an agonizingly slow grind, using just the massive tip of his cock to hook against your internal sweet spot.

every time he nudges upward, your vision white-outs. because he’s only doing so little, but the pressure is so enormous, concentrated to hit your g-spot with the force of a sledgehammer.

"look at you," mingi breathes, watching your head fall back as you moan his name like a prayer. "taking it so well for me, baby. just like that."

the sensation of being stretched to the breaking point by him is overwhelming. you clench around him in a frantic and pulsing rhythm, and you realize that if this is just the tip, the rest of him would truly be the end of you. your body is a mess of tremors, a tension you’ve never felt before. your stomach clenches so tight, a fluttering ache of being pushed to an edge you didn’t know existed. honestly, the terrifying part is that he’s barely started.

mingi is a complete anomaly. the men from your past, the ones you thought were good enough, their full length couldn't even compare to what he’s doing right now. size shouldn't matter this much, you try to tell yourself, but the agenda is proven right in the most beautiful and torturous way.

“mingi.. it’s too much, ahh–" you gasp, the words breaking apart in your throat. you’re overstimulated, your nerves fried from the constant pressure. you’re soaked, making it so easy for him to slide against you, but your body is still screaming at the intrusion.

"come on, just a little bit more, yeah?" his voice is a soothing vibration that contrasts the raw power he is barely even applying. he is strong, but he is a gentle giant first and foremost.

he pauses to steady your shaking hips, waiting for you to catch your breath. you close your eyes, trying to find some sense of calm, and when you finally peek them open, he’s watching you with an intensity that makes your heart skip, giving you a small and encouraging nod.

"you can do it... trust me, it won't hurt that much."

what a pretty liar, he is. you want to curse him because it hurts in a way that makes you feel like you’re being split right down the middle. but beneath the pain, there’s a rising tide of pleasure. the tension is building with every tiny push he makes to fit inside you. he’s not even halfway in, and you’re already losing your mind. then, he pushes off just an inch, the blunt head of his cock catching that one hypersensitive spot deep inside.

the sensation sends you into a total frenzy. you go rigid, your back arching as a sudden wave of climax crashes over you. you’re creaming all over him, pussy spasming and clamping down on him with a desperate grip.

mingi lets out a choked whimper as he twitches inside you, his own body reacting to the tightness of your walls. he shuts his eyes tight, head tilting back as he bites his lower lip, that habit of his when he’s trying to keep his own composure. when he finally looks down, seeing how your juices are spilling down the length of him… can’t help but be smug about it, especially with the way your moans fill the room, and to him, it’s the only music he ever wants to keep on repeat.

everything happened so fast for you to process. you’re hypersensitive, could barely keep your grip on his shoulders, your mind caught in some hazy middle ground between heaven and hell. was he even human? you felt like you were dreaming, tangling with some kind of incubus who had taken the form of a delivery guy just to ruin your life.

he’d promised it wouldn't hurt, and after the first four orgasms, the pain had finally eased, but he wasn't done.

"come on, pretty girl... do it for me, please? just one more," he was so cocky about it too, knowing exactly what he was doing to you, fully aware of his power.

the couch was a total mess. covered with the evidence of your pleasure and his own lack of restraint. when that second orgasm had hit you earlier, he’d lost his own self-control by coming inside you with a force that felt endless. you’d never seen a man to cum so much; he just kept going, his body jolting against yours as he let out those cute, high-pitched whines. so vocal, proving that he was just as obsessed with the feeling of you as you were with him.

"min... mingi– i can't, please, i'll–"

your plea was cut short by a sudden ringing coming from the floor. it was buried in his discarded jacket, the sound muffled but irritatingly insistent. mingi didn't even flinch at first, his eyes locked on yours, his hips still giving those devastating nudges that kept you right on the edge. the phone cut off and immediately started again. he let out a frustrated huff, finally reaching down without breaking the connection between your bodies. he fished the phone out, but before answering, he pressed his large, warm palm firmly over your mouth, silencing your moans.

"yeah?" he answered, though still a little breathless. "sorry... car broke down. yeah, engine's totally shot. the lady's husband is out here helping me fix it right now... i'll call you back as soon as we solve the problem."

he hung up quickly, tossing the phone back onto the pile of clothes. a wicked grin stretching across his face as he gazed at you once again. his gps had been stuck at your place for nearly an hour, knowing he was pushing his luck with the boss, but looking at you, he clearly didn't care.

"baby…" he whispered against your skin, his hand sliding from your mouth to the back of your neck. "better make this quick then, before boss starts tinking i'm slacking."

enjoying the thrill of the lie as much as the heat of your body. he shifted his weight, his grip on your hips tightening until it was almost bruising.

"i'm gonna give you one last one, princess."

mingi didn't even wait for an answer. he became rough to coax that last drop of you, since he didn't have time to be gentle anymore, and even though he didn't want to rush, unfortunately, he had to. what was the count now? seven? eight? you couldn't breathe, let alone count.

you were screaming into the void, the adrenaline makes it feel like a total collapse of reality. it feels less like sex and more like a total soul-merging, as he dives into you one last time, hitting so deep that your breath hitches and stays caught in your throat.

you reach up, your hands trembling and slick with sweat, to cup his face. you need to see him. you need to feel the heat of his skin against your palms as the wave begins to build in the base of your spine. mingi leans into your touch, his eyes blown wide with a devotion that borders on worship, and maybe love, but who knows.

"look at you," he whispers, voice breaking as he brushes his lips against yours, groaning. "you’re so beautiful like this, so perfect for me. look at how well you're taking me... such a good girl."

the praise is the final spark. you pull him down into a sweet and desperate kiss, as you feel your climax shatter in a blissful way that radiates from your core to your very fingertips. mingi follows you instantly by breaking the kiss to throw his head back for a second, before burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body jerking with the force of his release. it’s endless warmth filling you up, a pulsing sensation that feels like it’s never going to stop.

"that's it, baby," he pants against your skin, words muffled by your hair. "take it all. you earned every bit of it. i’ve never felt anyone wrap around me like you do... you're a dream, you know that? a fucking dream."

the orgasm lasts so long, leaving you both limp and tangled together on the ruined cushions. he keeps his hands on you, stroking your sides gently, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, and finally your lips again, lingering there as the aftershocks slowly fade away.

"my girl," he breathes, satisfied and completely ruined by you. "nobody's ever going to do it like that for me again."

the silence that follows is peaceful, broken only by the sound of your synchronized breathing. right now you're cuddling, your bodies still as close as possible, a warmth that can't be held in any other way.

“i don’t want to leave,” he confesses, а raspy mumble that vibrates through your chest. “i want to stay here and get to know you.”

you reach up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. “then stay.”

but he pouts, stealing one more soft kiss. “i can’t. my boss is already going to kill me for the ‘broken engine,’ but… i’m free this friday. so, how about i take you out?”

“it’s a date then,” you whisper, and the smile that breaks across his face is so bright it makes your heart do a clumsy backflip.

before he gets dressed, he helps you back into your shorts and underwear, his touch lingering on your skin with tenderness. once you're settled back against the cushions, since your legs feel like jelly and your head spins like a rollercoaster ride, he disappears into the kitchen.

you hear him rummaging around, and a minute later, he returns with a plate, setting it on the small table in front of you with two slices of pizza, nudging it toward you. finally after so long, the food you have been waiting for.

“eat, princess,” he says softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. “you were so good to me. the least i can do is make sure you aren't starving after all that work you put in.”

and with that, he gives you one last, lingering look at the door, a promise in his eyes, before he finally slips out into the hall.

an hour later, mingi is back doing deliveries with a new car. a notification pops up from the delivery app, and he checks it: 5 stars. no comment left, just the perfect rating.

leaning his head back against the headrest, gripping the wheel, he thinks about how good you were to him. your perfect and sweet body was made for him, and... if that’s the review he gets for just the tip, he has no idea how you're going to survive friday when he finally gives you everything else.

© KISSSAN do not copy, repost or modify my work.

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