─── in which a mandatory company dinner becomes a lot more interesting when the guest of honor turns out to be jake sim, the nobody you went to high school with who somehow spent the last ten years becoming the hottest man you've ever seen.
jake sim x fem!reader ; wc: 7.1k. MDNI. oneshot. smut with plot. fingering. oral (m & f receiving). multiple orgasms. riding. creampie. overstimulation. begging. cum eating. hair pulling. dirty talk. pet names. soft dom/sub. unprotected sex (don't). jake yearns for reader.
inspired by "when did you get hot?" by sabrina carpenter.
my masterlist.
⋆˙⟡ a/n :: i just spent the last 4 hours in a flow state writing this, and i think i got a little carried away lol. this is probably my favorite thing i've ever written. please enjoy ;)
“You’ll never guess who’s going to be speaking at the company dinner tonight!”
You glanced up from your computer screen to your best friend and secretary, Eunkyung, who had just burst into your office. You were working on finishing a report that you needed to have done before you left work for the day, and you took a deep breath to remind yourself that it was not the end of the world to be interrupted.
“Who?” you asked, trying to make yourself sound intrigued. The large corporation you worked for had a few company-wide dinners a year, and they always hosted them in the most elaborate venues in Seoul. You knew from a memo that had been sent out that morning that tonight’s venue was a ballroom inside a five-star hotel. You always expected the worst part of each company dinner to be having to talk to people you couldn’t care less about, but somehow, the worst part was always the speaker they brought in.
“It’s someone we went to high school with.”
This piqued your interest, and you focused your full attention on Eunkyung. “What? Who?”
“Sim Jaeyun.”
You let out an amused scoff at that. “You mean Jake? I haven’t thought about him in ten years.”
“I know,” Eunkyung gushed, stepping forward and sitting in one of the two chairs in front of your desk. “I overheard some interns talking about it in the copy room, and they sounded very excited about it.
“Excited about Jake?” you laughed under your breath, raising your eyebrows before returning your eyes to your computer. “Wasn’t he a huge dork? And I don’t remember him being particularly cute, either.”
“I think he was on the soccer team,” Eunkyung said, placing a finger on her chin as she tried to remember as much about him as she could. “He was definitely smart, but that’s really all I remember. He was never one of the boys that caught my eye.”
“That’s surprising considering that every single boy caught your eye,” you mused, your eyes flicking to your friend’s face.
“Yah! They did not!” Eunkyung exclaimed, standing back up and glaring at you before making her way to the door. “Whatever, y/n. I’ll see you tonight. Wear your black dress–I’m sure Jake will love it.”
“Why the hell would I try to impress Jake Sim?”
“I don’t know, those interns sounded very excited about being able to see Jake tonight.”
“Yeah, well, they’re young. As long as a man has a pulse, they’ll fawn over him.”
Eunkyung cast you an amused look before stepping out of your office. “Whatever you say. Bye.”
You watched her go before returning your eyes to your report. Even if the thought of seeing Jake Sim after ten years intrigued you, you were sure that he was still the same dorky kid he had been in high school. You smirked before beginning to type once more.
–
When you stepped into the ballroom that evening, you paused in the archway to take it in. Vaulted ceilings gave way to tiered crystalline chandeliers, bathing the space in a warm, intimate glow. Spread throughout the room were circular tables, all black and decorated with ornate floral centerpieces that you knew must have cost a fortune. Against the back wall, a stage rose elegantly above the ground, and the space where Jake would speak was framed by even more florals. You wondered if these extravagant decorations would outshine the man who was supposed to be the center of the evening.
“Y/n? Are you coming or not?” Eunkyung whispered in your ear. You turned your head to the right, laying eyes on her. She was dressed in a fabulous gown of deep emerald green, and you gave her a small smile before nodding.
“Sorry, just got distracted,” you told her, allowing her to grasp your wrist in her gloved hand. She tugged you toward the seating chart, and you were pleased to find that you had been placed at the same table as your best friend. However, as you scanned the long list of names, a frown found its way onto your face as you realized who else would be sitting at your table.
Just below Eunkyung’s name, in large gold letters, read: Sim Jaeyun, guest of honor.
It appeared that Eunkyung had noticed the same thing, because she looked at you with wide eyes. “Do you think they did that on purpose?”
“How would they know that we all went to high school together? I doubt we’re paying our event planner enough to discover those sorts of connections.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said, and you both made your way to your table. You weaved through a variety of people, both familiar and unfamiliar, and you gave them all your famous smile and a small bow as you passed. Part of the reason you had been so quickly promoted was due to your ruthless work ethic, but you also knew exactly how to charm whoever necessary to get exactly what you wanted.
Once you and Eunkyung had sat at your table, she glanced around and then smiled. “Do you think he’s here yet?” she whispered.
You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of the champagne that had just been poured for you by one of the many servers. “Why should I care? I have more important things in my life to think about than Jake Sim.”
“You don’t think it’s exciting?” she asked, continuing to look around at the people milling about the ballroom. “Finally seeing someone you haven’t thought about in ten years at a company dinner? And the difference now is that you’re a sexy, grown-ass woman who was recently made an executive at her company?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Eunkyung, what are you getting at?”
“I don’t know,” she giggled, giving you a slight nudge. “You always talk about how you need to get back out there, and this feels like the perfect opportunity.”
“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. However, a small hint of a smile found its way onto your face. “Even if I did want to meet someone, why the hell would I want it to be some guy that I went to high school with?”
Just as you finished speaking, you noticed that Eunkyung’s gaze was now focused on something just behind you, and her eyes widened. Before you even had the chance to speak, you heard a smooth voice come from behind you. One that had just a hint of an Australian accent that you could’ve sworn sounded familiar.
“Is this seat taken?”
You turned toward the voice, lifting your gaze. Once you laid eyes on him, your breath caught in your throat.
The man staring at you now was perhaps the most handsome person you had ever seen. Plump lips, black hair styled just enough to look effortless, a chiseled jawline, a black suit perfectly tailored to highlight the broad shoulders and muscular frame of his body… and the thing that enticed you the most: his confidence in the way he held himself.
You couldn’t look away.
“No,” you said breathlessly. “It’s all yours.”
He gave you a pert smile before raising a hand to pull out the chair, and your lips parted slightly at the defined veins you found there. As you watched him sit down, his movements more graceful than you knew possible, you noticed that there was something slightly familiar about him. You frowned as you watched him, and you shook your head slightly. There was no way you would forget someone like him.
Who the hell was this man, and how had you never met him before? You wished you had spent more time looking at the names of those you would be sitting with instead of worrying about Jake Sim.
“Is this glass mine?” he asked as he gestured toward a champagne flute, and you realized with embarrassment that you had been staring at him. You cursed internally, begging yourself to pull it together. Nobody made you react like this. Ever.
“Yes,” you told him, your voice cool. “I believe they poured it just before you came over here.”
“I see.” He grasped the delicate glass in his slender fingers, and you forced yourself to look away, lest you look like a fool again. “I don’t usually care for champagne, but when in Rome.”
“I don’t either,” you responded, your own perfectly manicured fingers still wrapped loosely around the stem of your own glass. “But I feel like I’ll get judged if I don’t drink it. You never know who's watching.”
He eyed you curiously as he lifted the flute to his lips and took a sip. You watched the column of his neck as he swallowed, and your gaze lingered on him for a moment too long. Once he set the glass back down, he tilted his head slightly and looked you up and down. “Have we met before?”
“Not that I know of,” you responded with a shrug. You hoped that you still appeared detached—uninterested. “But it’s a pleasure to finally meet you—ah, I never asked your name.”
He looked as if he were about to speak, but at that moment, an older man approached him and murmured something in his ear. He nodded and stood before looking down at you. “I apologize, I’ll have to get your name later. There’s something I need to do first.”
You nodded, and you watched him adjust the cuffs of his suit before he disappeared into the crowd. Once he was gone, you glanced at Eunkyung, who looked as if she were about to burst with excitement. You gently kicked her under the table, shaking your head almost imperceptibly.
“He is totally into you!” she hissed, clapping her hands together quietly. “The way he looked at you… Jesus Christ, if someone looked at me that way, I’d be pulling them into the closet.”
“Eunkyung, this is why I can’t take you anywhere,” you said, but you knew you were smiling. She grasped your shoulder in her cool hand and shook you slightly, and you let out a small huff of a laugh.
“When he gets back over here, I expect you to lay your claim on him immediately,” she said, glancing at the people who were beginning to take a seat at your table. “You and I both saw how fucking hot he is. You don’t want anyone else getting to him before you.”
“I know, I know.”
You noticed that the talking that had filled the room just a moment ago had quieted into a soft murmur, and you craned your neck to see if Jake had made his way to the stage yet.
“Do you see him?” Eunkyung whispered to you as the lights in the ballroom dimmed.
You could tell that a figure was now standing on-stage, but the spotlight had not yet turned on. A few curious voices filled the air, wondering why the speaker had been left shrouded in darkness—and mystery.
Then, the spotlight slowly turned on, illuminating the man who now stood on the stage.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile at the crowd. “My name is Sim Jaeyun, and I am honored to be here with you all.”
Sim Jaeyun. Your eyes widened as the realization hit you.
“When I was invited by the Young Group to speak here tonight, I was flattered. To be featured as the guest of honor at an event hosted by a prestigious company such as the Young Group is a wonderful gift. If I'm being honest, I spent too many hours figuring out exactly what I wanted to say to a group of lovely people such as all of you.”
Scattered laughter sounded throughout the room, but you didn’t even notice–you were still frozen.
“As I rewrote this speech more times than I care to admit, I realized that, ten years ago, I did not think that someone like me would ever be the one to speak at an event like this. I was never the person that anyone expected to be here. I was never the loudest in the room growing up, and I actually struggled to feel as if I belonged in any room at all. However, I learned quickly in my career that you don’t need to be the loudest in any room–you just need to be the most consistent.
“And that is what I would like to speak about tonight: consistency. As I’m sure you’re all aware, our life in business is never linear. There will always be setbacks, unexpected challenges, and hurdles that you must be able to combat. Now, you may ask, how do we respond to these complications?”
Jake smiled, and you could have sworn that his eyes landed on yours for just a moment. “With a company as successful as the Young Group, I’m sure you have all figured out the answer to this question, but I would like to share my thoughts with you regardless. If you were to ask me, I would say that the key to success is being consistent and tenacious in the way that you face each challenge. In my six years in the industry since I graduated top of my class from Seoul National University, it has been my consistency and discipline that has gotten me into rooms such as this one.”
He paused for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips, and you could almost feel the draw of the audience as they waited for his next words.
“In business, failure is inevitable. If you’re not failing, you’re frankly not trying hard enough. Everything we do is a calculated risk, and there will always be errors. What truly matters at the end of the day is what you do with those errors. Will you allow them to define you? Will you allow them to make you give up? Or will you use them as a stepping stone to eventual success?
“Now, I won’t speak for much longer, as I’m certain I just heard someone’s stomach growl–” more laughter echoed through the room. “But I want to challenge you to reflect on something tonight: what do you do when you face setbacks? Do you give up, or do you allow it to hone you into the best version of yourself you can be? Thank you, and enjoy your evening.”
Thunderous applause immediately broke out throughout the ballroom as he exited the stage, but it was as if you couldn’t hear it. Your eyes were still glued to the spot where Jake had just been standing, and you couldn’t formulate a single thought. Your mind flashed back to the Jake Sim you had last seen ten years ago, and you couldn't fathom that he had turned into the man who had just spoken on stage. Evidently, a lot could change in ten years.
“Your speech was incredibly well done,” you heard a voice say. You shook your head slightly in an attempt to return to reality, and you noticed that Jake had effortlessly slid into the seat beside you once again. As those at the table around you congratulated him on a job well done, servers began to place steaming entrees on each table. There was so much going on around you that you couldn’t focus—a rare loss in composure that you weren’t used to. You noticed that Eunkyung had excused herself to use the restroom, which forced you to focus on something besides the swirling thoughts inside your head.
After a moment, Jake turned to you and gave you a small smile. “Well, you now know my name. Do I get the pleasure of knowing yours in return?”
You took a breath and collected yourself before sitting up straight and raising the corner of your mouth. “My name is Kim Y/n.”
You watched as he tried to place the familiar name, and once he did, his lips parted into a warm smile. “Y/n? We went to high school together, didn’t we?”
“I believe we did,” you responded, tracing your finger along the rim of your champagne glass. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t recognize you until you were up on stage.”
Jake’s gaze tracked the movement of your finger, and you saw a slight twitch in his neck. “I didn’t recognize you, either. I suppose we’ve both changed a lot, haven’t we?”
“I guess we have.”
You simply stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking, before Jake glanced away and grabbed his fork. “So, y/n, how have you been? What do you do for Young Group?”
“I was actually just promoted to be the Director of Corporate Strategy last month," you said, taking your own fork in your hand. “It’s been an interesting shift, but I truly love what I do. Where are you working now?”
“I recently became the Managing Director of Lee Group’s Asia-Pacific operations.” He carefully pierced a piece of tender steak with his fork before lifting it to his mouth. “I spend a lot of time abroad due to my position, but I love being able to travel across the region freely. It’s been a great way to combine work as well as pleasure.”
As the word pleasure left his lips, you felt a warmth spread through your chest. You watched as he ate the piece of steak, his jaw flexing each time he chewed, and you found that you couldn’t look away.
“I’ve always wanted to travel for work,” you said, looking down at the salad in front of you. “I’ve been given the opportunity to visit the States a couple times, but that’s it. I think it would be enthralling to be able to travel as much as you do.”
“It definitely broadens your horizons, which is especially helpful after a sheltered childhood,” he said. “Growing up both here and Australia was fun, but there’s so much more to the world. I pity anyone who hasn’t gotten to experience it.”
“Do you pity me, then?” you asked, cocking your head to the side. “Compared to you, I’ve seen so little.”
“I don’t know, y/n—would you like to be pitied?” he asked, his words tantalizing to you in a way that was unfamiliar. “Because you don’t strike me as the type of woman who does.”
“If being pitied gets me what I want, then I don’t mind at all.”
“And you strike me as someone who always gets what she wants.”
At that moment, Eunkyung returned from the restroom—interrupting the increasing tension of your conversation with Jake.
“Jaeyun, I don’t know if you remember me, but I also went to high school with you,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “My name is Park Eunkyung.”
“Eunkyung? No way!” he laughed, his perfect teeth showing yet again. “We had biology and chemistry together, didn’t we?”
“I think so,” she responded. “Have you two been catching up while I was gone?”
Jake eyed you, and your heart throbbed at the way his gaze lingered on you. “Something like that.”
As the three of you finished your dinner, you all continued reminiscing on your awkward high school years. Everything Jake said seemed effortless, dripping in charisma and humor that drew you to him more with every word he spoke. After dinner concluded, the plates were cleared away, more champagne was poured, and the mingling that you usually avoided began.
“Would you like to make the rounds with me?” Jake asked you, standing and offering you a hand. “I have a list of people I need to greet, but I honestly hate getting stuck in conversations without someone to help me escape if I need to.”
You let out a laugh at this and glanced at Eunkyung, who had a huge smile plastered on her face. You nodded, grabbing Jake's hand and allowing him to pull you to your feet. As you stood, you were wobbly on your stilettos due to the alcohol coursing through your veins, but Jake quickly steadied you by placing a hand on your lower back. His touch was more intoxicating than any drink you had ever consumed, and you tried to pretend that the small gesture did affect you as much as it did.
As Jake made his way through the ballroom with you by his side, you realized more and more just how respected he was within your company. He was congratulated on his new promotion as well as declared the target of much admiration, and as you watched him converse with ease, you couldn’t help but admire him, too. This was not the Jake Sim you remembered, but you were extremely grateful that you had been given the chance to see him again after all this time. He was magnetic, and you were drawn to him more than you cared to admit.
As the evening inevitably marched towards its conclusion, Jake stopped by the back wall and gazed at the sea of people in front of you. “Well, I think that was everyone.”
“That was… impressive,” you said as you watched people slowly say their goodbyes before filtering out of the ballroom. “I usually leave right after dinner, but you managed to talk to every single person in this room.”
Jake gave you a small smile. “You know, I only did that because I was the guest of honor. They’d never invite me back if I spoke and left.”
“Good point.” You shrugged, glancing up at Jake’s face. Despite the intense nature of the evening, he still looked as effortlessly handsome as he had the first moment you had laid eyes on him hours ago. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
He eyed you curiously. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” you started, searching for the right words. “You’re just so… different now. So accomplished. It’s impressive, I guess.”
“Are you one of the people I mentioned in my speech who doubted me ten years ago?”
You reddened, looking away. “Of course not! We were just so different back then, I guess I never imagined… this.”
“Y/n, I’m kidding,” he said. He grabbed your chin lightly and tilted it upward so that you were looking at him again. “Even if you had been, I don’t care. You heard what I said up there–I never needed anyone to tell me they believed in me or thought I could do whatever I wanted. I’ve always believed in myself, and that’s always been enough.”
Your head swam at the intensity in Jake’s eyes, the way his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose and how he had rolled the sleeves of his suit up at some point during the night. Nothing turned you on more than a man who was confident and self-assured. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the fact that you hadn’t been with anyone in awhile, but your body lit up with Jake staring at you the way he was. Like you were something to be devoured.
“Y/n,” Jake breathed. “I’m glad I ran into you tonight.”
“Me too.” A pause, and you wondered if you would regret the boldness of your words. “Until tonight, I never realized how badly I wanted you.”
You could tell from the way that he looked at you that his entire body was taught with desire, and he took a deep breath before taking your wrist in his hand and pulling you into the empty corridor just beyond the ballroom. You glanced behind you, checking that nobody had seen you disappear, before Jake dragged you into an empty, dimly lit supply closet.
“Jake?” you whispered as he locked the door behind you. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I can’t wait any longer, y/n,” he exhaled, backing you against the door and leaning down to connect your lips. His kiss was hungry–hungrier than you knew to be possible, and his hand immediately found its way to your chest. The black satin gown you were wearing was low-cut yet elegant, with a deep v that went down to your ribcage. When his fingers found your hardened nipples, he let out a low groan before biting your lip.
You let out a soft cry, wrapping your arms around Jake’s neck. You parted your lips to allow him to explore your mouth with his tongue, and he took no time at all to accept the invitation. Your tongues clashed in a passionate dance, the sweet taste of the champagne finding its way onto your tongue. He kissed you with reckless abandon, and every cell in your body screamed your desire.
As you and Jake continued to kiss feverishly, you slowly rocked your hips into his. You were encouraged by the hardness you found there, and you gripped his lower back in an attempt to draw him even closer to you despite the layers of clothing between your bodies.
“Oh, baby,” Jake groaned against your mouth. His hips moved against yours roughly, both of you breathing heavily as you rubbed your most sensitive parts against each other. “Feels so fuckin’ good when you grind against me like that.”
Jake’s hand found its way beneath the top of your dress, and he grasped your right breast in his warm hand. You quickened the rolling of your hips, throwing your head back so that it hit the door behind you. “J-jesus!” you forced out. “Jake, p-please, I need you so bad.”
The intensity of Jake’s moves only increased for just a moment before he suddenly paused. You were both panting heavily, your body still pressed flush to his. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” you breathed, running your hand through Jake’s hair as you gazed up at him. He already looked so wrecked for you.
“I can’t fuck you for the first time in a supply closet,” he said, swallowing. “I want to do this right.”
“Where do you want to go instead?”
“We’re in a hotel, y/n,” he said before kissing you briefly. “Let’s just get a room for the night.”
“What if someone notices?” you asked, worry etching its way across your face.
“Who cares?” he whispered, his eyes earnest. “I need you so fucking bad, baby. Please.”
You thought for a moment, weighing your options. Your body sang with desire for Jake, and you didn’t think you would ever forgive yourself if you didn’t spend the night with him, and from the way he looked at you, you knew he was desperate for you to say yes. You sighed before pushing him away lightly, running your fingers through your tousled hair. “Fine. But I’m waiting by the elevators while you get the room.”
Jake grinned at you. “Deal.”
You both made sure the other looked presentable before stepping out of the supply closet. Mercifully, the corridor was empty, and you allowed Jake to lead you toward the lobby. Once you reached the gorgeous room, you stepped away from Jake and made your way to the elevators while he worked on reserving a room. You leaned against the cool marble of the wall, hoping you weren’t still flushed from your escapade in the supply closet. You gave a small, cool smile to everyone who passed by.
As Jake walked over to you, room key in hand, you pretended to not know him. You smoothed your features into unimpressed boredom, and as you and Jake stepped into the elevator, you made your way to the opposite side as him. A few people were still mingling in the lobby, and the last thing you needed was for your carefully constructed demeanor to be jeopardized by your late-night rendezvous with Jake Sim.
Once the doors had closed and the elevator began to ascend, your eyes flicked to Jake. Before you even knew what was happening, he had closed the gap between you, his lips on yours again. Your eyes fluttered closed as he palmed your ass through your dress, letting out a soft moan against his mouth. As the elevator shot up to the top floor, you and Jake entwined yourselves again, and it was almost torturous having to separate again as you reached your floor.
Once the doors opened, you took a deep breath and stepped into the beautifully decorated corridor. Jake gestured for you to follow him, and you looked around briefly before following him. Luckily, the floors were covered in a surprisingly plush carpet, which muffled the sound of your heels as you followed him to your room. Jake unlocked the door quickly and pushed it open so that you could enter.
When you stepped into the room, you realized that Jake hadn’t just gotten you any room. He had booked the notorious Presidential Suite, with a kitchen, sitting room, conference table, and massive bedroom. It seemed as if every wall of the suite was covered in windows that allowed you to see the extensive skyline of Seoul as it stretched out before you.
“Jake, this is crazy,” you said, turning around so that you could see him. “You really want me that bad?”
Your eyes landed on Jake to find that he had already removed his shoes, and he was in the middle of loosening his tie before stripping off his suit jacket.
“You have no fucking idea,” he growled, stalking towards you with a look in his eyes that made you even more wet than you already were. His lips captured yours again, but his kiss was different now. Instead of being in a supply closet, Jake had you alone in the nicest hotel suite in Seoul, and he was going to make use of every square inch of space to show you just how badly he needed you.
Jake’s mouth only lingered on your lips for a moment before he made his way down to your neck, and you gasped sharply as he immediately began to suck on the soft flesh there. You grasped his muscular bicep, arching you back from the hunger with which he ravished you. It was only another second before Jake’s hand found its way into the slit of your dress, and his fingers grazed the wetness between your thighs.
“So wet for me,” Jake’s ragged voice came, his fingers slowly beginning to rub the sensitive bundle of nerves at your apex. “Fuckin’ love how wet you are for me, baby.”
You whimpered at the variety of different sensations, from Jake biting and sucking on your neck to his fingers working between your legs. It had been so long since you had been with someone in this way, allowing someone to see you at your most vulnerable. You spent all your time focused on your career, as you had set your sights on your current position years before it even became available. You were cunning, ambitious, and you had completely neglected this side of you–the side that loved to spend a night having your body worshipped by someone else. You had never expected the first person you slept with in a year to be Jake Sim, but you had always loved surprises.
Jake’s fingers continued to stroke against your clit before he slowly pushed two of his fingers inside you. You let out a cry at the feeling of him inside you, his digits curling and rubbing just right against the spot that had you seeing stars. His fingers worked within you for a moment, your breath repeatedly catching in your throat, before he pushed you onto the couch with his fingers still inside you. As your back hit the plush leather, Jake leaned forward and continued to mark your chest and neck as he fucked you with his fingers.
You had half a mind to feel embarrassed for how quickly you felt your orgasm rising in you, but you realized you didn’t care. Jake was doing everything he could to pleasure you, and he somehow knew all the spots that would send you over the edge faster than you could blink. You began to writhe underneath him as your orgasm threatened to crash over you.
“Baby, I’m g-gonna cum,” you whined, your body convulsing from the pleasure of everything Jake was doing to you.
“I need you to cum for me, angel,” Jake said against the fresh love bite that he had just left on your breast.
That was all it took. You found your peak against Jake’s fingers, and the shockwaves that rocked through your body had your vision going black at the edges. However, as you rode out your climax, Jake did not stop pumping his fingers inside you. He continued on with the same ferocity.
“Jake,” you gasped. “It’s too much. Baby, it’s too much.”
However, Jake kept going. You had never experienced anything like this before, and you cried out from the overstimulation of Jake’s relentlessness.
“B-baby, holy fuck!” Your legs spread even wider, your hips lifting into the air as wet noises filtered into your ears. “I can’t–Jaeyun, baby, p-please! I can’t take it!”
Before you knew it, another orgasm wracked your body. You screamed as it tore through you, and you roughly pushed Jake off of you as you continued to tremble.
“Jesus Christ,” you panted, sitting up and raising your eyes to Jake’s.
“Jaeyun?” Jake smirked. “Nobody ever calls me that unless I’m in a meeting.”
You stood, grabbing Jake’s tie and tightening it against his neck. “That’s what you get for overstimulating me, you asshole.”
“Don’t lie–you loved it. You could’ve stopped me.”
You snarled at how proud he seemed of himself, but you knew he was right. Even if it had been a lot, you loved every fucking second of it. Nobody had ever dared to take control of you in the bedroom like that, and it turned you on more than you cared to admit. “Fuck you, Sim Jaeyun.”
“That’s the goal, isn’t it?” he smiled. You narrowed your eyes at him before stripping his tie off and quickly unbuttoning his dress shirt. He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Is this something you do often? You seem to have a lot of practice.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you growled, pushing him into the bathroom. You flicked the light on carelessly before shoving him against the wall so that he was looking into the mirror, taking in the curve of your back and hips in the reflection.
“What are you gonna do now, princess?” Jake hummed.
“Are you always such a cocky asshole during sex?” you asked, tearing his belt away. “Because at the dinner, you were quite the charmer.”
“I already did the hard part of charming you, so now I get to enjoy how pissed off you get when I tease you.”
You glared at Jake as you lowered yourself to the floor, your face directly in front of his bulge. You tugged his pants down before gazing up at him through your lashes and using your teeth to remove his underwear. He swore viciously, his length springing free. His cock was already flushed and glistening, and you slowly dragged your tongue along it as you continued to stare at him.
“This is what you get for being an asshole,” you said before taking his twitching cock into your mouth. You hummed in satisfaction at the noises that left his lips, as they were so different from his growled commands. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and licking every inch of him, a string of high-pitched whimpers filled the air.
You traced your fingers up and down Jake’s bare chest, your mouth sloppily moving around him. You used your other hand to grasp the part of his cock that your mouth couldn’t reach, and you pumped slowly up and down as you continued to fuck him with your mouth. His moans were music to your ears, and they only encouraged you to continue.
As your movements grew sloppier, Jake gathered your hair into his fist and bucked his hips into your mouth. You gagged slightly at how far his cock went into your throat.
“You look s’ fucking good takin my cock like that, angel,” Jake whimpered, hand still tightly grasping your long hair. The sensation of him pulling your hair made your pussy throb, and you knew that you couldn’t wait much longer to have Jake inside you. You removed your lips from his cock with a pop before standing up. Jake immediately grabbed your hips and turned you around, pressing you to the sink and grinding his wet cock into your still-clothed ass as he pressed a hot kiss to your mouth.
“This dress needs to go,” he murmured against your lips, using one hand to undo the zipper. It dropped to the floor in one fluid movement, resting in a beautiful pool of black satin surrounding your feet. The second you felt the cool air hit your skin, Jake’s hand smacked your ass. He grasped your left tit with his other hand, and he brought his mouth to your ear. “How badly do you want me to fuck you, baby?”
“So bad,” you mumbled, your words barely audible between your moans. However, it seemed that this did not satisfy Jake, as he turned you around and grasped your jaw lightly.
“What’d you say, princess? I couldn't hear you.”
“I want you to fuck me so bad, Jaeyun,” you ground out.
He smirked, and you could tell that he adored it when you called him by his Korean name. You could also tell that he was satisfied with your answer, as he picked you up and tossed you on his shoulder before carrying you out of the bathroom. He smacked your ass a few more times before plopping you down atop the conference table, pressing a hungry kiss to your lips.
“Gonna fuck you on this conference table, baby.”
“Ah–f-fuck!” you cried as he thrust into you in one swift motion. He buried himself deep within you, not moving for just a moment before he began to roll his hips into yours. Every time the tip of his cock rubbed against your gummy walls, you let out a broken noise. His cock was bigger than his height suggested, and you regretted the last ten years you had spent not fucking Jake Sim every chance you got. You were already addicted to the feeling of him inside you, and you had no idea how you had survived for so long without him.
Jake’s pace was rapid, relentless, and you didn’t even realize that you were scratching up his back with your freshly manicured nails. The only thing you knew was the feeling of his body pressed against yours and the sensation of his cock snapping into you repeatedly. He was even more turned on by you scratching him, which only led to him quickening his pace.
“Pussy s’ fuckin’ good,” he groaned, throwing his head back in pleasure. “I fuckin’ love this pussy so fuckin’ much, angel. You’re never gonna sleep again–I’m g-gonna fuck you forever.”
Stars swam across your vision as Jake repeatedly hit your cervix, and the sensation accompanied by the way his hand still played with your nipples made you nauseous. You pressed your eyes closed, whimpering.
“Mmmph, fuck.” Jake’s voice was a rumble that came from deep within his chest, and you knew he was getting close. From the way his movements became more vigorous, goosebumps erupting across his chest, it was only a matter of time until he went over the edge.
“Cum inside me, Jaeyun,” you gasped out, your body rocking as Jake continued to thrust into you. “I-I’m on the pill, so p-please fill me with your cum baby. I need it s-so fuckin’ bad. I need all your cum.”
Jake placed both hands on your shoulders, holding you steady as he thrust into you harder than you knew to be humanly possible. Clipped cries left your lips, and it only took a moment before Jake began moaning your name.
“Y/n, fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum,” he whimpered, and he let out a loud moan as his hips stilled, pumping you full of his cum. His body pulsed with each ejaculation, and you couldn’t help but gasp as he came deep within you.
“That was... crazy,” you breathed, gazing at Jake through half-lidded eyes. He nodded, still trying to regain his breath. After a moment, his eyes found yours.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
You didn’t even have time to ask what he was doing before Jake had you pressed against the window behind the conference table, your leg hooked over his shoulder as he licked your pussy. The area between your thighs was an absolute mess, covered in remnants of saliva, your arousal, and his cum, but Jake didn’t care. He sucked at your folds like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
You rocked your hips against Jake’s tongue as it flicked against your clit, and you lifted a hand above your head before pressing it to the window. Your other hand found its way into Jake’s soft hair, and he gazed up at your fucked-out face as he worked his tongue against and inside you. If Jake’s goal had been to give you a night you would never forget, he had exceeded all of your expectations. Over the past ten years, nobody had made love to you like Jake, and you never wanted another person in your bed but him.
As you reached your third climax of the evening, Jake kept his mouth clamped to your pussy to ensure that he didn’t miss any liquid coming out of you. He lapped up every drop before swallowing it hungrily, and he made sure your orgasm was fully over before standing and kissing you.
“Holy shit, Jaeyun,” you said, your body feeling completely limp. “That was fucking insane.”
“I’ll be ready to go again in fifteen minutes,” Jake murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
Your eyes flew open, and you huffed a laugh. “Seriously?”
“I would never joke about anything as serious as this.”
You stared at him in disbelief for a moment before you realized he was entirely serious. “Where do you get your stamina from?”
“It comes from remembering that I lost out on ten years of fucking you, and now I need to make up for lost time.”
You laughed, truly laughed, and pressed your forehead to Jake’s. You weren’t sure if you and Jake were ever going to make up for the ten years together that you had missed, but you were certainly going to try.
·······•✦ description: Being called over in the middle of the night by your friend Rafayel wasn't an unusual occurrence. It was unusual, however, when he asked you to be his model for a painting, letting you use his wardrobe to dress up for him, especially considering he never painted people. He insisted, though, and who were you to say no to his pleading gaze? But something was off about him; he wasn't acting like himself...
·······•✦ pairing: virgin!rafayel x afab!reader
·······•✦ word count: 9.6k
·······•✦ genre: smut, porn with plot, fluff
·······•✦ general tags: Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Virgin!Rafayel, Light Angst, It's very subtle angst, Slight Lore and Spoilers for Rafayel's story, Yearning, Masturbation, Scent Kink, Body Worship, big dick, First Time, Porn with Feelings, Porn With Plot, Rafayel calls you 'princess', Soft sex, Nostalgia, stealing clothes, getting caught, Creampie, Vaginal Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Cockwarming, Reader-Insert, Inexperienced Rafayel, Loss of Virginity
·······•✦ posted on: ao3
The loud doorbell rang through the night sky, echoing through the tall trees and across the city skyline. The drive up to Rafayel’s house was quiet and secluded; you couldn’t help but wonder how lonely it got. So far away from the rest of the city, sitting right on the water and overlooking the vast ocean. At times, he assured you that he liked the privacy, and his connection to the water and nature generally spurred his artistic inspirations. Other times, he had a far-off look in his eye, saying that while it did get lonely, he felt better when you came to visit him.
Waking up to your phone ringing and Rafayel’s voice insisting that he needed his bodyguard over to his house immediately wasn’t what you expected of a Friday night. Still, it was Rafayel, and you couldn’t really say no. His insistent and whiny voice made your heart clench, your buried feelings for him doing nothing but forcing you to oblige to his asks.
It was a moment of you standing outside in the cold, pajama pants and baggy shirt doing little to help shield you from the biting wind. After the second ring of the doorbell, you heard footsteps through his house, and eventually, the door opened to reveal a disheveled Rafayel. Your breath stopped momentarily as you took in his messy hair and flushed cheeks. In one hand, he held a paintbrush covered in multiple mixes of colors. The other hand grabbed your wrist, gently ushering you inside.
“Wow, that was quick, miss bodyguard.” His voice came out in a huff, and Rafayel had to stop himself from staring at your lips. It happened every time you were near him, his eyes wandering across your body but constantly fixating on your lips…. Or your neck… Or your hands… He snapped out of it, sending a smirk your way as he started walking back towards the large living room. “I didn’t know you missed me that much.”
“Oh please,” You rolled your eyes, laughter echoing through the room. “Wasn’t it you who texted me four times asking me to come over and ‘protect you from the wind’?”
The only pieces of furniture were a small white couch and a coffee table. One of the walls was made of windows and clear glass leading to the vast ocean at the end of the small strip of sand. Trees swayed as the wind whipped outside, light rain staining the windows. Darkness stretched out over the ocean, the only light being from the moon. It streaked across the water, piercing deep and greeting the ecosystems that thrived.
“It’s getting crazy out there!” Rafayel’s cheeks blushed pink, his arms crossing. He gestured outside, trying to come up with a better excuse. “Plus, I just wanted you to keep me company as I paint.”
As you looked around, you took notice of the easel and canvas. Paint splashed across the corners, colors blending into beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Fireworks of golden yellow and dark blue contrasted and made a painting that caused your heart to race. It wasn’t often that art would elicit such a reaction from you, but Rafayel’s art always seemed to do something to you. It stole the breath from your lungs and made your heart pause in astonishment.
“That’s beautiful, Raf.” As you stared at the canvas, you didn’t notice how Rafayel’s ears turned bright red. His gaze fixated on you as you walked forward. Masterfully placed blank spaces broke up the colors, and you weren’t sure why, but a sense of nostalgia washed over you.
“Thanks, it’s supposed to be a little alcove in the middle of the ocean, secluded from everyone.” When he explains, you can almost feel yourself sitting on the small patch of sand in the middle of nowhere. The sunset in the distance of the painting felt so real as if you’d reached your hand out for it before.
“It looks so realistic.” You wanted to reach out and touch it, the sand falling between your fingertips like sand in an hourglass. The moon's light came through the windows, casting a bright light on the art. Looking back at Rafayel, you smiled at him, your heart beating faster when you noticed he was already looking at you. “No wonder you’re the world's most famous artist.”
A light blush covered his cheeks as he listened to your praise. He was used to people waxing poetic about his art, calling it ‘timeless’ and ‘alive.’ Nothing was like hearing the words from your lips, though. His eyebrows raised as he walked forward, setting his paintbrush down on the color palette.
“That’s high praise coming from you, miss bodyguard.” As he stepped closer, your eyes drifted to the ocean. Somewhere in the distance, it felt like that little alcove was waiting. It beckoned you to it like a long-lost treasure. You rolled your eyes gently, shaking your head.
He always seemed to favor you over others under the guise of needing his bodyguard, but no matter how often he called you, you would always come to his aid. Every time you saw him, it seemed your heart called out to him. It was a strange feeling, only made more complicated by your growing crush on the painter.
“I don’t know why my words are more special than everyone else's that compliment your art.” Rafayel felt his stomach clench. He remembered the times spent in that alcove, the past rushing back to him in waves when he finished one of his paintings.
Rafayel shrugged, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re always one of the first to see my finished and unfinished art.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t let just anyone see my art before I’m ready.”
You’re special to me . His thoughts passed through his head as he took in your expression. Shadows stretched across the walls from his lamp, your body outlined against his large mural wall. It was like you were a part of the scene, and Rafayel had to snap himself out of his stupor.
“I’m honored.” You laughed, your voice spreading through the room. “But it looks like you’re finished with this one. Were you just going to paint the night away?”
Sitting down on his stool, you crossed your arms over your chest, a cold breeze coming from one of the open windows. There was a silence in the air that was only interrupted by the soft knock of branches on the wall and the crashing of the waves on the beach. Your eyes met, his body swaying as he followed the ebb and flow of the ocean.
“I thought about it.” He backed up just a step, head tilting as he took your position on his stool. You looked stunning , and although he usually didn’t paint people, you were an exception. You were the only exception. “But seeing you right now, I want you to be my model.”
You were slightly taken aback by the suggestion, shying away from his eyes as he trailed them down your body. He never did that, never looked at you like you were an ancient statue that was worshipped for millennia. At least you never caught him looking at you like that.
“I don’t think I’m a very good model. I can barely sit still.” You didn’t think about the fact that Rafayel’s eyes would be fixated on you, every inch of you, as he painted. The salty air wafted in from the ocean, and you shivered at the cold once more.
“I think you’ll be a perfect model.” He turned to look at his room, an idea washing over him. “In fact, I think you should dress up.” Rafayel began walking towards his room, beckoning you to follow him.
Once you stepped inside, you took in just how spacious his room was. One of the walls was all windows, his bed in the middle of the room facing the ocean. Bookcases and supplies littered the other walls, and a door sat in the corner. You had been in Rafayel’s room before, but with the moon casting pure light over almost everything, it was like you were in another world.
Rafayel clearing his throat brought you back to reality, and you looked around, finding him standing in front of the door. He wore a mischievous smirk as he turned the handle, revealing rows and rows of clothes. In a grandeur swing of his arms, he looked back at you.
“You have free reign.” He announced, watching you walk up and peer in. The way your jaw slightly dropped as you took in all the beautiful outfits. Some were made for women, some for men, and others to fit anybody. “Pick whatever you want and become my model, please.” The last syllable drew slowly from his lips, his eyes begging you to do this for him.
Just like most things, you were too caught up in his eyes, finding yourself nodding in reluctance. “Okay, fine.” When you walked in, you were overwhelmed by colors and patterns, so you turned back to Rafayel. “Give me a second to choose; there are so many options.”
“Take all the time you need, miss bodyguard.” He stepped out, his shoes clicking on the tile floor as he made his way to the living room. You could hear rustling as he began cleaning up something, probably getting a new canvas and preparing the area.
Taking a deep breath, you perused the clothes, finding almost anything you could think of, from warm coats with gold accents to tight-fitting dresses with streaks of blue and purple. Nothing jumped out at you as you looked through almost all the racks.
It wasn’t until you reached the last little corner that you saw a beautiful pair of sandals like the ancient gods would wear. They looked like they tied together just below your knee, the strings made of an iridescent blue. Right above it hung a gown, long and flowing. If it weren’t adorned with matching iridescent hues, you would think it was a nightgown. It was pure white, a beautiful shining blue string wrapped around the waist and collar. You were drawn to it, your hand instantly shooting out and pulling it from the hanger.
You wondered if anyone else had worn this or if Rafayel had invited anyone else to do this exact thing. A hint of jealousy appeared before you shook it away; he wasn’t yours . Immediately, you started undressing, folding your clothes, and preparing to set them on his bed. When you finished the last knot on the sandals, you walked out, setting your clothes on Rafayel’s bed.
Peeking into the living room, you see Rafayel standing at the clear wall, looking out over the ocean. His solemn expression is reflected in him, and you can see his eyes following the tides. The hands in his pockets flexed as he rocked on his heels again.
Not wanting to eavesdrop on him any longer, you cleared your throat, leaning against the door frame. When Rafayel turned around, he had to keep his face a bit neutral, not wanting to let slip just how much he was amazed by your beauty. As his eyes scanned your outfit, you felt your skin heat up.
“Do you let every woman wear this when you paint them?” You joked, knowing he said he didn’t paint people. But who knows? Maybe a past lover had been in your exact position, except this time you weren’t lovers. Walking forward just a bit, you cross your arms over your chest, feeling the sheer cover over the silk gown itch your skin.
“Of course not! I told you I don’t paint people. But you’re an exception.” Rafayel scoffed, rolling his eyes and letting his hand come to rest on his chest. He pretended to be hurt, his thoughts clouded by the sight of you in the gown. It brought back memories, things he wished you would remember but knew were impossible. You wouldn’t remember; you couldn’t remember.
He walked over to the easel, his paints already mixed and ready to go. Looking back at you, his breath caught in his throat, his words coming out as a sigh before he steeled his expression into one of impatience. “That was a piece given to me by a very famous designer. No one has worn it, just you. And I think it was meant for you, miss bodyguard.”
Instead of adding another quip to the duel, you relented, walking over to his stool that sat a few feet from the mural wall. Awkwardly standing there, you looked at Rafayel before sitting on the stool. You tried to do precisely what you did before, one of your feet sitting on the footrest and the other gently pressing into the floor. Giving him a look, you watched as he picked up his brush. “How’s this?”
Rafayel had to clench his jaw to stop the endless compliments that would fall from his lips. Instead, he nodded his head, focusing back on the paint he haphazardly stroked onto the canvas. “Great, keep still for me, princess.”
He didn’t notice the slip of his tongue, but you did. The nickname came so effortlessly from him that you had to bite your lip. Another rush of nostalgia hit you in the chest, and your heartbeat sped up just slightly. In an effort to calm your thoughts, you took a few deep breaths, not knowing why it sounded so familiar and alien at the same time.
There was a clear picture in his head, the beige and yellow colors mixing to make a beautiful piece of art. When he was finished, he would hang it in his room for his eyes only. It was like he could still remember that day, the hot sun beating down on his skin as he stood on the dunes. The light almost blinded him when he saw you, and he began to stroke white paint on your outline.
Silence fell between you, and you remained still, your gaze swinging from the beautiful deep blue ocean in the distance. There was also the concentrated look on Rafayel’s face as he scribbled on the canvas. He usually sat on the stool, the same one you were currently occupying, but he didn’t mind having to stand, his long legs bending slightly to get a better look at the painting head-on.
The waves crashing provided good background noise as you felt his eyes on you once more. The tension in the air snapped tight each time you made eye contact, a small smile blooming on Rafayel’s face. He tried to ease some of your nerves, his gaze traveling to your hips and legs, poking out just slightly from the bottom of the gown. The blue strings of the sandals hugged your calves tight, making a slight indent in your skin.
His resolve wasn’t fairing, and he realized he didn’t think it through when he asked you to model for him. He began imagining pushing the gown up your body, exposing every inch of you to him. The thoughts that came to him sometimes at night began to slip in, and he had to shake his head lightly, pulling his hand back before he totally ruined the painting with the wrong shade of orange.
“How’s it coming along?” Your voice cut through the silence, watching as Rafayel paused for a moment. The way your eyes met was quick, an energy surrounding you that caused the hair on your arms to stand on end. If you weren’t paying attention, you would have missed the way the tips of his ears blushed, his shoulder twitching as he shrugged.
“It’s coming along well; just make sure not to move. I don’t want you to mess it up, miss bodyguard.” He teased, wiggling his eyebrows at you. Though his voice was light, his throat clenched as a breeze tumbled in, your gown fluttering around your legs.
The fragrance you always wore seemed enhanced by the salty smell of the ocean flowing around the room and surrounding Rafayel. He took a deep breath, your scent intoxicating to him. Whenever you were around, he couldn’t help but be intrinsically drawn to you, your natural smell causing his brain to go fuzzy.
Rafayel took notice of the way you shivered, his hand stuttering as he created the wind in his painting, the edge of the gown making a rippling effect in his art. When he looked at you again, you were still, eyes gazing at the ocean. He wondered if you felt drawn to the sea just as he did. Although curious, he never pushed the boundary, not wanting to dig up the tragic past that he was cursed to remember.
“Cold?” His question hung in the air for a second before you nodded. Instead of teasing you, his brow softened, and he tilted his head. “Not too much longer, I promise.”
When you nodded again, Rafayel turned his attention back to the painting. It was amazing how quickly he could switch into the creator mindset. His dedication to everything he did was admirable, and despite how dramatic he could be at times, it was almost always for good reason.
While he was preoccupied, you let your eyes admire him. His eyes squinted slightly, flicking over the canvas. One of his hands held his paintbrush, while in the other sat the color palette. There were many beiges and yellows, along with white and blue. Curiosity ate at you, and you wondered what exactly he was doing in the background.
His black pants slid over his legs and hung on his hips. The waistband tightly held his tucked button shirt, smoothing his shoulders. The muscles in his arms flexed as he twisted his wrist, making frantic lines on the canvas.
Caught up checking him out, you didn’t notice how Rafayel smirked. He didn’t think he would catch you staring at him so openly, and he couldn’t help the chuckle that fell from his lips as he straightened up.
As you met eyes, he stopped, lips curled into a smirk. The distance between you seemed like it stretched on, and worlds and timelines separated you. The beating of your heart quickened, skin pebbling as another ghost of cool air wafted in. Rafayel’s eyes softened, caught in your trance.
Extending a hand, he beckoned you over to him with a proud smile as he gestured towards the painting. “Come have a look at this masterpiece.”
Hopping off the stool, you walked over. Rafayel’s eyes pierced through you as you took in the painting. He was right; it was a masterpiece . Rising dunes stretched into the distance, and dark shadows and bright highlights gave depth to the two-dimensional picture. It wasn’t until you noticed yourself that you gasped.
The white gown you were wearing stood out amongst the blue sky and beige sand but somehow still blended in perfectly. Your shadow was long behind you, the light of the sun in your face. It was amazing how he made it feel like wind brushed across your features, making the gown flow behind you. The blue accents of your sandals and the dress were small, light brushstrokes that flitted across your body and skin.
Once again, the familiar rush of longing flooded your senses, and you wanted nothing more than to reach your hand out and feel the sand fall through the gaps in your fingers. It felt so real , like a memory that was lost in time. You were in a trance, analyzing the background details: the small squares in the distance resembling a village, the shadows on your gown making it look like it was actually moving…
“You’re too silent, it’s worrying me.” Rafayel’s playful voice wrenched you back to reality. His head tilted in impatience, trying to read your expression. If he looked closer, he would have seen the scene reflected in your eyes, the longing you felt mirroring his own. However, he stayed in his spot, arms crossed over his chest, and awaited your words.
“I… I don’t know what to say.” For once, you were speechless, your throat incapable of putting together what you felt at that moment. “I can’t say anything except it’s stunning… Nothing like your other paintings…” You stared at him in amazement, your hands lying at your sides. “This one is special.”
Looking at Rafayel, you saw his Adam’s apple bob, his fingers gripping his arms. To anybody glancing at him, they would think he was perfectly normal, but you weren’t just anybody. It was a look you hadn’t seen from him like he was holding something back. He noticed the furrow in your brow, the smell of your perfume wafting towards him as you tried taking a step forward.
Rafayel met each step you took with a step back. A look of hurt and confusion passed over your face, and Rafayel had to clench his fists, jaw tightening. Every nerve in his body was on edge. His own restraint began to wear thin as he took in your appearance—as beautiful as ever—and the intoxicating scent that seemed to smother him even more than usual.
“Yeah.” He choked out, nodding his head frantically. “Yeah, it’s really special.” His lips twisted into a wry smile, his eyes trailing down your body to rest on your feet, the intricate laces drifting up your calves. It looked like he was restraining himself, his usual playful and light personality darkened by the night.
“Raf,” You said his name, and Rafayel had to stop himself. He didn’t want you to see the effect you had on him. The simple utterance of his name echoed through his head. The way you looked at him caused his throat to close; words stuck there forever, wanting to be released. “Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah,” With a light shake of his head, he was snapped back. His usual playful disposition faded a bit as he stared at you. The colors in his eyes mixed together, and even from where you stood, you could see the moonlight reflected in his pupils. “Yeah, I’m good.”
As if something snapped in him, Rafayel looked around, a low hum vibrating his throat as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. His fists clenched, blood rushing down and causing him to clear his throat. He wasn’t sure where to run to, knowing that if you just looked closer, he would be caught red-handed.
“I’m going to grab the supplies to preserve this and use the bathroom.” He pointed back towards his bedroom, breaking eye contact with you as he rocked on his heels. “Just relax on the couch for a minute… I’ll be right back.”
Rafayel trailed off, giving you almost no time to answer him as he turned and walked into his room. It was weird how he shut the door when he was always so open and inviting towards you, causing you to tilt your head in confusion.
As you were blanketed in silence, you went to sit on the couch, feeling the soft fabric under your fingertips. Thinking back to all the times you sat there, listening to Rafayel rant and pace through the room, it brought back memories, and you smiled, seeing how different it was bathed in night.
Your eyes trailed back to the painting, entranced by its image. It looked even more real from farther away, like a picture taken by a professional camera and displayed. Sounds echoed in your mind, men laughing and shouting in the distance. The heat of the sun burned your skin, and you almost raised your hand to block the rays.
The beating in your heart increased, feeling the silk of the gown against your legs. Your bottom lip trembled, and emotions that you didn’t think were yours suddenly rushed over you. A slight tremble shook your hands, and you had to grip the dress and anchor yourself to this reality. This reality . Yes, what you felt was real; Rafayel was real, the ocean outside was real, and the city skyline and people sleeping were real. The painting wasn’t real.
You weren’t sure how long you sat on the couch, listening to the ocean waves and smelling the salt in the air. Your eyes flicked around the room, refusing to sit on the painting again. The thoughts in your head faded away as you focused on the ocean, your brain immediately landing back on Rafayel. Where was he?
Curiosity got the better of you, and you stood up, the heels of your sandals lightly clicking on the tile floor as you approached his room. From behind the door, there was rustling, and although you didn’t want to invade his privacy, you leaned in, pressing your ear against the door.
“Fuck,” Rafayel’s low voice was very faint, almost inaudible if it weren’t for the deafening silence in the living room. You bit your lip, unsure of what exactly he was doing. Thoughts raced through your head, and your face burned as you explored all the possibilities…
Rafayel’s throat closed, his brain running a million miles a minute as he tried to make it brief. Ripping his clothes off in haste, his breath came out in pants. Quiet . He tried to urge himself, his cock already throbbing and leaking precum onto the sheets.
Your scent … He had to stop the groan from his lips as he closed his eyes. The clothes that you changed out of lay perfectly on his bed, greeting him and begging to be used. Your bra… Rafayel felt so dirty. His chest flushed red as he remembered you were just one room away, waiting on him. You were waiting on him, and eventually, you would become impatient. It was only a matter of time unless he hurried up .
In contrast to his hasty thoughts, he slowly grabbed your bra, trying to convince his mind that this was okay. He could get away with it and return to where you sat on the couch. He just needed to get it out . There weren’t many people who could cause him that much turmoil. In fact, no one could, except for one person: you . No matter what, when, or where, you were the only exception.
Another low breath stuttered out as Rafayel wrapped his hand around his cock, the other hand taking hold of your bra. Your scent already washed over him, more intense than before. Your natural perfume was like an aphrodisiac, immediately causing blood to pool to his lower half. It was already hard enough to control himself around you usually, his heart aching for you just to remember , but as he glanced at your clothes on his bed, he couldn’t help himself.
“Fuck.” The word slipped out once more, his jaw clenching as he quickly tried to finish himself off. His thumb glided over his tip, precum dripping down his length. As he sniffed your bra, he thought about you, on top of him or under him, whatever it was. He pictured his face buried between your tits just as he was buried in your bra. Vivid pictures in his mind that he wanted to put onto a canvas. Display in his room so he can always see you lost in pleasure.
His hand sped up, grip tight and bruising as he bit down on his hand. He had to stay quiet; if you found him, then he would surely dive into the ocean and never return. The embarrassment almost had him stopping, but it was too late. He was already fully naked, his cock standing long and aching. He couldn’t just hide his hips from you the rest of the night, no. He had to finish. A small bead of sweat ran down his forehead, pooling into his collarbone as his fingers clenched around his throbbing cock.
Your heart rate quickened, your hand glancing over the doorknob, and you thought about it for a moment. The cold metal stung your skin, and you felt electricity run through you. You heard another expletive from the other side of the door.
With a breath, you turned the knob, opening the door and peeking your head in. While you had thoughts about what exactly he was doing, you would never have guessed what you saw.
At first, your eyes met Rafayel’s, taking in his flushed cheeks and chest. His nipples looked hard, straining in the moonlight that washed over his skin. Your jaw dropped slightly, seeing one of his hands gripping his leaking cock. And the other…
Rafayel heard your gasp; his own jaw slack as his eyes met yours. The hand on his cock stopped, his fingers twitching. He was so close , the need building in his stomach and to have it cut off like that. Dropping your bra onto the bed, he sat up, his throat closing as he tried to speak.
“I… I’m…” His voice failed him, eyes searching yours. He expected to see disgust, disappointment, or even - his worst nightmare - hatred.
“I was wondering what was taking you so long.” Your hands sat at your sides, fingers moving against the flowy fabric. Arousal pooled in your underwear, your steps light as you walked to the edge of the bed.
“I’m… I’m sorry.” Rafayel whimpered, his lower lip pouting slightly. The sight of him, so lewd and dirty yet looking at you so hungrily and apologetically, made your heart race. Standing there, your knees brushing against the edge of the bed, you paused. The man that lay on the bed sighed, the hand that previously held your bra hanging in the air.
Silence fell between you, and you knew you had two options: indulge in him, your feelings for the artist finally being put out in the open… Or walk away and almost surely ruin the friendship and possible relationship that might have developed. Your eyes flitted around his body, seeing his abdomen tighten with each breath he took. His cock still twitched in his grasp, his tip poking out from his fist, leaking precum and begging to be finished off.
“Do you…” You trailed off, slowly walking around to the side of the bed and sitting down. Rafayel groaned, your skin giving off a delicious scent, different than the bra that he had previously buried his face in. He hung on your every word, his eyes wide as he silently begged for you to say something. “Do you want me to help?”
The question drifted into the air, surrounding him and taking his breath right out of his lungs. As if given the green light, Rafayel sat up further, extending his hand towards you. His eyes changed from desperate to dark.
“Yes, I need you.” His voice deepened, the sincerity going far beyond pure lust and sinking into yearning. Every inch of him yearned for you; every single time he was given life, he searched for you to the ends of the earth. The gown you wore brought back memories of a different time, and Rafayel was reminded of just how deep his devotion was to you. “Please?”
Your hand rested in his, feeling how moist his palm was as he guided you to sit on his lap. Rafayel’s hands moved to your hips, bunching your gown up so your thighs were exposed to the cold air. His hard cock pressed against your underwear, the silk fabric of your dress brushing against his lower abdomen.
The way he looked at you, a wonder in his eyes like he had watched a goddess descending from the sky, was addicting. In truth, he had always looked at you that way, yet as soon as you would glance over at him, he was looking elsewhere. Rafayel never wanted to force anything on you, hoping that your bond would naturally bring you to him. After all, there were lifetimes where he couldn’t find you, where he was stuck in a world that wasn’t brightened up by your presence.
Rafayel stared at you, his lower lip pulled into his mouth as his hands awkwardly caressed your thighs. His touch was tentative, his fingers not quite sure exactly what he was doing or what he wanted to do. The desire he felt was only extended to you; the only pleasure he ever sought out was by his own hand on very few occasions. Although he could remember the past, those specific instances never popped up and unfortunately, he didn’t really retain the muscle memories.
Your hands rested on his bare chest as you leaned forward. Before you could speak, Rafayel wrapped his arms around your back, pulling you flush against him. A low growl vibrated through you both as he buried his face in your neck. A soft kiss was pressed to your pulse point, his nose brushing against your skin.
“Fuck, princess.” His voice was nearly silent, more for himself than for you. Your touch on his skin was electric, like a shock by an eel. Every single thought in his head was erased, his focus solely on you. Your scent, your touch, your face, your voice, and fuck the way you tasted.
His tongue darted out, licking a stripe from your shoulder to under your ear. Cold air brushed across the trail, your eyes closing and your body reacting to the drastic change in temperature. You tasted divine, the salty sweat and unexplainable sweetness of your skin making his cock twitch under you.
“Tell me if it’s too much, princess,” Rafayel warned, listening to your sharp breaths and soft moans as his hands ran along your back. Slowly you ground your hips down onto him, only the thin fabric of your panties separating your pussy from his cock. It was gentle, giving you small glimpses of the pleasure he could bring you, but you weren’t in any rush. You wanted to indulge in the man below you.
As soon as he spoke, his teeth grazed your neck. With each slight nip at your skin, another gasp fell from your lips. A small drip of spit fell from your open mouth, searing Rafayel’s skin, and he had to clench his jaw, biting down a little harder. You drove him crazy , his heart always following your siren song no matter the consequences…
Rafayel’s nips turned into bites, which then turned to the soothing warmth of his tongue. He couldn’t wait to see what they bloomed into, the memories of the night lasting for days after. It wasn’t until your hands moved to his hair, tugging at the strands in an attempt to pull him off your neck, that he moved. He was a puppet under your strings; wherever you pulled him, he would go.
“Raf…” Fuck , Rafayel sucked in a breath when he heard you say his name like that, breathless and wanting.
“Yes, princess?” You stole the breath from his lungs, keeping it locked in your heart. “What do you need? Tell me.” His thoughts became nonsensical babbling, hands drifting back down to your hips.
“Want you, Raf.” Your brain was muddled with thoughts, not fully believing that you weren’t dreaming. Rafayel was - in fact - underneath you, his chest flushed and hands gripping your hips with a ferocity that you didn’t know if you could handle.
“You have me.” He teased, his thumbs stroking your hips through your gown. Even between layers of fabric, you could feel his searing touch.
“I want all of you.” You sat up, grinding your clothed pussy against his cock. By now, your panties were soaked with a mixture of his precum and your arousal, the tip of his cock poking out from between your legs. Reaching down, you ran your thumb across his slit, listening to the sharp gasp from the man below you. “Want your hands, your mouth, your cock. All of you.”
Rafayel’s hands cupped your cheeks, bringing you closer so your nose brushed against his. Taking a deep breath, he collected himself, his thumbs running along your cheekbones. His words fanned across your face, digging deep into your soul and planting itself there.
“You have all of me, princess.” It was the first kiss you shared, his lips slowly pressing against yours in a tentative dance. Giving you plenty of time to push him away, he relaxed when he felt you pull him in. Your hands moved from his hair to the back of his neck. His heart rate rocketed against your thumb as you rubbed along his pulse point.
It was initially slightly awkward, Rafayel’s closed lips cold against yours. Smiling, you pulled away, seeing a brush of red across his nose. Your hand moved to cup his jaw, your thumb pressing on his chin.
“Just relax, Raf.” You whispered, your breath being swallowed by his slightly opened lips. When you leaned in, his shoulders relaxed. The second time was better, his eyes following your every movement, and as you kissed him, he leaned into it. Your tongue poked out, parting Rafayel’s lips even further, and his grip on your waist tightened, slowly pushing and pulling your clothed pussy across his cock.
As your tongues met, you swallowed one of his moans, his lips chasing yours in desperation. Once again, your lips tasted delicious, and Rafayel did not want the kiss to end. Your thumb moved along his jaw, caressing his skin as the man below you panted, his breath hot as he had to pull himself away.
It was everything he ever dreamed of and more, all the restless nights he spent awake, thinking of you. The slow, languid drag of your tongues had Rafayel bucking his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against your clit. Low groans were exchanged as you pulled back.
The blush on Rafayel’s cheeks deepened, his eyes darkening as he leaned forward, his hands gripping at the hem of your gown. In a silent plea, he tugged, pulling up enough to look at your panties. If he didn’t know any better, he would have bit through his lip, his knuckles almost turning as white as your dress.
“Can I take it off?” He asked finally, his nose brushing your cheek. Your combined breaths were deep, his chest stuttering as you nodded, helping him remove the gown. It came with padding, so cold air struck your nipples. A gasp came from you, and you closed your eyes.
Words couldn’t describe the way Rafayel looked at you, his jaw slack and eyes unfocused. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face as he took in your appearance. As beautiful as he remembered.
“You’re absolutely stunning, princess.” His words were carried by the ocean breeze, sailing across the seas. The hands on your hips stopped for a moment, slowly inching up your waist. He wanted nothing more than to touch you and feel your plush skin under his fingertips. There was no way in hell he would let you go. You wouldn’t slip through his fingers again.
“Thank you.” You smiled down at the man below you, your hips slightly twitching as cold air rushed in again. Taking notice of his hesitance, you hold his hands, leading them to your warm breasts. “You can touch me, Raf. I want you to touch me.”
His fingers tested the waters, kneading your tits. Rafayel was very good about teasing you without actually knowing he was; the way he was massaging you without touching the most sensitive part had you whining. Your pussy rode the wave of his cock, languidly grinding as you tried to get some form of pleasure.
Before you could ask - beg - for him to touch you properly, he was leaning forward. His tongue brushed against your nipple, eyes shadowed by his lashes as he stared up at you. Rafayel was testing the waters, revering in your reactions even to his small actions. Your skin tasted divine, his lips immediately wrapping around the pebbled bud.
“Fuck, Rafayel.” One of your hands buried itself in his hair, fingers gripping the locks like it was the only thing you could hold onto in the rough waves. While he indulged in one of your breasts, the other was occupied by his hand, his fingers tweaking your nipple. The way your moans hung over him, your mouth so close to his ear. He could feel the vibrations of each noise you made, your heartbeat thrumming beneath his fingertips, and he had to remind himself you were alive, sitting on his lap. This was real ; it wasn’t just a fleeting fantasy.
“There you go, princess.” His breath hit your wet skin, your nipple hardening almost painfully as he blew cold air. The grip he had was rough with desperation instead of dominance. Even though he was below you, you still felt at his mercy, just like he felt he was at yours. “You’re so warm.”
The hand on your hip ran along your back, his fingers mapping every muscle and bone he could touch. Your skin was so warm under him, whether from the situation or your natural state; Rafayel didn’t know but wanted to find out.
A small pool of precum sat on his lower stomach, evidence of his previous alone time and a reminder that he wasn’t quick enough. You caught him, hook, line, and sinker. Maybe he liked being caught…
Darkness flooded you as you closed your eyes, one of your hands anchoring yourself on Rafayel’s bare shoulder while the other on the back of his head. Holding him against you, it felt as though your heartbeats were one. Completely in sync like it was meant to be for ages and ages.
Underneath you, Rafayel desperately thrusted his hips, wanting and needing any sort of movement on his throbbing cock. He needed to be buried in you, feel your warmth from inside. Fleeting touches were pressed to your back, pulling you into him while also causing your folds to trail along his cock.
“Can we… Can I go further?” Although he so desperately needed it, he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. A slight nervousness flooded through him, and he looked up to gauge your reaction. “I- I’ve never done this before, but p-please.” His eyebrows furrowed, shadows dancing across his face as you cupped his jaw.
“Yes, please.” You whimpered, lips crashing onto his once more to drink in his presence. As impatient as you both were, the thought of it being his first time had you slowing it down. Need wasn’t a good word for it, no. There was a yearning in his eyes, swimming and inviting you into the depths with him. “Please fuck me, Rafayel.”
A yelp echoed through the room as Rafayel quickly sat up. His arms supported your waist as he flipped you over, your bare back resting against his soft sheets. From the new angle and the lack of his hips pressed against yours, cold air hit your clothed pussy.
“You’re so beautiful.” Goosebumps appeared on your arms, Rafayel’s hands sitting on your hips and moving up your torso. Half of him was entranced by your tits, and the other half was anxious about finally seeing you - all of you.
“Rafayel, please.” Tiny twitches of your hips brought Rafayel back to the present, his eyes drifting to yours. The soft, pleading look you gave him had his back flexing. Leaning over you, he pressed his long cock against your pussy. His tip brushed against your clothed clit, and he bit his lip, his nose brushing yours as he hovered over you.
“Do you remember what I was doing while touching myself?” The embarrassment he previously felt at being caught was out the window. In an attempt to prevent himself from losing control, he took the reigns, watching your eyes widen. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, then your shoulder, a few on your neck until, eventually, his nose pressed against the same spot as before, right below your ear. He could feel your thrumming heart through your veins, sucking on the spot before burying his face there.
With your hands now more accessible to roam, your nails lightly scratched along his back and shoulders, moving down to his waist and across his abdomen. A sharp breath came from the man above you, his nose nuzzling your skin.
“Tell me, princess.” His whisper was pressed into your skin, thrumming through your veins. Silence suffocated you as he waited for an answer, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs lightly flicking your nipples. “What was I doing when you caught me?”
Frantic touches turned deeper as you held his waist against you. Every sense was full of Rafayel, your nails digging into his flesh and threatening to draw blood. You tried to remember the moment of catching him, feeling like it was so far away as if it had happened centuries ago. The mental file cabinet that stored your memories was being wiped clean; even thinking back to the previous minute was impossible.
“You were… F-fuck…” Whimpering, you bit your lip, the image coming back to you. You held his waist tighter, your core throbbing as you thought about it. “Y-you were holding my… My bra.”
A low hum came from Rafayel, the memory of it still fresh in his mind. His cock twitched, resting across your folds. Pinching both of your nipples, Rafayel took a deep breath. He felt drunk, his head spinning with thoughts of holding you like this again for the rest of his life and all the lives that would follow.
“Your scent…” His voice morphed into an animalistic growl, every atom in his body vibrating. A carnal urge filled him, and he hooked his fingers in your underwear. You felt a puff of air on your neck; his words strained in his throat. “Can I take these off?”
“Y-yes.” You nodded along with your words; a moan ripped from your throat as he quickly ripped your panties down your legs. There wasn’t but a moment of his hands not being on you before he was roughly holding your thighs open. Your slick pussy clenched around nothing, folds spreading to expose you to him.
With much reluctance, Rafayel lifted his head from your neck, trailing kisses down until he was in front of your leaking hole. The fragrance… Fuck … His throat closed, heart hammering as he blew air over your pussy. Your cunt throbbed, thighs wanting so badly to close around his head, but he held you open.
He was transfixed, everything about your pussy was beautiful. As he pressed kisses along your thigh, he paused, kissing your folds and looking up to read your expression. You ran your fingers through his hair, nodding and encouraging him to continue.
“Fuck.” He cursed, his teeth nipping at your thigh. Something snapped in him, his hands digging into your flesh as he moved forward. His nose brushed your clit, a gasp coming from your lips at the sudden jolt. Inhaling your scent, he moaned, his tongue coming to collect some of your juices from your hole. He traced around your entrance, not yet dipping inside. Your taste was better than any alcohol he ever drank.
“Delicious.” The words were spoken into your pussy, his tongue drawing circles around your folds while his nose rubbed your clit. He was so caught up in you that he didn’t notice the way you tugged his hair.
“Raf,” You whined, pulling your hips away just enough to make him look up at you. Though there was a drunken stupor to his gaze, he was attentive, his thumbs caressing the junction between your thigh and hip. “Your nose… Feels so good on my clit… More…”
You tried to guide him, seeing his glazed-over eyes and smiling at him. When he dove back in, his tongue flicked your clit, and a louder moan was ripped from your lungs. A near scream echoed when Rafayel’s lips suctioned over your sensitive bud, his tongue causing you to clench your eyes shut.
“Oh fuck!” You screamed, feeling his finger simultaneously press into you. It was slow and methodical, sinking deeper. Your velvet walls enveloped him, the warmth from your body filling him to the brim. His hips stuttered on the sheets, his own pleasure rocketing through him at your screams.
After a few thrusts, Rafayel’s middle finger teased your hole, gently joining the other one. Nothing could have prepared him for how warm you felt, his fingers twisting and turning inside you as he explored. Biting your lip, you felt his long fingers brush your walls, the tips eventually passing over a particularly sensitive spot.
“Oh my- right there.” Bucking your hips, you ground into his fingers. His tongue teased your clit as he slowly fucked you, each press forward gliding against your g-spot and causing a burst of fireworks in your vision. “Rafayel.”
Rafayel was overwhelmed. The sight of your heaving chest, the sound of your moans, the smell of your leaking pussy, the feeling of your warm walls, and the taste of your juices. He couldn’t take it anymore, ripping his fingers from your cunt, leaving you whining and clenching around nothing.
“I’m sorry, princess…” He moved up the bed so he could look into your eyes. As he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, his thumb still playing with your throbbing clit. His hard cock rubbed against your pussy, his tip joining his thumb as waves of pleasure prickled your skin. “I have to be inside you now .”
Rafayel gripped his cock, squeezing the base. For a moment, time froze, his chest heaving as he looked down at your entrance, your hole pulsing and waiting to be filled. He had to pause, collecting his thoughts. The fear of finishing as soon as he was buried inside you was a possibility. His pent-up emotions trickled over the edge of the dam, ready to burst with any little crack.
As he guided himself into you, he sighed. Centuries and centuries of finding you, loving you, losing you . It all culminated in that moment. His hands seared as he pushed all the way, his cock fitting perfectly in your walls. You shared a low moan, both of your bodies reacting the same way as he bottomed out.
The feelings you harbored for Rafayel were intense, and they only grew with each day you met him. But as he looked down at you, his cock fully nestled against your g-spot, you felt your heart jump. Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying with useless abandon to get him deeper, fill every inch of you with him.
“Fuck.” Rafayel breathed through his nose, trying to keep himself calm as his eyes traveled around your body. The heels of your sandals dug into his back, a slow circling of your hips giving way to the low growls from the man above you. “Hold on, princess…” He stilled your hips, his abs clenching as he prolonged his orgasm. “Don’t wanna cum yet.”
You obeyed his plea, your head laying on the pillow as you both caught your breath. His cock twitched inside you, skin burning with desire as he skimmed his fingers over your thighs. As you looked up at him, that same sense of nostalgia suffocated you. Like with the paintings, it was as if you were looking at a picture, a fleeting memory in your mind's eye. But he was real; this was real.
“Okay, gonna move now.” The thrusts started slow and shallow, only pulling out halfway before pressing back in. Your pussy was so wet, the noises doing nothing to hide that fact. Bending down, Rafayel nuzzled his nose into your cheek, his lips ghosting over yours.
An instinct fell between you, his hands cupping your cheeks while yours rested on his waist. His muscles contracted with each breath and beat of his heart. It was natural… As if you had held each other in this position before.
The kiss you shared was soft, Rafayel holding you like you would disappear… Again … You were sand between his fingertips, and he didn’t want you to be washed away by his tides. As he kissed you, he pulled out all the way, thrusting forward harshly. The sound of his balls slapping on your ass and the sharp gasp that he swallowed with his own mouth had Rafayel taking control.
He pulled away from your lips just enough to look into your eyes. The thrusts that were once soft and exploratory, learning the inside of your body, turned into an insatiable hunger. Now that he had you, he didn’t want to let you go. People in his life came and went, and he never cared that much… You were the only exception; you were always the only exception. As long as his soul was on the planet, he would always find you. He swore on his people.
Wet noises and slaps bounced off the walls as Rafayel frantically chased your orgasms. One of his hands remained on your jaw, thumb running along your cheekbone. The other snaked down to where you were connected. First, he rubbed along your entrance, feeling the way you sucked his cock back in when he pulled out. Then, he pressed on your clit, finger quickly flicking. His hips stuttered every time you clenched around him, the knot in your stomach tightening.
“Fuck, Rafayel.” His name ripped out of your throat, your eyes blinking rapidly to clear the tears that were beginning to fall. Everything was too much; your whole body ignited in flames as you clung to Rafayel’s back. “I- I’m close.”
Your whimper went straight to Rafayel’s cock, his abdomen flexing as he felt himself so close. So very close . Just a little longer, a little more. Electricity sparked when you met eyes, the colors fading and blending into a beautiful hue as Rafayel panted, his tongue licking at your open mouth.
“M- me too, p-prin-cess.” His words stuttered just as his hips did, chasing and chasing and chasing. It wasn’t until he heard your scream right next to his ear that he let himself fuck into you harder.
Your orgasm crashed into you, your whole body convulsing as your legs locked around Rafayel’s waist. Fire washed across your skin as your hole pulsed around the cock that was still spearing in you. Low whimpers fell from your lips, overstimulation and exhaustion settling into your muscles while Rafayel chased his own orgasm with reckless abandon.
As he looked at you, his beautiful princess, he ground his hips into yours. Holding himself still, he panted, warm breath fanning across your face as spurts of warm cum flooded your walls. There was so much. It didn’t stop, his seed pushing out from around his cock as he slowly fucked you through your orgasms.
A slow, passionate kiss was pressed to your lips, Rafayel’s fingers lightly wiping the few stray tears that fell. His cock softened inside you, yet he stayed still, the feeling of being wrapped up in you something he ached for.
“Wow,” Your chest heaved as Rafayel’s weight nearly fell on top of you, your legs dropping to either side of his waist. Your hands sat on his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscles.
The man above you chuckled, kissing your nose. There wasn’t anything he could say that could showcase how deep his feelings were for you. How much he yearned for you. How his heart almost stopped when he saw you for the first time. How his soul needed to be right next to yours or he felt incomplete.
“Yeah… Wow…” Was all he could say, agreeing with your sigh of wonder. He searched your eyes for any sign of hesitance, hoping and praying that your heart would remember his. That’s all he ever wanted, and it was for you to remember . “I’m… Sorry about what you walked in on.”
The thought of being caught sniffing your bra and jerking off caused Rafayel to shiver, his eyes dropping your gaze for a moment. Sometimes, he could be overwhelming, especially when you weren’t officially together, and something like that would scare some people away.
“Oh.” Being brought back to earlier, seeing the flush in his cheeks almost exactly mimicking the flush that was present now, a shy smile crossed your features. “I- I didn’t mind it. Why else would I offer to help… If I didn’t find it hot?”
Your words paused, letting Rafayel drink in the feeling of you in his arms. Gently, he turned back over, his back hitting the bed. His cock was still snug inside you, even though his cum was starting to leak down his balls and onto the sheets. Pulling you into his embrace, he caressed your back, kissing your temple.
“Good… I thought I scared you away.” The fear of you leaving him yet again was a cloud that lifted from his mind as soon as you laughed, snuggling into his arms and kissing his collarbone.
“Can we stay just like this for a minute?” Your muscles began relaxing, eyes closing as you listened to his heartbeat mirroring your own. “I feel… complete.”
As you uttered those words, Rafayel fought back tears. He gripped you so hard, no longer afraid of you floating away. Now, all he wanted to do was hold you close and never let you go. People came into his life, and they left. He never cared much, but when faced with the realization that you were here , you were so close, you were the only exception.
“We can stay like this forever, cutie.” He whispered in your hair, eyes closing as he relived the past, holding you close like that once again after centuries.
Summary: Two years into your meticulously structured marriage, an unexpected pregnancy introduces the ultimate unpredictable variable into the quiet sanctuary you share with Jake. As you both navigate the overwhelming sensory challenges of impending parenthood, Jake must step outside his comfort zone to prove he can be the unshakable wall your growing family needs.
Warnings: Autism Spectrum Representation (Level 1/high support needs), Sensory Overload & Meltdowns, Pregnancy & Morning Sickness (Emesis), Childbirth/Medical Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Mild Angst. Very Mild Smut, unprotected sex (due to sensory aversions), sensory-focused intimacy, overstimulation, pregnancy themes.
A/N: after so many requests it’s finally here!!! Thanks to all the readers that gave me ideas to incorporate in here , love yaaa. And truly thank you for all the love for finding where we fit!!🥹Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.
[Masterlist]
The morning sun filtered softly through the edges of the drawn blackout curtains, casting a hazy, warm glow across the bedroom. You lay perfectly still beneath the familiar, heavy comfort of the fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket, anchored to the mattress by your husband.
Jake slept exactly as he had since the very first time you spent the night: like a clinging octopus. His broad chest was pressed flush against your back, his heavy arm slung securely over your waist, and his long legs were tangled inextricably with yours. His breathing was a slow, steady rhythm against your spine.
You carefully brought your left hand up to the edge of the blanket, watching the morning light catch the simple band of polished titanium and lapis lazuli on your ring finger. It had been two years since the quiet, intimately controlled wedding in your backyard. Two years of being Jake Sim's permanent variable.
And exactly one hour since you had locked yourself in the master bathroom, stared at a plastic stick, and watched two pink lines bloom into existence.
"Your heart is beating really fast," a deep, sleep-rough voice rumbled against the nape of your neck.
You jumped slightly, your breath catching. You turned your head to see Jake's face pressed into your pillow, a mess of dark, fluffy curls sticking up in every direction. He blinked his large, dark brown eyes slowly. The sleep-heavy softness of his face completely stripped away the hyper-vigilant tension he carried outside these walls.
"Did you have a bad dream?" he murmured, his voice laced with genuine concern. He pulled you a fraction closer, his large hand flattening against your stomach to offer the deep pressure he knew grounded you both. "The room is quiet, Y/N. Everything's safe."
"No bad dreams, Jakey," you promised, shifting your weight to turn and face him, managing a shaky but genuine smile. "I'm just... thinking about how happy I am."
Jake smiled, a soft, sleepy curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He reached up, his long fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw. "I like that," he whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "I'm happy too. The temperature is right at 68, the blanket feels good, and you're here. It's a perfect morning."
It was a perfect morning, but beneath your ribs, your heart was doing a frantic, terrified flutter.
You were exactly one month pregnant.
You knew without a doubt when it had happened. A month ago, after a quiet, beautiful dinner at home to celebrate your second anniversary, the math of your cycle tracking had apparently failed.
Physical intimacy with Jake had always required an immense level of trust and sensory management. Early in your marriage, you had tried utilizing standard protections. But the introduction of a condom had triggered an immediate, devastating sensory failure for him. You still remembered how his body had gone rigid beneath you. The latex had felt like a suffocating barrier, a synthetic, rubbery texture that created a "secondary friction" completely overwhelming his delicate receptors. He had lost the physical sensation almost immediately, the "noise" of the unnatural texture drowning out the intimacy. He had pulled away midway through, his hands trembling as he stripped it off, his breathing hitched in a sudden wave of panic and overstimulation.
He had been so devastated, so terrified that his neurology was "broken" and ruining the experience for you. You had immediately stopped, wrapped him in his weighted blanket, and held him until the static faded. You promised him right then and there that you would never force a variable that hurt him.
So, you became the gatekeeper. You rigorously researched cycle tracking, charting your basal body temperature and monitoring your fertility windows. It was a highly logical, data-driven system that Jake appreciated immensely. On the safe days, you allowed him the barrier-free, skin-to-skin contact that his sensory processor so desperately craved—the only time his mind was truly, beautifully silent.
But biology, it seemed, didn't care about your data.
"Are you ready to get up?" Jake asked, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "It's Tuesday. Grilled cheese day."
"I'm ready," you whispered, leaning in to press a firm, grounding kiss to his lips.
Thirty minutes later, you were fully dressed in your work clothes—comfortable slacks and, as always, your quiet, rubber-soled Converse sneakers.
The life you had built together over the last two years was a masterpiece of careful adjustments. The transition into marriage had been blissful, but it hadn't been without its growing pains.
The biggest hurdle had come exactly three months after the wedding. That was when Sarah, holding back tears of both pride and sorrow, had officially packed up the rest of her belongings and moved to the bright, sunny condo she had purchased 4.2 miles away. She knew that for you and Jake to truly build a life as husband and wife, you needed the beige house to yourselves.
Jake had understood the logic. He had agreed to the timeline. But the reality of the shift had absolutely devastated him.
For the first two weeks after Sarah left, Jake had experienced a profound system crash. The ambient noise of the house was wrong without her footsteps. The smell of her specific brand of herbal tea was missing from the kitchen. The sudden absence of the woman who had spent twenty-four years shielding him from the world was a massive, gaping void.
He hadn't touched his LEGOs for fourteen days. He had retreated to the bedroom, living under the weighted blanket, the blackout curtains drawn, trapped in a spiral of dysregulation and grief. He didn't speak much. He just rocked, overwhelmed by the missing variable.
You hadn't pushed him. You hadn't tried to force him to be "okay." You had simply climbed under the blanket with him. You provided the deep pressure, the quiet reassurance, and the absolute certainty that while the variables had changed, the sanctuary remained intact. You took over the routines, proving to him day by day that you could keep the world at bay just as well as his mother had. And slowly, the static had cleared. Sarah started coming over for Tuesday dinners, and a new, stable routine had blossomed.
Now, the house operated like a well-oiled machine, supporting both of your new lives.
You had officially left the agency shortly before the wedding. Now, you worked full-time as the program coordinator at a local community center, specializing in designing sensory-friendly recreational programs for neurodivergent teens. It was fulfilling work that utilized your social work degree without the draining bureaucracy of your old job.
And Jake wasn't just sitting idle, either. With your encouragement, he had turned his hyper-fixation into a thriving, quiet career.
He now ran a highly successful online business restoring and selling vintage, discontinued LEGO sets. People from all over the country would mail him boxes of mixed, dirty, incomplete bricks. Jake would meticulously clean them, sort them, source the missing pieces down to the exact molding variants, and reassemble them to ensure structural integrity before selling them to collectors at a premium. He also took on custom architectural commissions, designing incredibly complex scale models for independent firms.
He worked from the safety of his living room, surrounded by his organized bins. He made his own hours, controlled his own environment, and contributed to the household income in a way that made him deeply, visibly proud.
Walking into the kitchen, you found him standing at the round wooden table, bathed in the carefully filtered morning light. He was wearing a dark navy blue hoodie with the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. In front of him on a blue plate was his breakfast: two uniform yellow scrambled eggs, separated perfectly from three strips of bacon cut into precise one-inch squares.
You stood at the kitchen island, packing your canvas tote bag for the day. You slipped your wallet, your planner, and the positive pregnancy test—wrapped tightly in a tissue and shoved deep into an interior zippered pocket—inside.
Then, you reached into the small, decorative ceramic bowl you kept on the counter. Inside were two distinct pieces of plastic.
One was a solid, red 2x4 LEGO brick.
The other was a translucent blue, polycarbonite "power blast" web piece.
You picked up the blue web piece, rubbing your thumb over the sharp, molded plastic edges. You slipped it into the front pocket of your cardigan, a daily ritual. The red brick, however, you left in the ceramic bowl. It belonged here, in the center of the home.
Jake chewed his bacon rhythmically, swallowed, and took a sip of his water from a clear glass.
"You're taking the web piece today," Jake observed, his keen eyes tracking your movement as he wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin.
"I am," you smiled, walking over to wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I have a big meeting with the city funding board today. I might need a little extra structural support."
Jake leaned his head back against your chest, seeking the deep pressure, his hands coming up to rest over your arms. "Polycarbonite is highly resilient," he reminded you softly. "It won't break. You're going to do great at the meeting. You have all the data prepared."
"Thanks, baby," you replied, though your voice wavered just a fraction at the affectionate nickname.
He didn't catch the slight tremor, too focused on the comfort of your touch. He speared a forkful of eggs. "I have a big project today, too," he told you, chewing carefully. "A collector in Seattle sent me a massive bin of unsorted bricks. They think there's an original 2007 Ultimate Collector's Millennium Falcon in there. I get to sort it all. It's going to be incredibly satisfying."
"That sounds like a perfect Tuesday for you, Jakey," you murmured, smoothing down the soft fabric of his hoodie. "I'll be home at exactly 4:15 PM."
"4:15 PM," he confirmed, his shoulders relaxing completely at the predictable timeline. "I'll make sure the living room is quiet for you when you get back."
You grabbed your tote bag and headed for the front door, the weight of the hidden plastic test feeling heavier than an anvil against your side.
Jake's entire world, his career, his mental health, his beautiful, brilliant mind—it was all built on managed expectations and calculated variables. He thrived on his routines because it was the only way he could survive the overwhelming sensory input of existence.
And in less than nine months, the ultimate unpredictable, loud, messy, chaotic variable was going to be introduced into his carefully controlled sanctuary. You loved him more than anything in the world, but as you started your car, a tear slipped down your cheek. You had absolutely no idea how you were going to tell him without shattering his peace.
The next five days were an agonizing exercise in compartmentalization.
You had always prided yourself on being Jake’s safe harbor, the one variable in his life that never fluctuated, never lied, and never introduced unnecessary chaos. But now, you were carrying a secret that felt like a ticking time bomb, and hiding it from a man who noticed every micro-shift in your breathing was proving to be nearly impossible. Yet, those same five days also highlighted just how incredibly, breathtakingly intimate your marriage had become.
The intimacy wasn't just in the dark of the bedroom, though the skin-to-skin contact remained his ultimate grounding mechanism. The true intimacy was in the daylight. It was in the way Jake had stopped asking for permission to enter your space. If you were sitting on the couch reading a case file for work, he wouldn’t sit on the opposite end anymore; he would slide onto the cushions, drape his long legs over your lap, and pull your free hand down to rest flat against his chest. He needed you the way he needed oxygen.
On Thursday evening, you were standing at the stove, trying to focus on boiling pasta. The smell of the boiling starch, which had never bothered you before, was suddenly turning your stomach into a churning, uneasy knot. Jake walked into the kitchen, his silent footsteps barely registering until you felt his broad chest press firmly against your back. His heavy arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely flush against him. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck.
"Your baseline temperature is elevated," he murmured, his breath warm against your pulse point. His large hands flattened against your stomach, spreading his fingers wide. "You are radiating more heat than your standard output. And your skin is slightly clammy."
You froze, the wooden spoon stalling in the pot of water. He was a human thermometer. "I'm just a little warm from the stove, Spidey," you lied smoothly, leaning back into his solid weight to distract him. "The boiling water is creating a lot of steam."
Jake hummed, a deep vibration of thought, but his hands didn't leave your stomach. He pressed slightly harder, offering that deep, soothing pressure. "If the thermal environment is uncomfortable, I can adjust the thermostat. Or I can finish the pasta sequence. You should sit down."
"I'm okay, Jake, really," you promised, turning your head to kiss his cheek.
He didn't argue, but he didn't leave your side, either. He stayed pressed against you for the entire cooking process, his thumb gently, rhythmically stroking the fabric of your shirt right over the exact spot where a new life was currently dividing into cells. The profound, heartbreaking sweetness of his touch made you want to burst into tears right there into the pasta water.
By Sunday, the secret became entirely physical.
It started the moment you opened your eyes. The blackout curtains were drawn, the room was a cool 68 degrees, and Jake’s heavy leg was thrown over yours beneath the weighted blanket. It was the perfect Sunday morning.
But the moment you shifted, a sudden, violent wave of nausea hit you so hard the room spun.
You slapped a hand over your mouth, practically shoving Jake’s arm off your waist as you bolted upright. You scrambled out of the bed, your bare feet hitting the hardwood, and sprinted for the master bathroom.
You barely made it to the toilet before your stomach violently emptied itself.
You dropped to your knees on the cold tile, gripping the porcelain as you heaved, coughing and gasping for air. The sound was loud, sudden, and harsh—exactly the kind of chaotic, unpredictable noise that usually sent Jake’s sensory system into an immediate tailspin.
But Jake didn't cover his ears. He didn't hide under the blanket.
Less than five seconds later, the bathroom door was pushed open. Jake dropped to his knees right behind you on the bathmat. He didn't hesitate. He wrapped one arm securely across your collarbone to hold you upright, and placed his other large, warm palm flat against the center of your spine, pressing down with firm, unyielding pressure.
"Deep pressure," he chanted softly, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic situation. "I am the wall. Breathe into the wall, Y/N."
You heaved again, a miserable, wet sob tearing from your throat, and leaned your entire weight backward into his chest. He held you flawlessly. He didn't flinch at the smell or the sound. Two years ago, a sick person would have been a massive biological hazard to his rigid need for cleanliness. Today, his only concern was the fact that his permanent variable was in distress. When the nausea finally subsided to a dull, aching throb, you slumped against him, resting your sweaty forehead on your arm.Jake reached up with his free hand, grabbing a towel from the rack. He gently wiped your mouth, his brow furrowed in intense, analytical concern.
"Your system is violently expelling data," he observed, his dark eyes scanning your pale, sweat-dampened face. "Your heart rate is erratic. Are you experiencing acute gastrointestinal distress?"
"I think so," you gasped, letting him pull you backward so you were sitting against his chest on the floor. You closed your eyes, the guilt of what you were about to do sitting heavier in your stomach than the sickness. "I'm so sorry, Jake. I know the sound is loud."
"The sound is irrelevant," he stated firmly, pulling you tighter against him. "You are malfunctioning. We need to identify the variable. Did you ingest a pathogen?"
"It must have been lunch on Friday," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I went to that new deli with my coworkers. I had a turkey sandwich. It... the mayonnaise must have been bad."
Jake's eyes narrowed slightly as his internal processor immediately crunched the numbers. "Foodborne illness," he muttered, his fingers drumming a quick, anxious rhythm against your arm. "The incubation period for Salmonella can range from six hours to six days. Staphylococcal food poisoning usually occurs within thirty minutes to eight hours. Given the timeline, a Campylobacter or Salmonella infection is statistically probable."
He was applying logic to your lie, accepting it instantly because it fit a mathematical parameter. And more importantly, he accepted it because you were the one saying it. You never lied to him.
"I just need to lie down," you whispered, feeling a fresh wave of tears prick your eyes.
"Yes. Rest is the optimal recovery protocol," Jake agreed immediately. He stood up, incredibly careful not to jostle you, and then reached down to help you to your feet.
He guided you back to the bed, pulling the sheets and the weighted blanket back so you could slide in. He tucked the heavy grey fabric tightly around your shoulders, cocooning you in safety.
"I will procure hydration," he announced, his face set in a mask of determined focus. "Electrolyte imbalance is a secondary threat to vomiting. I will also eliminate environmental stressors. The house will remain at a volume level of zero."
"You don't have to do all that, Jake," you mumbled into the pillow, utterly exhausted by the physical toll of the morning sickness and the emotional toll of the deception.
"I am the husband," he said simply, as if that explained the fundamental physics of the universe. "It is my protocol to maintain your structural integrity."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your warm forehead, before turning and leaving the room on silent feet.
For the next two hours, you drifted in and out of a restless sleep. True to his word, the house was entirely silent. You didn't hear the clink of dishes or the usual low hum of his LEGO sorting.
In the laundry room down the hall, Jake was executing a new system.
If there was a biological pathogen in the house, his logic dictated that all potential vectors of contamination needed to be sanitized. He had gathered the clothes you had worn over the last days, including the work slacks and the light jacket you had discarded over the back of the armchair in the bedroom.
Jake stood in front of the washing machine. He liked the washing machine. The cyclical rotation of the drum was mathematically soothing, and the detergent smelled clean and predictable.He meticulously checked the pockets of your clothing. It was a strict rule: foreign objects in the washing machine could disrupt the balance of the drum or create catastrophic clanking noises during the spin cycle.He emptied a crumpled receipt and a stray pen from your slacks. Then, he picked up your light jacket.
He reached his long fingers into the deep, zippered interior pocket. He felt something hard, wrapped in a layer of soft tissue paper. Jake pulled it out. He unwrapped the tissue paper carefully, placing it in the wastebasket, and held the plastic object up to the light. It was a white plastic stick, roughly five inches long, with a small digital screen and a square window. Inside the window, there were two distinct, highly saturated pink lines.Jake frowned, tilting his head. His brain immediately began searching its vast databases for a match. It looked like a medical diagnostic tool. He knew what a thermometer looked like; this was not a thermometer. Two pink lines.
He stared at it for a long, quiet minute. He turned it over, looking for a manufacturer label or a model number, but there was only a small logo he didn't immediately recognize.
His chest felt tight. A new, unidentified variable in his house was always a cause for a slight spike in anxiety. But this variable belonged to you. You had hidden it in your interior zipper pocket.Logic dictated that if you were utilizing a medical diagnostic tool, it was related to the systemic failure you had experienced in the bathroom. The food poisoning.Jake didn't panic. He just needed the data. He needed to understand the mechanics of the tool so he could properly assist in your recovery.
He left the laundry room, the plastic stick grasped loosely in his hand, and walked silently down the hallway. You were half-asleep when the bedroom door clicked open. The hinges were perfectly oiled—Jake maintained them monthly to prevent squeaking—so the door made no sound. You opened your eyes heavily, blinking against the dim light. Jake was standing at the foot of the bed. His posture wasn't rigid, but he looked deeply confused, his head tilted to the side like a dog trying to understand a new command.
"Hey, Spidey," you rasped, shifting under the weighted blanket. "Did you finish the laundry?"
"I paused the sequence," Jake said softly, keeping his voice pitched low to accommodate your headache. He took a few steps forward, coming to stand beside the mattress. "Is the machine unbalanced?" you asked, rubbing your eyes.
"No. The machine is optimal." Jake looked down at his hand, then looked at you. His large, dark brown eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated innocence and a deep desire to comprehend.
He held his hand out, opening his long fingers to reveal the plastic stick resting in his palm. "Y/N," he began, his voice perfectly calm and inquisitive. "I was executing the pocket-clearing protocol to prevent lint contamination and auditory disruption in the washing machine. I found this in your jacket."
The blood in your veins instantly turned to ice water.
Your entire body went rigid beneath the blanket. The air vanished from your lungs. You stared at the plastic stick in his hand, the two glaring pink lines practically screaming at you in the quiet room.
No. No, no, no. "I do not recognize this diagnostic tool," Jake continued, entirely oblivious to the catastrophic internal explosion happening in your brain. He brought the stick a few inches closer to his face, analyzing the window again. "It has two highly saturated pink lines. I hypothesize that it is a chemical reagent test."
He lowered the stick and looked at you, his brow furrowing in genuine concern.
"Is this for the Salmonella?" he asked innocently. "Does it measure the pathogen load in your system? I did not know they manufactured rapid tests for foodborne illnesses."
You were caught so completely, so devastatingly off guard that your voice simply ceased to exist.You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your heart was hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs—a rhythm so loud you were certain Jake’s sensitive ears could pick it up. He saw your panic. His own eyes widened slightly, his internal processor snagging on your sudden, profound distress.
"Y/N?" he murmured, taking a step closer, the plastic stick still held in his hand. "Your breathing just became incredibly shallow. Your pupils are dilated. Did I do something wrong? Was this a private medical variable?"
"Jake..." you choked out, the word barely a whisper. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your hands shaking violently. He instantly dropped the test onto the nightstand. The sharp clack of the plastic hitting the wood echoed in the quiet room, but he didn't care. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching out to grab both of your trembling hands in his. "Deep pressure," he said immediately, his voice rising in pitch as your panic triggered his own. He squeezed your hands tightly, his brown eyes searching yours frantically. "I'm sorry. I breached your privacy. I just wanted to process the data so I could help you fix the malfunction. Please don't look like that. The static is getting loud, Y/N."
"You didn't do anything wrong," you gasped, pulling one of your hands free to cup his face. His skin was warm, his jaw tense with sudden anxiety. "You didn't breach my privacy, Jakey. I'm not mad at you. I'm not."
"Then why are your hands shaking?" he pleaded, leaning his face heavily into your palm. "Why is your heart beating like you are in danger? The house is safe."
You looked from his beautiful, terrified face to the plastic stick sitting innocently on the nightstand. There was no more compartmentalizing. There was no more waiting for the 'perfect time' to introduce the variable. The data was on the table.
"Jake," you whispered, your voice cracking as the first tear spilled over your eyelashes. "I lied to you."
Jake froze entirely.
The word lied was a massive, system-crashing error code in his brain. People outside the house lied. People in stores, people at the agency, people who didn't understand him—they lied. But you were the baseline. You were the permanent variable. You did not lie."You... gave me false data?" he asked, his voice dropping to a hollow, devastating whisper. He didn't pull away from your hand, but his entire body went as rigid as a board. "Yes," you sobbed, using your thumb to stroke his cheekbone desperately, trying to keep him grounded. "I didn't have a turkey sandwich on Friday. I don't have Salmonella, Jake." He blinked rapidly, his processor struggling to re-route the information. "Then why did your system violently expel its contents? Why is your temperature elevated? If there is no pathogen..."
He stopped. He slowly turned his head to look at the plastic stick on the nightstand.
He was brilliant. He didn't have the social scripts, but he understood biology, chemistry, and systemic reactions better than anyone. He stared at the two pink lines.
Diagnostic tool. Elevated temperature. Morning nausea.You watched the exact second the realization hit him. Jake's breath hitched—a sharp, jagged sound that seemed to tear its way out of his throat. His dark eyes went impossibly wide, his pupils expanding until they almost swallowed the brown irises. He slowly, mechanically turned his head back to look at you.
"The barrier," he whispered, his voice trembling so violently it barely sounded like him. "On our anniversary. The sensory failure. We did not... we did not use the barrier."
"We didn't," you confirmed, the tears flowing freely down your face now.
He stared at your stomach. The same stomach he had been pressing his hands against for the last five days to provide deep pressure. "That is not a test for a pathogen," Jake said, his voice entirely devoid of its usual factual cadence. It was raw, breathless, and stripped bare. "That is an hCG test. It measures the human chorionic gonadotropin hormone."
"Yes," you cried softly. Jake slowly pulled his hands out of your grasp. He didn't do it aggressively, but the loss of his deep pressure left you feeling terrifyingly unmoored. He sat back on his heels, his hands hovering uselessly in the air for a moment before he wrapped them tightly around his own torso, applying his own pressure.
He began to rock. It wasn't a violent, meltdown rock. It was a slow, rhythmic sway, forward and backward on his knees. Forward, back. Forward, back. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing coming in short, erratic bursts.
"Jake," you pleaded, leaning over the edge of the bed to try and reach for him.
"Too much data," he whimpered, slapping his hands over his ears. He curled his head down toward his chest, hiding his face. "It's too much data. The variable is too big. The volume is at maximum."
Your heart shattered into a million pieces. This was exactly what you had been terrified of. A baby wasn't just a life change for Jake; it was a sensory explosion. It was crying that couldn't be reasoned with, unpredictability that couldn't be scheduled, and a total dismantling of the quiet, controlled environment he needed to survive.
"I'm sorry," you sobbed, sliding off the mattress and dropping to your knees right in front of him. You didn't try to pull his hands away from his ears. You knew better. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his entire curled-up form, burying your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie. You squeezed him with everything you had, becoming the heavy blanket he desperately needed. "I'm so sorry, Jakey. I didn't know how to tell you. I was so scared of breaking your peace."
He rocked against you, the physical momentum jarring your bones, but you held on tighter. "It's going to be okay," you whispered fiercely against his shoulder, hoping he could feel the vibration of your voice even if he couldn't hear the words over his covered ears. "We write our own code, remember? We'll figure it out. I won't let it be too loud. I promise."
For ten agonizing minutes, you sat on the floor of the bedroom, holding your husband as his world tilted violently off its axis.Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the rocking began to decelerate. The frantic, jagged gasps for air smoothed out into deep, shuddering breaths.Jake's hands slowly lowered from his ears.
He uncurled his body, remaining on his knees but straightening his spine. You loosened your grip, leaning back just enough to look at his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wet with tears, and his jaw was clenched tightly as he fought to process the massive system update. He didn't look at you at first. He looked down at your stomach again. He slowly, hesitantly reached out with his right hand. His fingers were trembling. He didn't apply deep pressure this time. For the first time in your entire relationship, his touch was feather-light. His palm barely brushed the fabric of your pajama shirt, resting softly over your womb. "There is a secondary heartbeat in the house," Jake whispered, the awe in his voice cutting through the panic like a laser. "Yes," you breathed, placing your hand gently over his.
He finally looked up at your face. The sheer terror of the unpredictable variables was still there, swimming in the depths of his dark eyes, but it was being rapidly overwritten by something else. A profound, consuming gravity.
"I did not calculate this," he said, his voice thick with tears. "I do not have the manual for how to be a father. The crying... the biological fluids... the disrupted sleep cycles. It is a mathematical nightmare."
"I know," you smiled wetly.
Jake's thumb twitched against your stomach. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
"But," he continued, a watery, blindingly beautiful smile breaking through the fear, "it is our variable. It is a combination of my data and your data. It is fifty percent you."
"And fifty percent you," you whispered back.
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, collapsing forward into your arms. He buried his face in your neck, wrapping you in a crushing, desperate hug that finally restored the deep pressure you both needed.
"We will require a massive restructuring of the schedule," he mumbled into your skin, his logical brain already starting to construct a new system to handle the chaos. "We will need noise-canceling headphones for the infant to protect its own auditory receptors. And we will need to purchase the LEGO Duplo sets. They are structurally appropriate for early motor skill development."
You laughed, a loud, joyous sound that echoed in the quiet room, tangling your fingers in his dark hair.
"We have nine months to build the schedule, Spidey," you promised, holding him as tightly as you could.
"Nine months," he echoed, pulling back just enough to press a firm, deeply intentional kiss to your lips. "That is approximately 274 days. We will optimize the environment. The house will be safe." He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing in complete surrender. "I love you, Y/N. And I love our anomaly."
The transition into the second trimester hit you like a freight train.
Five months had passed since the morning the two pink lines had rewritten the algorithm of your lives. It was now late October, and the world outside the beige house was a flurry of biting winds and dead, brown leaves. Inside, however, the house was a carefully maintained 69 degrees.You sat heavily on the edge of the living room sofa, staring down at your feet. They didn't even look like your feet anymore. They were swollen, puffy, and aching with a dull, relentless throb that radiated all the way up to your calves. Your belly was undeniably, magnificently large, resting heavily in your lap beneath the oversized fabric of one of Jake’s vintage Spider-Man hoodies.You had taken an early leave from your job at the community center around month two. The sensory-friendly programs you ran for the teens were fulfilling, but they were also unpredictable. The sudden loud noises, the emotional heavy lifting, and the physical demands had caused a few terrifying stress-spikes early in the pregnancy. Jake’s processor had essentially red-lined. He had compiled a fifty-page binder of statistical data on maternal stress and fetal development, presented it to you over Tuesday grilled cheese, and firmly requested that you prioritize your structural integrity. You hadn't argued; the exhaustion had already been sinking its claws into you.
So, you were home. You were the permanent, stationary variable.
And right now, you were crying over a vegetable.
"I don't understand," Jake murmured, his voice tight. He was standing by the kitchen island, surrounded by the brown paper bags of your weekly grocery delivery.
He held up a clear plastic clamshell container. Inside were six perfectly uniform, miniature Persian cucumbers.
"You requested the small, green, cylindrical gourds," Jake said, his brow furrowed in deep, anxious confusion. He looked from the container to your face, his dark eyes wide and panicked. "I selected the organic Cucumis sativus. The reviews indicated a high level of structural crunch. They are exactly as requested."
"Jake," you sobbed, burying your face in your hands. The tears were hot, fast, and entirely irrational, fueled by a cocktail of second-trimester hormones and sheer physical exhaustion. "I wanted pickles. I wrote 'baby dills' on the shared list. Pickles."
Jake stared at the cucumbers, his brain rapidly cycling through the data.
"Pickles are cucumbers," he stated, his voice pitching up slightly. "They are cucumbers submerged in an acetic acid solution. The vendor interface did not specify the brining process in the primary search results. I... I procured the base ingredient. I can initiate a brine. It requires vinegar, sodium chloride, and dill weed. The fermentation process will take approximately three to four days—"
"I don't want them in three days!" you wailed, the sound escaping you before you could clamp a hand over your mouth. "I want them right now! And my feet hurt, and I can't even see my own toes to put my socks on, and I just wanted a stupid, salty pickle!"
You instantly regretted the volume of your voice. The loud, unpredictable sound of crying was one of Jake's most sensitive triggers. It was chaotic audio data that his brain struggled to categorize. Through the gaps in your fingers, you saw the immediate physical toll your breakdown was taking on him. Jake froze. His broad shoulders hitched up rigidly toward his ears. The clamshell of cucumbers dropped onto the granite counter with a sharp plastic clack. His hands flew up, hovering just an inch over his ears, his fingers twitching violently as he fought the overwhelming, instinctual urge to clamp them down and block out the noise. His breathing hitched, catching in a ragged, shallow gasp. The static was deafening him. You could see it in the terrified, wide-blown look in his eyes. He was on the absolute edge of a system crash. "I'm sorry," you choked out, trying desperately to swallow the sobs, your chest heaving. "I'm so sorry, Jakey. I'm being too loud. Please, go get your headphones. I'm fine. I'm just hormonal."
You hated this. You hated putting this heavy, unpredictable emotional weight on him. He worked so incredibly hard every single day to manage his environment, to be the steady, logical anchor you needed, and here you were, flooding his sanctuary with chaotic noise over a grocery mix-up. The guilt compounded the tears, making them fall even faster. Jake looked at his noise-canceling headphones, which were resting on the edge of the coffee table. They were his shield. They were the emergency exit.
He looked at the headphones, and then he looked at you—weeping, swollen, and miserable on the sofa. He didn't grab the headphones. Jake let out a low, agonizing groan, his hands dropping forcibly from his ears. He curled them into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles turning stark white as he forced himself to physically override his own sensory defense mechanisms. He crossed the living room in three long, stiff strides. He didn't sit beside you. He dropped straight to his knees on the plush rug, right in front of your swollen feet. "You are not fine," Jake said, his voice trembling under the immense strain of remaining present. "You are leaking. Your pain receptors are firing. The volume is... the volume is high, but the variable is you. I am not leaving the variable."
"Jake, your ears," you wept, reaching out to touch his tense shoulder. "It's too loud for you."
"I am the husband," he gritted out, squeezing his eyes shut for a microsecond to re-center himself. "It is my protocol to fix the malfunction." He didn't hesitate. He reached out and wrapped his large, warm hands around your right foot. He applied immediate, intense deep pressure, his thumbs digging firmly into the aching arch of your foot, his fingers wrapping around your heel.
The relief was so sudden and profound that a fresh sob tore from your throat, but this one was a sound of release.Jake flinched slightly at the sound, but his grip didn't falter. He began to systematically massage the swollen tissue, moving with robotic, mathematical precision. Press, hold, release. Press, hold, release. He used his body weight to push the pooling fluid back up your calf, his dark head bowed in absolute concentration. "The edema is severe," he murmured, his voice still tight, but the repetitive physical motion of the massage was beginning to ground him. "The fluid retention is a standard biological response to the second trimester, but the hydrostatic pressure must be incredibly uncomfortable. The deep pressure should stimulate the lymphatic system."
"It feels so good," you breathed, leaning your head back against the sofa cushions, the tears finally beginning to slow. "Jake, it feels amazing. Thank you."
He moved to your left foot, applying the exact same pounds per square inch of pressure. He worked in silence for ten minutes. The only sound in the living room was your gradually steadying breath and the ticking of the wall clock.
Slowly, you felt the rigid tension in Jake's shoulders begin to melt. His breathing synced with yours.
"I'm sorry I cried," you whispered into the quiet room, wiping your damp cheeks with the oversized sleeves of his hoodie. "I know how much you hate it when I'm sad. And I know the noise hurts you. I didn't mean to overload your system."
Jake stopped rubbing your foot. He shifted his weight, moving up so he was kneeling between your knees. He rested his hands flat on your thighs, right just below the heavy curve of your belly. He looked up at you. His eyes were red-rimmed from the strain, but the frantic, panicked static was gone. "I do not hate the noise because it is loud," Jake corrected softly, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic pattern against your sweatpants. "I hate the noise because it means my permanent variable is in distress, and my internal processor struggles to locate the correct solution. I procured cucumbers when you required acetic-acid soaked cucumbers. I failed the grocery parameter. That was the source of the overload. I felt... inadequate."
Your heart cracked. You reached down, cupping his beautiful, earnest face in both of your hands.
"You could never be inadequate, Jake Sim," you promised him fiercely. "Never. You are taking care of me perfectly. My hormones are just scrambling my emotional data. It's not your fault."
He leaned into your palms, letting out a long, heavy exhale.
"I will go to the convenience store at the corner," he announced, a sudden, determined spark lighting up his brown eyes. "The crowd density will be negligible at this hour. I will procure a jar of Baby Dills. The sodium content will not help your edema, but it will stabilize your emotional parameters." You let out a watery laugh, running your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You don't have to go out, Spidey. The massage was enough."
"The massage fixed the hydrostatic pressure," he replied logically, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm. "It did not fix the pickle deficit. I will return in precisely fourteen minutes."
True to his word, fourteen minutes later, you were sitting on the couch, crunching happily on a perfectly salty, cold baby dill pickle. Jake was sitting right beside you, his hip pressed flush against yours, watching you eat with a profound sense of satisfaction. "Optimal crunch," he noted, listening to the snap of the pickle.
"Optimal," you agreed, resting your head on his shoulder. "Thank you, baby."
He hummed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and resting his large hand directly over your belly. The baby was active tonight. The sudden influx of sodium and the cold temperature of the pickle had woken them up. A sharp, distinct kick hit right against Jake's palm. Jake's eyes widened. He stared down at your stomach, a look of absolute, unvarnished awe washing over his face. Even after five months of feeling the baby move, it still short-circuited his brain in the best possible way.
"The kinetic energy is increasing," he whispered, his fingers splaying wider to capture the sensation. "The anomaly is practicing its motor functions. The muscle density is growing."
"They're getting strong," you smiled, covering his hand with yours.
"They require a highly structured environment," Jake said, his tone shifting back into that hyper-focused, factual cadence that meant his brain was locked onto a project. "Which is why the nursery parameters must be finalized before tomorrow."
Ah, yes. The nursery. When you first found out you were pregnant, the idea of a baby had been an abstract, terrifying variable for Jake. But as the months progressed, his logical brain had found a way to cope with the impending chaos: systematic, meticulous preparation. The nursery had become his ultimate hyper-fixation.
"Do you want to show me the progress?" you asked softly.
Jake nodded immediately, a proud, eager energy vibrating in his shoulders. He stood up, offering you both of his hands to help haul your heavy center of gravity off the sofa. You waddled down the hallway together, your hand locked tightly in his.
The door to the spare bedroom was closed. Jake opened it with a soft click, pushing it wide to reveal his masterpiece. It didn't look like a traditional, Pinterest-perfect baby room. There were no bright, overwhelming primary colors. There were no loud, flashing musical mobiles. The room was a sanctuary of controlled sensory input. The walls were painted a muted, soft sage green—a color Jake had researched extensively, proving it to have the lowest psychological stimulation threshold. The lighting was entirely indirect, utilizing warm-amber smart bulbs that could be dimmed to exact percentage points from his phone to prevent harsh glare on a newborn's sensitive retinas.
Along the baseboards, he had installed subtle acoustic dampening panels to absorb the high-frequency sound waves of crying, ensuring the noise wouldn't echo and multiply within the confined space.
But the centerpiece of the room was the crib.
Jake walked over to it, running his long fingers over the smooth, unfinished birch wood. "I verified the structural integrity of every joint," he told you, his voice filled with quiet pride. "The manufacturer instructions suggested a torque of 15 Newton-meters for the primary bolts. I increased it to 18 to account for micro-vibrations over time. The mattress is organic, hypoallergenic cotton. There are no synthetic off-gassing chemicals to disrupt the infant's olfactory development."
"It's beautiful, Jake," you whispered, walking up beside him and resting your hand on the railing. It didn't wobble even a fraction of a millimeter. It was built like a fortress.
"It is mathematically sound," he agreed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, digital thermometer and hygrometer monitor, placing it perfectly parallel to the edge of the changing table. "And tomorrow, mom is arriving at 10:00 AM."
"She is," you nodded, bracing yourself slightly.
"We are executing the apparel procurement mission," Jake recited, his foot beginning to tap a light, anxious rhythm against the plush carpeting. "We will navigate the baby section of the department store. Mom will provide the neurotypical social buffer. You will provide the emotional baseline. I will verify the textile safety."
You smiled, reaching out to wrap your arm around his waist. "Are you feeling okay about the mission, Spidey? We don't have to go to the store. We can order the clothes online if the crowd density is going to be too much." Jake stopped tapping his foot. He looked down at the perfectly assembled crib, then looked down at your swollen belly. "Online procurement does not allow for tactile verification," he explained seriously, his brow furrowing. "Baby apparel is frequently manufactured with scratchy tags, raised seams, and rigid synthetic blends. I cannot allow the anomaly to experience the 'cobweb' sensation. Their skin will be highly sensitive. I must touch the fabrics. I must ensure the seams are flat."
Your heart melted into a puddle on the floor. He was terrified of the loud, unpredictable department store. He was already anxious about the changing routine. But his protective instinct over this unborn baby was so incredibly fierce that he was willing to willingly walk into a sensory minefield just to make sure his child never had to feel a scratchy tag. "You're going to be the most amazing dad in the world," you told him, tears pricking your eyes again—happy ones, this time.
Jake blinked, processing the title. Dad. It still sounded foreign, a variable he hadn't fully assimilated yet. But he wrapped his arms tightly around your shoulders, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the familiar, grounding scent of vanilla and oats.
"I do not have the complete manual," he murmured into your skin, his grip firm and steady. "But I have you. And the crib is secure. We will manage the variables together."
By the time the sixth month of your pregnancy rolled around, the world outside had surrendered entirely to the bitter, biting chill of late November. Frost clung to the windowpanes of the beige house.The end of the second trimester had brought with it a host of new variables. The morning sickness had thankfully evaporated, replaced by an insatiable hunger that had Jake calculating your caloric intake with the dedication of a sports nutritionist. Your belly was no longer just a soft curve; it was a pronounced, hard sphere, the undeniable physical proof of the anomaly growing inside you.
But the most surprising variable of month six was one that neither you nor Jake’s extensive, fifty-page binder of pregnancy statistics had fully prepared him for.
Your hormones had shifted again. And this time, they had manifested as an intense, almost overwhelming spike in your libido.
It wasn't something you could easily graph on a chart. It was a visceral, heavy heat that seemed to pool in your lower stomach, entirely separate from the fluttering kicks of the baby. It made you acutely, constantly aware of your husband. You found yourself staring at the broad line of his shoulders when he was sorting his LEGOs, or fixating on the elegant, strong span of his hands as he meticulously washed the dishes.Jake, for his part, was always eager to provide the deep, skin-to-skin pressure you both craved. But the sudden frequency and intensity of your desire was pushing the boundaries of his sensory threshold.
It came to a head late on a Friday night. The house was completely dark, save for the faint, amber glow of the bedside lamp. The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the harsh winter wind. You and Jake were tangled together beneath the heavy grey weighted blanket.You had just finished a deeply intimate, breathless session. Without the barrier of synthetic fabrics or latex, the sensory input for Jake was a massive, consuming wave of data. He had buried himself inside you with that familiar, mathematical rhythm, his hands gripping your hips with bruising, desperate need until the friction had pushed him over the edge. He had shattered with a high, fractured gasp, collapsing against your chest, his heart hammering wildly against your bare skin. Now, ten minutes later, you were lying on your side, facing him. His eyes were closed, his dark, fluffy curls damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His breathing was still slightly ragged as his internal processor worked overtime to categorize and store the massive influx of physical pleasure.
But your body hadn't received the memo that the sequence was over.
The heavy, throbbing heat was still there, buzzing under your skin. The single climax hadn't been enough to quiet the hormonal static in your own brain. You shifted closer, your bare leg sliding over his, pressing the soft, swollen curve of your belly against his abdomen.
You reached out, your fingers trailing lightly down the center of his chest, tracing the line of dark hair that trailed past his navel.
"Jakey?" you whispered, your voice thick and slightly raspy in the quiet room.
Jake’s eyes flew open. At the exact moment your fingers brushed lightly over his skin, his entire body flinched violently.
It wasn't a subtle movement. His chest jerked away from your hand, a sharp, ragged hiss escaping his teeth. He pulled his arms up, crossing them tightly over his own chest in a sudden, defensive posture. His dark eyes were wide, blown-out, and swimming with a frantic, chaotic energy.
"Y/N," he gasped, his voice trembling as he pressed his back firmly against the mattress, trying to put distance between your hands and his skin.
You froze instantly, yanking your hand back as if you had been burned. Your heart dropped into your stomach. "Jake? Baby, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?"
"No," he panted, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought to regulate his breathing. "No, you did not cause tissue damage. But the... the texture of your touch. It was too light. It felt like... like an electric shock. Like sparks." You realized your mistake immediately. After the massive, overwhelming neurological load of a climax, Jake's sensory receptors didn't just turn off; they became hyper-sensitized. Every nerve ending in his body was currently dialed to maximum capacity. A light, teasing touch—the kind of touch that was supposed to be seductive—felt like a swarm of angry bees on his raw skin.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, guilt instantly replacing the heavy heat of desire. You pulled your leg back, giving him space. "I'm so sorry, Jake. I didn't mean to overstimulate you." He opened his eyes, his brow furrowing in deep distress as he looked at your face. He saw the way you were pulling away. He saw the lingering flush of arousal on your chest, and his brilliant, analytical brain immediately pieced the data together. "You are still experiencing physical arousal," Jake stated, his voice tight with a sudden, crushing wave of inadequacy. He uncrossed his arms, forcing his hands down to his sides, though his fingers twitched with the effort of remaining still. "Your heart rate is still elevated. The hormonal surge... it requires a secondary sequence."
"It's fine, Jake," you promised quickly, pulling the edge of the weighted blanket up to cover yourself. "It's just the pregnancy hormones. I'm okay. We don't have to do anything."
"I am the husband," Jake insisted, his voice cracking slightly. He forced himself to roll toward you, though you could see the rigid tension in his shoulders. He reached out with a trembling hand, aiming for your waist. "It is my protocol to ensure your needs are met. I can... I can restart the sequence. I can provide the friction."
"Jake, stop," you said firmly, reaching out to catch his wrist before his hand could make contact with your skin. You didn't use a light touch. You wrapped your fingers entirely around his wrist, applying immediate, unyielding deep pressure. You squeezed his joint tightly, anchoring him to the mattress. He let out a shaky, relieved breath at the heavy pressure, but his eyes were still frantic. "I am failing the parameter," he whispered, a tear pricking the corner of his eye. "You requested a secondary round of intimacy. Normal husbands can provide multiple rounds. But my capacity is full. The static is too loud. If I experience that level of input again right now, my system will crash. I am defective."
"Look at me," you commanded softly, moving your face closer until you occupied his entire field of vision. He blinked, a tear slipping down his cheek to soak into the pillowcase. "You are not defective," you told him, pouring every ounce of love and absolute certainty into your voice. "You are Jake. Your nervous system processes the world differently, and that includes how you process pleasure. You gave me everything you had ten minutes ago, and it was beautiful. I am not going to let you push yourself into a sensory meltdown just because my hormones are acting crazy."
"But you are still in distress," he argued weakly, his eyes dropping to your lips.
"I am not in distress," you corrected, offering him a warm, reassuring smile. "I'm just a little horny. There's a massive difference. And I would rather be a little frustrated for one night than watch you suffer through an overload."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the dim light. "You are certain? You are not angry with the limitations of my processor?"
"I love your processor," you whispered, lifting his heavy hand and bringing it to your lips. You pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to his knuckles. "I love exactly how you are built. Now, what does your system need right now to quiet the static? Tell me."
Jake closed his eyes, running a quick internal diagnostic. "The light touch is painful," he mumbled, his voice dropping back to its soothing baritone. "The air currents on my skin are distracting. I require compression. Heavy, stationary compression."
"Okay. Come here."
You shifted onto your back, opening your arms. Jake didn't hesitate. He practically dove across the few inches separating you. He laid his head squarely on your chest, right over your heart, and threw his heavy arm and leg across your body. He didn't move. He didn't stroke your skin. He just locked himself against you, his absolute dead weight pressing you firmly into the mattress. You wrapped your arms around his broad, sweat-dampened back, applying as much squeezing pressure as you could muster, holding him together while his overloaded nerves slowly began to cool down.
"Is this better?" you murmured into his hair.
"Yes," he let out a long, shuddering sigh, the rigid tension finally melting out of his muscles. "The static is decreasing. The heavy pressure is optimal. You are my favorite variable, Y/N."
"And you're mine, Spidey," you smiled, the lingering heat of your libido fading away, replaced by a profound, overwhelming wave of tender affection. You didn't need a second round. Holding your husband while he found his peace was the best feeling in the world.
A week later, the highly anticipated twenty-four-week anatomy scan arrived.
The clinic was a sensory minefield, but Jake had perfected his navigation protocols. He walked through the brightly lit, sterile-smelling waiting room wearing his polarized sunglasses to cut the fluorescent glare, his noise-canceling headphones resting securely over his ears. He held your hand in a vice grip, his thumb pressing rhythmically into your knuckles—his physical tether to reality.
When the ultrasound technician called your name, he followed you into the small, dimly lit examination room. He only took off the sunglasses when the lights were turned off, and he slid the headphones down around his neck so he could hear the technician's instructions. You lay back on the crinkly paper of the examination table, pulling your shirt up to expose your swollen belly. Jake pulled a chair up immediately beside the bed. He didn't sit back; he perched on the edge of the seat, his knees pressed against the side of the table, his eyes locked onto the black-and-white monitor.
"Alright, let's take a look at this little one," the technician smiled, squirting a generous amount of warm gel onto your stomach.
You hissed slightly at the texture, but Jake didn't look at you. His dark eyes were wide, reflecting the glowing light of the ultrasound screen.
The wand pressed into your skin, and suddenly, the static snow on the monitor resolved into a clear, distinct image. A perfect, miniature spine. A tiny, beating heart that fluttered rapidly like a hummingbird's wings.
"The heart rate is 142 beats per minute," Jake announced before the technician even had a chance to measure it, his voice hushed and reverent. "It is mathematically strong."
"Spot on, Dad," the technician laughed, clicking her mouse to take a few measurements. "Everything looks completely healthy. All the organs are developing beautifully. The femur length is in the 85th percentile. You're going to have a tall one."
Jake's chest puffed out just a fraction. He reached out blindly, finding your hand on the table and gripping it tightly. "Now," the technician said, angling the wand slightly. "I know it's in your file that you wanted to know the sex today. Are you both still ready for that?"
You looked at Jake. He hadn't expressed a preference either way. His logical brain maintained that biological sex was simply a chromosomal reality, not a measure of the child's value. But as he stared at the screen, you could see a rapid, fluttering anticipation in his jaw. "We're ready," you confirmed softly.
The technician clicked a button, zooming in on the lower half of the tiny, curled-up body on the screen. "Well," she smiled, pointing to a distinct set of shapes on the monitor. "There's absolutely no mistaking that. You've got yourselves a healthy baby boy." The room went entirely silent. Jake stopped breathing. He stared at the screen, his dark eyes locked onto the image. His mouth opened slightly, a tiny gasp caught in the back of his throat.A boy.
"Jake?" you whispered, squeezing his hand. "Spidey, did you hear that?"
Jake slowly turned his head to look at you. The clinical, protective mask he wore in public spaces had completely vanished. His eyes were shining with a bright, glassy layer of unshed tears. The corners of his mouth were trembling as a massive, uncontrollable smile broke across his face. "XY chromosomes," he whispered, his voice cracking with pure, unfiltered joy. "The genetic data has been confirmed. It is a male."
"It's a boy, baby," you laughed, tears of your own spilling over your cheeks.
Jake looked back at the screen, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth as if he couldn't contain the sheer volume of his happiness. His leg started to bounce rapidly against the side of the examination table—a massive, joyful stim.
"He is a boy," Jake repeated, the reality of it settling into his bones. He leaned forward, his face inches from the monitor. "He will require the Spider-Man pajamas. The tagless ones. I must procure the correct sizes for his developmental stages. He will have my genetic markers. Y/N... we are manufacturing a miniature version."
"We are," you sobbed happily, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles. The technician handed you a long strip of glossy ultrasound photos, grinning from ear to ear. Jake practically vibrated out of his chair as he helped you wipe the gel off your stomach. He was so overwhelmed with positive data that he didn't even need to put his headphones back on when you walked out through the waiting room.
He just held your hand, his chest puffed out, walking with the undeniable pride of a man who had just solved the greatest equation in the universe.
The news of a grandson sent Sarah into an absolute tailspin of joy.
The very next day, a Saturday, she arrived at your front door at exactly 10:00 AM. She didn't just bring her usual Tupperware of leftover roast; she brought two massive canvas bags overflowing with baby name books, printouts of statistical popularity charts, and a box of non-toxic, hypoallergenic markers."I couldn't sleep," Sarah announced, dropping the bags onto the kitchen island with a heavy thud. She pulled off her coat, her dark eyes—so much like Jake's—sparkling with manic excitement. "I spent all night on the Social Security Administration's database. We have to be strategic."
Jake was sitting at the round wooden table, a brand-new, unopened LEGO Architecture set resting in front of him. But he wasn't looking at the box. He had his laptop open, an incredibly complex Excel spreadsheet illuminating his face.
"I have already initiated a database," Jake informed his mother, his tone incredibly serious. "I have categorized potential names by origin, syllable count, and phonetic clarity. A name is a primary identifier. It cannot be ambiguous." You sat at the island, nursing a cup of decaf tea, watching the two of them with a heart so full it physically ached. "Okay, let's hear the parameters," Sarah said, pulling out a stool and flipping open a heavy book titled 100,000 Baby Names for the Modern Parent.
Jake adjusted his glasses, peering at the screen. "The name must have a strong phonetic structure," he dictated, his fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. "It cannot contain soft, trailing vowels that are easily misheard in loud environments. It must be easily spelled to prevent bureaucratic errors. And it cannot be within the top ten most popular names of the current decade. Anomaly designation requires a unique identifier, but not one that is socially isolating."
"So, 'Liam' is out," Sarah noted, crossing a line through a piece of paper. "It's number one."
"Liam is highly inefficient," Jake agreed, shaking his head. "There are statistically three Liams in every kindergarten class. The auditory confusion would be overwhelming for the child."
"What about Arthur?" you suggested, resting your chin on your hand. "It's classic. Easy to spell."
Jake's eyes darted across his spreadsheet. He typed the name into a search bar. "Arthur. Meaning: Bear. Origin: Celtic. Two syllables. The 'th' fricative consonant provides a solid phonetic center." He paused, his brow furrowing as he processed the data. He looked at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "It is structurally sound. I approve of Arthur."
"Arthur Sim," Sarah tested the name, her eyes watering instantly. She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god, it sounds so distinguished. Like a little professor."
"He will be highly intelligent," Jake stated matter-of-factly, closing his laptop slightly. "He has Y/N's neural pathways. She fixes the leaky pipes."
You laughed, reaching across the space to playfully swat at his arm. "He's going to have your brain, Jake. He's going to be building scale models of the Brooklyn Bridge by the time he's four."
Jake looked down at his hands, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against the side of his laptop. The analytical mask slipped for a moment, revealing the profound, raw vulnerability beneath. "I hope he has your brain," Jake whispered, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost in the quiet kitchen. He didn't look at his mother; he looked directly at you. "I hope his volume dial works correctly. I do not want him to feel the static." The kitchen went still. Sarah lowered her book, her expression softening into a look of fierce, protective love for her son.
You stood up from your stool. You walked around the island, your heavy belly preceding you, and stood beside his chair. You ran your fingers through his dark, fluffy hair, applying the gentle, rhythmic pressure he loved. "Jake," you said softly, making sure he met your eyes. "If he has your brain, he is going to be the luckiest boy in the world. He'll see the colors in the soap bubbles. He'll notice the Fibonacci sequence in the flowers. And if the world ever gets too loud for him..." You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "...he will have the best dad in the entire universe to teach him how to build a safe room."
Jake let out a shaky breath, leaning his face against your stomach, right where his son was currently sleeping. "I will build him the strongest walls," Jake promised into the fabric of your sweater, his arms coming up to wrap securely around your waist. "The structural integrity will be flawless." Sarah sniffled loudly from the island, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Well," she managed a watery laugh, picking up her pen again. "Arthur is definitely going on the shortlist. But we still need a middle name. Something with a good consonant-to-vowel ratio."
Jake lifted his head, his dark eyes shining with absolute clarity and a deep, overwhelming love. "The middle name is a secondary variable," Jake told his mother, his hand resting flat against your belly. "The primary variable is already perfect."
By the time the calendar flipped to February, marking the eighth month of your pregnancy, the beige house felt less like a building and more like a heavily fortified bunker. Winter was raging outside, dumping feet of snow onto the driveway and howling against the windowpanes. Month eight was entirely different from month six. The romantic, hormone-fueled haze had been thoroughly replaced by sheer, undeniable physical exhaustion. Your belly was a massive, taut drum that dictated every movement you made. Rolling over in bed was a multi-step sequence that required strategic planning and leveraged momentum. Your center of gravity was so far skewed that Jake hovered behind you whenever you walked down the hallway, his hands raised two inches from your hips, ready to initiate a physical catch protocol if your balance failed.The anomaly—now regularly referred to as Arthur—was running out of room. His movements were no longer gentle flutters; they were sharp, visible protrusions of a heel or an elbow against your skin. Jake found this biological reality both fascinating and deeply alarming.It was a Thursday evening. You were seated on your designated side of the living room sofa, propped up by a meticulously engineered mountain of pillows. Jake was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table.But he wasn't sorting LEGOs. He hadn't touched a plastic brick in three weeks. Instead, the coffee table was covered in sterile, organized piles of items. Jake was conducting his daily audit of the "Hospital Protocol" bag.
He had a clipboard. He was wearing his glasses, his dark brown eyes narrowed in intense, frantic concentration as he checked off items with a black pen.
"The receiving blankets," Jake muttered, his voice tight and clipped. He picked up a stack of soft, washed cotton cloths. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the fabric, verifying the texture. "100% organic cotton. Washed twice in the unscented detergent. The seams are flat. The structural integrity is intact. Check."
He placed the blankets into the grey duffel bag with robotic precision, then looked back at his clipboard."The infant's external garments," he continued, picking up a tiny, dark blue onesie. He turned it inside out, meticulously inspecting the tagless collar. "No synthetic fibers. No localized friction points. Check." You watched him from the sofa, your heart aching with a mixture of overwhelming love and a creeping, heavy guilt.Jake had been like this for weeks. As the due date loomed closer, the abstract concept of a baby had solidified into an impending, unavoidable collision with the outside world. To give birth, you had to go to the hospital. The hospital was Jake's ultimate nightmare. It was a chaotic environment filled with unpredictable variables. Fluorescent lights operating on a 60-hertz flicker cycle. The sharp, random beeping of heart monitors. The smell of harsh antiseptic chemicals that burned his olfactory receptors. And, worst of all, a building full of strangers who would be touching his permanent variable while she was in severe physical distress.
He couldn't control the hospital. So, he was over-controlling what he could: the bag, the route, and the exact inventory of the nursery."Jake," you said softly, shifting your heavy weight against the pillows. "You checked the bag yesterday. And the day before. The inventory hasn't changed, baby. It's perfectly packed."
Jake froze. His hand hovered over a pair of tiny socks. His shoulders were rigid, hitched up toward his ears in a permanent state of defensive tension."The variables must be continuously verified," Jake replied, not looking up at you. His voice was entirely devoid of its usual warmth; it was hollow, flat, and vibrating with an undercurrent of barely suppressed panic. "Human error is a statistical probability. If I do not audit the inventory, a scratchy fabric could be introduced. The anomaly—Arthur—cannot experience the cobweb sensation upon entry into the environment. I must be precise."
"Spidey, look at me," you tried again, reaching a hand out toward him.
He flinched slightly, but he didn't turn his head. He dropped the socks into the bag, his fingers trembling as he gripped the edges of his clipboard."I cannot look right now," he whispered, his breathing growing shallow and fast. "If I lose my visual focus on the inventory, the sequence breaks. If the sequence breaks, the protocol fails. The hospital is exactly 12.4 miles away. The snow accumulation is currently at four inches. The friction coefficient of the tires—"
"Jake," you interrupted, the volume of your voice rising just a fraction out of desperation.
Suddenly, your body hijacked the conversation.It started low in your back, a dull ache that rapidly, violently wrapped around your abdomen. Your stomach tightened with a fierce, crushing pressure that literally drove the breath from your lungs. It was a Braxton Hicks contraction, but it was the strongest one you had felt yet.You gasped, your hands flying down to clutch the underside of your belly. A sharp, pained hiss escaped your lips before you could stop it. "Ah—" The sound was a bomb detonating in the quiet living room. Jake’s clipboard clattered to the floor. The sharp crack of the plastic hitting the hardwood echoed sharply.He whipped around to face you, his eyes wide, terrified, and blown completely black. He saw you gripping your stomach, your face pale and contorted in a grimace.The fragile, meticulously maintained dam in his brain shattered instantly. "The timeline is incorrect!" Jake shouted, the sheer volume of his own voice startling him. He scrambled backward, his hands flying up to grip the sides of his head. "It is month eight. The gestational parameter is 40 weeks. We are at 34 weeks and 2 days. It is too early! The protocol is not finished!"
"Jake, wait," you gasped, trying to breathe through the tightening of your uterus. "It's just a—"
"I have not calculated the winter storm variable into an emergency transit!" he continued, his breathing spiraling into full-blown hyperventilation. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking through you, trapped in the terrifying, deafening static of his own mind. He scrambled to his feet, pacing frantically behind the coffee table. "The bag is incomplete. The car is cold. You are in distress. Your pain receptors are firing. I have to fix the malfunction. I am the husband, I have to fix it, but I cannot stop the biological sequence!" He grabbed a handful of his own hair, pulling hard, a physical manifestation of his internal overload.
"Make it stop," he whimpered, his voice cracking into a jagged sob. "I can't compute the noise. The hospital is too loud. They are going to hurt you. The machines are going to beep, and you are going to scream, and I will not be able to apply deep pressure to stop the pain! I am failing! I am a defective variable!"
The sheer, agonizing devastation in his voice cut through your physical discomfort like a hot knife.The contraction was already beginning to fade, the muscles in your abdomen slowly releasing their iron grip, but the emotional damage in the room was catastrophic. Jake was in the red zone. He was drowning in his own inadequacy, convinced that his sensory limitations made him incapable of protecting you during the most vulnerable moment of your life.You didn't care about the heaviness of your body. You didn't care about the lingering ache in your back. You pushed yourself off the sofa, ignoring the clumsy, unbalanced sway of your center of gravity. "Jake!" you called out, your voice firm and authoritative. He didn't hear you. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clamped over his ears now, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as the tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. He was completely disconnected from the room, swallowed whole by the system crash.
You crossed the living room. You didn't hesitate. You stepped right over the spilled hospital bag, ignoring the meticulously folded organic blankets on the floor.
You reached him. You grabbed his wrists, your fingers locking around his forearms with a desperate, unyielding strength.
He jerked violently, a choked gasp tearing from his throat at the unexpected contact, but you didn't let go. "Deep pressure," you commanded, stepping into his space until your swollen belly brushed against his tense abdomen. "Jake, listen to my voice. Feel my hands. I am applying deep pressure. You are in the living room. I am Y/N. You are Jake. The static is a lie."He fought you for a second, his muscles rigid and trembling like a strained cable, his head shaking back and forth. "Failing," he choked out, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. "I am failing the protocol. It hurts you."
"Open your eyes," you ordered, squeezing his wrists harder, anchoring him to the physical reality of the moment. "Look at my face. Now."
Slowly, agonizingly, his dark eyes fluttered open. They were wild, bloodshot, and completely shattered."Look at me," you softened your voice, shifting from command to comfort. "I am not in pain. The contraction is gone. It was a false alarm. A Braxton Hicks. The anomaly is just flexing his muscles. He is staying exactly where he is. We have six weeks left. The timeline is perfectly intact."
Jake stared at you, his chest heaving as his processor struggled to parse the new data. "False... alarm?"
"Yes," you promised, releasing one of his wrists to reach up and cup his cheek. His skin was incredibly hot, radiating the heat of his adrenaline spike. You stroked your thumb firmly under his eye, wiping away a tear. "The sequence did not break."
He let out a ragged, tearing breath, his knees buckling slightly. You held onto him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders as he slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
He didn't wrap his arms around you. They hung uselessly at his sides as he wept against your collarbone, the emotional exhaustion of his panic attack hitting him like a physical blow."I am terrified, Y/N," Jake confessed into your skin, his voice so fragile it broke your heart entirely. "I have built the crib. I have audited the fabrics. I have mapped the route. But I cannot control the birth. It is a massive, violent biological variable. I read the medical journals. The paing you will experience is statistically severe. And I cannot take it from you." You squeezed your eyes shut, resting your cheek against his dark, messy curls. "And the hospital," he continued, a shudder running through his heavy frame. "The fluorescent lights burn my retinas. The noise of the machinery disrupts my cognitive function. What if the static gets so loud that I shut down? What if you need me, and I cannot move because I am trapped in the noise? I cannot fail you. I cannot let you be alone in a room full of strangers."
He was terrified of his own neurology. He was terrified that his autism, the very thing that made him so beautifully, meticulously attentive to you, would be the thing that ultimately abandoned you when you needed him most.t"Jake, baby, listen to me," you whispered fiercely, your hands rubbing firm, rhythmic circles into his tense back. "You have never, ever failed me. Do you hear me? Never."
He sniffled, his breath hot against your neck. "But the data—"
"Screw the data," you interrupted, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you again. You held his face in both of your hands, making sure he saw the absolute, unwavering conviction in your eyes. "I don't care about the statistics. I don't care about the medical journals. I care about you."
He blinked, another tear slipping down his cheek."The hospital is going to be loud," you validated his fear, keeping your voice steady and calm. "It is going to be chaotic. But we are going to manage the variables together. Sarah is going to be there to buffer the doctors. You are going to wear your noise-canceling headphones. You are going to bring the weighted blanket. And you are not going to leave my side."
"But your pain," he whimpered, his eyes dropping to your stomach.
"You are going to help me through the pain," you promised him. "Because you are my anchor, Jake. When I am hurting, you are going to hold my hand, and you are going to apply deep pressure. You are going to count my breaths for me, because you have the best internal clock in the world. You are the only person who can keep me grounded." Jake stared at you, his internal processor rapidly analyzing the new role you had just assigned him.He wasn't powerless. He had a protocol. Apply deep pressure. Count the breaths. Ground the variable."I can count," Jake whispered, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "I can track the duration and frequency of the contractions. I can provide stationary compression."
"Exactly," you smiled, a few tears of your own finally spilling over. "You are not a defective variable, Spidey. You are the only math that makes sense to me. I need you in that room. Not a 'normal' husband. I need you."
Jake took a deep, shuddering breath. The frantic, chaotic energy that had been vibrating under his skin finally, completely dissipated. He brought his hands up, wrapping them securely around your waist, pulling your heavy belly flush against his abdomen.He didn't just hold you; he anchored you."I will not shut down," Jake vowed, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, profound intensity that took your breath away. "I will wear the headphones, but my eyes will be on you. I will track the data. I will not let the static win. I am your permanent variable."
"I know you are," you breathed.
You didn't wait for him to close the distance. You leaned up, pressing your lips firmly against his.It wasn't a gentle, reassuring peck. It was a deep, desperate, grounding kiss. It was the physical manifestation of all the love, trust, and absolute certainty you held for him.Jake responded instantly. The fear melted out of his posture, replaced by the overwhelming, consuming gravity of his love for you. He kissed you back with a fierce, meticulous passion, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. He tasted like salt and adrenaline, but his lips were incredibly soft, moving against yours with a deliberate, rhythmic pressure that chased the last lingering shadows of his panic out of the room.He poured everything he had into the kiss, anchoring himself to the taste of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and the solid, heavy reality of your body against his.When you finally broke apart, gasping softly for air, Jake kept his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes were closed, his breathing perfectly synced with yours."The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured, a tiny, genuine smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
You laughed, a wet, joyous sound, resting your hands flat against his broad chest. "It always is."Jake opened his eyes. He looked down at the floor, at the scattered piles of baby clothes and the dropped clipboard. The chaos that had caused his meltdown ten minutes ago was still there, but it didn't look like a systemic failure anymore. It just looked like a task."I need to repack the inventory," Jake stated, his voice calm, returning to its comfortable, logical baseline. "The organic receiving blankets are currently touching the hardwood floor. They must be re-washed to ensure sterility."
"We can wash them tomorrow, baby," you suggested gently, running a hand down his arm. "Let's just go to bed. The anomaly is asleep, and I'm exhausted."
Jake considered this. He looked at the bag, then looked at your tired face.
"Optimal recovery requires sleep," he agreed, wrapping his arm around your waist to support your center of gravity. "The protocol can wait until 0800 hours. Come, Y/N. Let's go to the quiet room." You walked down the hallway together, incredibly slow, his hand providing the constant, deep pressure that held your entire world together. The unpredictable variables of the future were still looming, but as Jake pulled the heavy grey weighted blanket over both of you in the dark, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that your structural integrity was flawless.
The final weeks of your pregnancy felt like existing in a state of suspended animation.
It was late February. The world outside was still locked in the icy grip of winter, but inside the beige two-story house, time seemed to have slowed to a thick, agonizing crawl. You were thirty-eight weeks pregnant. The hospital bag, after being audited by Jake no less than forty-two times, was sitting fully packed by the front door.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The house was quiet, save for the faint, rhythmic sound of Jake moving around in the nursery down the hall.You were standing at the kitchen island, a task you could only manage for about ten minutes before your swollen, aching feet demanded you sit down. Your parents, who lived three cities away, had sent a massive, gorgeous bouquet of flowers to celebrate the impending arrival of their grandson.You had filled a glass vase with lukewarm water and were methodically trimming the stems and stripping the excess leaves. Snip. Snip. The scent of eucalyptus and blooming lilies was strong, but pleasant. It was a grounding, repetitive sensory task.Down the hall, you could hear the soft hum of Jake’s voice. He wasn't talking to you; he was talking to the room. "The ambient light from the streetlamp will filter through the primary window at an angle of 45 degrees," Jake was murmuring to himself, likely adjusting the blackout curtains for the hundredth time. "The secondary acoustic panels are secure. The friction coefficient of the rug is optimal for crawling, though that biological milestone is currently months away. The inventory is stable."You smiled, tossing a handful of trimmed leaves into the compost bin. He was trying so hard to control the environment, trying to build a fortress strong enough to withstand the chaotic, unpredictable variable of childbirth.
You reached for a heavy, dark pink peony. You clamped the floral shears around the thick stem.
Snip.Simultaneously, a distinct, bizarre pop echoed low in your pelvis.
You froze. The floral shears slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly onto the granite countertop.
For a microsecond, there was no pain. There was only a sudden, overwhelming rush of warm fluid flooding down your thighs, soaking instantly through your maternity leggings and splashing onto the kitchen linoleum. "Oh," you gasped, your hands flying down to brace yourself against the edge of the island. Before your brain could even process the reality of your water breaking, the first contraction hit.
It didn't build slowly like the books had promised. It didn't start as a dull, menstrual-like ache. It hit you with the force of a high-speed collision—a massive, crushing band of iron clamping down around your abdomen and your lower spine with violent, breathless intensity. Your knees instantly buckled.You went down hard, catching yourself on your hands and knees right in the middle of the kitchen floor, surrounded by fallen leaves and the expanding puddle of amniotic fluid. A raw, guttural cry tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and agony.
"Ah—! Jake! Jake!"
The sound of your scream shattered the quiet peace of the house.
The heavy, rapid thud of Jake’s footsteps echoed down the hallway instantly. He didn't just walk into the kitchen; he skidded into it, his socks slipping slightly on the hardwood before he caught himself on the doorframe. "Y/N?" Jake gasped, his chest heaving.He saw you on the floor. He saw the sheer, contorted agony on your face. And then, his eyes dropped to the puddle of fluid on the linoleum.
The biological variable. The system failure.Jake’s entire body went rigid. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale. His hands flew up, hovering frantically around his chest as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs.
"The... the timeline," Jake stammered, his voice jumping an entire octave, thin and panicked. "It is week thirty-eight. The statistical average is forty weeks. The fluid... your amniotic sac has ruptured. The sequence has initiated prematurely!"
"Jake," you sobbed, squeezing your eyes shut as the contraction refused to let go. It was blinding, a white-hot agony that made your entire body shake. "Jake, it hurts. It hurts so bad." That sentence broke him.Jake had spent the last two years dedicating every ounce of his massive, beautiful brain to keeping you safe. He audited your environment. He maintained the climate control. He massaged the fluid out of your swollen feet. You were his permanent variable, the only thing in the universe that made the static quiet. And now, you were writhing on the floor in a level of physical agony he had never, ever witnessed. A sharp, ragged whimper tore from Jake’s throat. He dropped to his knees right into the puddle of fluid, completely ignoring the sensory nightmare of the wet linoleum soaking through his jeans.He reached out, his large hands hovering over your back, trembling violently. He was terrified to touch you, terrified that his pressure would somehow exacerbate the pain.
T"You are in distress," Jake cried, the tears spilling instantly over his eyelashes, tracking fast and hot down his pale cheeks. "Your pain receptors are overloading. The volume is too high. I can see it. You are shaking. Y/N, I don't know how to fix it! I don't have the protocol to stop the biology!"
He pulled his hands back, grabbing fistfuls of his own dark hair, his breathing spiraling into rapid, shallow gasps. The sensory overload of your screaming, the visual trauma of your pain, and his own overwhelming, suffocating helplessness were crashing his system all at once. "Jake, no, don't pull away," you gasped, managing to lift one shaking hand to reach blindly for him. "Deep pressure. Please. My hips. Squeeze my hips."He heard the command. Apply deep pressure.
He let go of his hair. He crawled forward, positioning himself behind you. He placed his large, warm hands firmly on either side of your hips and squeezed with everything he had. "I am compressing the joints," Jake wept, his tears falling freely onto the back of your shirt. His chest heaved against your spine, his entire heavy frame shaking with the force of his sobs. "I am applying pressure. But you are still crying. It is not fixing the malfunction. Y/N, please, I cannot watch you hurt. It is too loud in my chest. It is tearing my data apart."
"You're helping," you panted, the contraction finally, agonizingly beginning to peak and slowly recede. "You are... anchoring me. Just hold me."
He slumped forward, wrapping his arms securely around your heavy belly, burying his wet face in the crook of your neck. He was sobbing openly now, the sound broken and terrified. He hated this. He hated the lack of control. He hated that his safe harbor was in pain."I have to initiate the transit sequence," Jake choked out, trying to force his logical brain back online through the haze of his tears. "The hospital bag is at the door. The car... I have to warm up the car. But I cannot leave you on the floor. If another contraction hits, you will lack compression."
You were both trapped. You couldn't walk, and he couldn't leave you to get the car ready without risking a massive panic attack for both of you.
And then, the front door unlocked.
"Y/N? Jakey? I let myself in!"
It was Sarah. It was Tuesday. She was arriving for your weekly Tuesday dinner, carrying two bags of groceries because you couldn't stand at the stove anymore.
Sarah walked into the kitchen, a smile on her face, and immediately dropped both bags of groceries onto the floor. Tomatoes and boxes of pasta spilled out, rolling across the hardwood, but she didn't even look at them. She took in the scene in a fraction of a second. The water on the floor. You on your hands and knees. Her son, weeping hysterically, wrapped around you like a human shield.
"Oh, my god," Sarah breathed. The mother-bear instinct, honed over twenty-six years of managing crises, snapped into place instantly.She crossed the kitchen in three strides. She didn't yell, knowing the volume would shatter Jake further. She dropped to her knees right beside the two of you, placing a firm, grounding hand on Jake’s shaking shoulder.
"Jake," Sarah said, her voice dropping into that calm, authoritative, unshakable register she used when he was a child having a meltdown. "Look at me, honey."
Jake lifted his head from your neck. His face was a mess of tears and raw, unfiltered terror. "Mom," he gasped, his voice cracking. "The sequence initiated early. The pain variable is extreme. I cannot stop her pain."
"You aren't supposed to stop it, Jakey," Sarah promised him fiercely, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. "You are just supposed to hold her. And you are doing a perfect job. But we need to move the environment to the hospital. Right now."
"I cannot leave her to start the car," he wept, his grip tightening around your waist. "She requires deep pressure."
"You don't have to leave her," Sarah commanded, already pulling her car keys back out of her pocket. "My car is running. It's warm. It's parked right at the bottom of the driveway. I am driving. You are going to stay right beside her the entire time."
Another wave of tightness began to coil low in your back. The interval was impossibly short."Sarah," you whimpered, bracing your hands against the floor again. "Another one. It's coming fast."
"Okay, Jake, on three, we are going to lift her," Sarah instructed, moving to your other side. "We are going to get her to the backseat of my car. You will provide the physical support. Can you execute the lift?"
Jake’s jaw clenched. The tears were still streaming down his face, his chest still heaving with panicked sobs, but the presence of his mother and a clear, defined set of instructions offered a tiny foothold in the chaos.
"I can execute the lift," Jake confirmed, his voice vibrating with absolute determination.
"One. Two. Three."
Jake hauled you up, taking almost your entire weight against his own body. He practically carried you down the hallway. He didn't even stop to grab his coat. He just grabbed the grey hospital bag by the door with his free hand and pushed out into the biting, freezing February air.Sarah had the backseat door of her SUV open. Jake maneuvered you inside, laying you across the seats, and instantly climbed in right beside you. He didn't sit in the seatbelt; he wedged himself onto the floorboard, kneeling so his face was level with yours and his hands could maintain their vice-grip on your hips.Sarah slammed the door, threw the hospital bag into the front, and jumped into the driver's seat. "I'm putting the hazards on," Sarah announced, throwing the car into drive and accelerating hard out of the suburban neighborhood. "We will be there in twelve minutes."The small, confined space of the backseat felt like a pressure cooker.The second contraction hit its peak just as Sarah took a sharp turn. You screamed, a loud, ragged sound that bounced off the windows. You couldn't help it. The pain was an all-consuming fire.Jake flinched violently at the sound, a fresh sob tearing from his own throat. He was crying just as hard as you were, his face buried in the heavy wool of your maternity sweater."I'm sorry," he wept, his thumbs pressing brutally hard into your hipbones, trying to force the deep pressure through the agony. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. Please, I want to take it. I want to swap the data. Give it to me."
"You're... doing it," you panted, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, pulling his head up so you could see his face. "Jake, look at me. Count. Remember the protocol? Count my breaths."He stared at you, his brown eyes wide and shattered, swimming in tears. He took a massive, shuddering breath, forcing his analytical brain to latch onto the numbers."Inhale," Jake choked out, his voice shaking. "One... two... three... four. Exhale."You blew the air out through your teeth, your eyes locked onto his."Inhale," he wept, keeping the rhythm steady even as his own body shook with terror. "One... two... three... four. The interval is approximately ninety seconds. The duration of the peak is forty-five seconds. You have fifteen seconds of peak physical trauma remaining."
"I love you," you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as the pain finally began to recede. "I love you, Spidey."
"I love you," he cried, leaning forward to press his wet, salty forehead against yours. "I am right here. I am the wall."
"Jake," Sarah called from the front seat, her voice tight but remarkably steady as she navigated the icy roads. "Your headphones. Put them on. The hospital emergency entrance is going to be loud, and I need you grounded."Jake reached blindly into the front pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out the heavy Sony noise-canceling headphones. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped them, but he managed to slide them over his ears.
He didn't turn the noise-canceling feature all the way up. He left it at 50%. He needed to hear the ambient noise dampened, but he absolutely refused to block out the sound of your voice. If you needed him, he had to hear the data.Sarah pulled the SUV sharply into the red-lit emergency bay of the hospital. She laid on the horn, a long, aggressive blast that signaled an incoming emergency.
Nurses were outside with a wheelchair in seconds.The transition from the safe, insulated bubble of the car to the blinding, chaotic reality of the hospital was an assault on the senses. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with that aggressive 60-hertz cycle. The air smelled of sharp alcohol and sterile bleach. Radios were crackling, and people were shouting orders.
It was Jake's personal hell.As they helped you into the wheelchair, another contraction ripped through your body. You folded forward, crying out.
Jake stood frozen by the car door for exactly two seconds. His hands flew up to the sides of his headphones, his shoulders hiking up to his ears, his body desperately trying to fold inward to escape the sensory attack of the emergency room bay. The static in his head was a roaring, deafening tidal wave.
System crash imminent.
But then he looked at you. He saw you gripping the armrests of the wheelchair, your knuckles white, your face pale and twisted in pain.
His permanent variable.Jake let out a low, guttural growl—a sound of sheer, absolute defiance against his own neurology. He dropped his hands from his headphones. He closed the distance, grabbed the handles of your wheelchair from the nurse, and shoved it forward himself.
"Do not touch her," Jake snapped at an orderly who tried to assist, his voice taking on a cold, flat, entirely robotic tone—his ultimate defense mechanism. "She requires deep pressure. I am the husband. I am the primary support. Direct me to the labor and delivery ward. Now." The nurses, taking one look at the massive, fiercely protective man with tears streaming down his face and headphones over his ears, didn't argue. They led the way.Sarah ran right beside you, carrying the grey duffel bag, her hand resting on Jake’s back to guide him through the harsh, echoing corridors.When they finally got you into a delivery room, the chaos only intensified. Machines were hooked up. Wires were taped to your belly. The monitors began to beep—a sharp, high-pitched ping that measured the baby's heart rate and the intensity of your contractions.Jake stood rigidly beside the bed. He had pulled his dark blue hoodie up over his head, the hood layered over his headphones to create an additional sensory barrier. He looked terrified. He was still crying, silent tears tracking steadily down his pale face, but his hands were locked onto yours.
"The biological anomaly is arriving," Jake whispered to you, his thumb stroking your knuckles frantically as the nurse adjusted the IV in your arm. "The data is overwhelming. But the heart rate monitor indicates 140 beats per minute. Arthur is stable. You are stable."
"I need you to stay with me," you panted, the exhaustion beginning to blur the edges of your vision.
"I am stationary," Jake promised fiercely, leaning down so his face was inches from yours. "I am not leaving the coordinates. I will count every breath. I will audit every variable."And he did.
For the next six hours, Jake Sim endured the most profoundly overstimulating environment of his entire life, and he did it without shutting down.When the pain grew too intense for you to speak, he became your voice. He utilized his incredibly clinical vocabulary to communicate exactly what you were experiencing to the nurses, leaving no room for medical ambiguity. When the fluorescent lights became too much for him, he didn't leave the room; he simply closed his eyes and buried his face in the blankets beside your hip, maintaining the heavy, deep pressure you required.
Sarah sat in the corner, managing the logistics, answering the doctors' questions, and watching her son perform miracles.When it was finally time to push, the room filled with doctors. The noise level spiked. The clinical smell of iodine and blood filled the air.Jake stood right by your shoulder. He pushed one side of his headphones back, exposing his ear so he could hear you perfectly. He slid his arm behind your back, supporting your entire weight as you curled forward."The friction is massive," Jake wept with you, his face pressed against your sweaty cheek. "You are structurally incredible, Y/N. The output is almost complete. Keep pushing. One... two... three... four." You gave one final, agonizing, earth-shattering push, screaming his name into the chaotic room. And then, a new sound pierced the air.
It wasn't a beep. It wasn't the buzz of a fluorescent light. It was a loud, wet, furious wail.
You collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for air, your chest heaving.
"Time of birth, 11:42 PM," the doctor announced, placing a tiny, squalling, incredibly messy bundle directly onto your bare chest.
Jake completely froze.
He stared at the tiny, red, screaming infant resting on your chest. The baby's fists were clenched, his eyes squeezed shut against the harsh hospital lights. He was loud. He was unpredictable. He was covered in biological fluids. He was a sensory nightmare.Jake slowly reached up and pulled his headphones completely off his head, letting them drop around his neck.He didn't flinch at the crying. He didn't pull away from the mess.He leaned down, his broad shoulders shaking with fresh, overwhelming sobs, and rested his large, trembling hand gently over the baby's tiny, frantic back. The contrast between his massive hand and the tiny infant was staggering.
"Arthur," Jake whispered, his voice cracking with a love so profound it seemed to pull the gravity out of the room. "The variable is complete."
The baby, feeling the sudden, firm warmth of his father's hand, let out one last shuddering cry and slowly began to quiet down, settling into the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat."He's here, Jakey," you wept, turning your head to press a kiss to Jake's tear-soaked cheek. "He's perfect." Jake looked from the baby to you. He leaned his forehead against yours, his dark eyes shining with absolute, unvarnished awe. He had survived the noise. He had survived the chaos.
"The data was correct," Jake murmured into your skin, a wet, beautiful smile breaking across his face. "Fifty percent you. Fifty percent me. He is mathematically perfect."
Three days in the maternity ward felt less like a medical recovery and more like a prolonged sensory endurance test. For seventy-two hours, the world had been reduced to a small, starkly white room. It was a chaotic environment dictated by the hum of fluorescent bulbs, the sharp scent of antiseptic wipes, and the unpredictable, revolving door of nurses who came in at all hours to check vitals, administer pain medication, and press on your bruised, aching abdomen.For you, the exhaustion was absolute. Your body felt as though it had been put through a commercial-grade compactor. Every muscle ached, walking was a slow, shuffling physical trial, and your center of gravity had completely shifted, leaving you feeling hollowed out and incredibly fragile. Yet, beneath the crushing fatigue and the physical soreness, there was a profound, intoxicating euphoria.
You were a mother. Arthur was perfect. He was tiny, warm, and entirely reliant on you. He had a mop of dark, fluffy hair that mirrored his father’s, and a pair of dark, observant eyes that he opened just long enough to study the blurred shapes of the world before falling back into a deep, milk-drunk sleep.
For Jake, the three days in the hospital had been an exercise in sheer, unadulterated willpower. He had not left the room once. Not to get coffee, not to go to the cafeteria, not to step outside for fresh air. He had established a perimeter around your bed and Arthur's clear plastic bassinet, and he guarded it with the hyper-vigilant dedication of a sentry.
He wore his noise-canceling headphones almost the entire time, keeping the volume dial just low enough to hear your voice or Arthur’s cries, but high enough to drown out the beeping monitors and the hallway chatter. He tracked the nurses’ shifts in a small notebook. He memorized your medication schedule, reminding the staff exactly three minutes before your ibuprofen was due.But most importantly, he was your anchor. When Arthur cried in the middle of the night and the hormones and exhaustion made you weep, Jake was there. He would carefully lift the baby, applying the perfect, broad-handed deep pressure that Arthur seemed to inherently crave, and then sit on the edge of your hospital bed, wrapping his free arm around your shoulders to ground you both.Now, it was Friday morning. Discharge day.You were sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in soft, loose sweatpants and a maternity sweater. You watched as Jake executed the final packing protocol.He was standing by the small bassinet, his brow furrowed in absolute, laser-focused concentration. Arthur was dressed in his going-home outfit: a soft, dark blue, organic cotton onesie with the seams sewn on the outside to prevent localized friction.
Jake was currently securing the infant into the portable car seat.
"The chest clip must be aligned precisely with the armpit axis," Jake murmured to himself, his long fingers gently but firmly adjusting the plastic buckle over Arthur’s tiny sternum. "If it is too low, it compromises the skeletal restraint system in the event of sudden deceleration. If it is too high, it introduces an asphyxiation variable."
"It looks perfect, Spidey," you said softly, your voice raspy from fatigue.
Jake didn't look up until he had pulled the tightening strap at the bottom of the seat. He inserted two fingers beneath the shoulder harness, verifying the tension with mathematical precision. "The slack is eliminated. He is secured."
Jake finally turned to look at you. His dark eyes were shadowed with heavy bags, the physical toll of his hyper-vigilance evident in the pale, tight lines of his face. The hospital had drained his battery down to a critical one percent. He desperately needed his sanctuary."Are you ready to initiate the transit sequence?" he asked, walking over to you."I'm so ready to go home, Jake," you breathed, reaching your hands out.He leaned down, wrapping his arms around your waist, and carefully hauled you to your feet. He didn't let go of you immediately. He pressed you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
"You still smell like the hospital," he mumbled into your skin, his nose wrinkling slightly. "The iodine and the synthetic linens. I need to recalibrate your olfactory baseline. I need you to smell like vanilla and oats again."
"I'll take a shower as soon as we get home," you promised, rubbing his back. "Just get us to the quiet room."
A sharp knock on the door made Jake flinch, his shoulders instantly hiking up defensively.A cheerful nurse walked in, pushing a wheelchair. "Alright, Mom and Dad! It’s policy that we wheel you down to the exit. Is your ride here?"
"My mother is parked in the designated loading zone at the East Entrance," Jake stated, his voice flattening into its protective cadence. He stepped back from you, picking up the heavy car seat with one hand and grabbing the grey duffel bag with the other. "We are prepared for extraction." The nurse blinked, slightly taken aback by his terminology, but she smiled politely. "Great. Have a seat, Y/N." The journey through the hospital corridors felt like running a gauntlet. The fluorescent lights buzzed violently overhead. The wheels of the chair squeaked against the linoleum. Jake walked exactly half a step behind your left shoulder, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He was staring straight ahead, refusing to look at the other patients, his headphones securely clamped over his ears.When the automatic sliding doors finally parted, the rush of cold, crisp February air was like a physical blow of relief.Sarah’s SUV was idling by the curb. She leaped out the moment she saw you, a massive, tearful smile on her face.
"Oh, my babies," Sarah cooed, rushing over. She hugged you first, carefully avoiding your tender abdomen, before turning to her son.
Jake didn't hug her back. He couldn't. His hands were full, and his sensory capacity was entirely maxed out. "The external environment is 34 degrees," he stated abruptly, dodging her embrace to move toward the backseat of the car. "The infant will experience a rapid thermal drop. I must initiate the docking procedure."
Sarah didn't take it personally. She knew the signs of an impending system crash better than anyone. She stepped back, her smile softening into profound understanding. "The car is warm, Jakey. Go ahead."Jake clicked the car seat perfectly into the pre-installed base. Click. Clack. He tested the structural integrity by pulling aggressively on the handle. It didn't budge a millimeter.
He then helped you into the backseat, sliding in right beside you. He pulled his door shut, sealing out the noise of the hospital traffic.The silence inside the SUV was sudden and heavy. Sarah had turned the radio completely off. The only sound was the low, steady hum of the heater and the rhythmic sound of Arthur’s tiny, snuffling breaths.Jake let out a long, shuddering exhale. His head fell back against the headrest, his eyes sliding shut. His hands, which had been clenched into tight fists, slowly uncurled on his thighs."Deep breaths, Spidey," you whispered, shifting your weight painfully to lean your head against his broad shoulder.
Jake shifted instantly, bringing his arm up to wrap securely around your shoulders, tucking you against his side. He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto the car seat in front of him.
"The hospital is a chaotic variable," Jake murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. "But the data collection was successful. We entered as two. We are exiting as three."
"We did it," you smiled, closing your eyes.The drive back to the house took exactly twenty minutes. Sarah drove with excruciating care, avoiding every pothole and taking the turns at a glacial pace. Jake spent the entire transit staring at Arthur’s chest, visually tracking the rise and fall of the baby’s breathing.When the SUV finally turned into your familiar driveway, the snow piled high on the lawns, your heart did a massive, relieved flutter."We're home," Sarah announced softly, putting the car in park.She got out, grabbing the duffel bags from the front, and hurried to the front door to unlock it and turn on the lights.Jake didn't rush. He opened his door, stepping out into the cold air. He unclicked the car seat with practiced ease, lifting Arthur out. Then, he offered you his free arm, providing the deep, stable pressure you needed to hoist yourself out of the low seat.Together, you walked up the front steps.
The moment Jake crossed the threshold into the house, you physically felt the shift in his energy.The front door clicked shut behind you, and the chaotic noise of the outside world vanished entirely. The house was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the amber lamps. The air smelled faintly of cedar and the clean, unscented laundry detergent he used."The temperature is exactly 69 degrees," Jake whispered, his chest expanding as he took his first real, deep breath in three days. He looked around the living room, his eyes scanning the perfectly aligned sofa cushions, the blackout curtains, and the neat rows of his LEGO bins.
The baseline had been restored.
"Welcome home, boys," you smiled, tears pricking your eyes at the sheer, overwhelming peace of the space.Sarah came walking out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "I stocked the fridge," she told you, keeping her voice pitched to a soft, soothing volume. "There's a massive batch of the organic chicken soup Y/N likes, and all the ingredients for Tuesday grilled cheese are prepped and sorted in the crisper drawer."
"Thank you, Mom," Jake said. He was still holding the car seat, standing in the entryway, processing the sensory relief.Sarah walked over. She didn't try to hug him again. She just reached out and gently smoothed down the collar of his hoodie. "You did so good, Jake. I am so incredibly proud of you. You protected them."
Jake’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the sleeping infant, then looked at you."They are my permanent variables. It is my primary function."
"I know it is," Sarah smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. She picked up her purse from the entryway table. "Now, I am going to leave. You three need to establish your new routines. The static is gone, honey. You’ve got the manual now."
"I have the manual," Jake agreed softly.
Sarah blew you a kiss and slipped out the front door, locking it securely behind her.
And then, there were three."Let's get him out of the restraint system," Jake said, his focus immediately shifting back to the baby. "Prolonged containment in the car seat can restrict diaphragmatic expansion."
"To the nursery," you agreed, shuffling slowly down the hallway.
The nursery was exactly as Jake had built it—a masterpiece of sensory control. The walls were that soft, calming sage green. The lighting was dimmed to a mere twenty percent capacity. The acoustic panels absorbed the sound of your footsteps, making the room feel like a quiet, insulated cocoon.Jake set the car seat gently on the rug. He unbuckled the harness, his large hands incredibly gentle as he scooped the tiny infant into his arms.Arthur let out a small, disgruntled squeak at being moved, his tiny arms flailing out in a sudden startle reflex. His face scrunched up, the precursor to a loud, chaotic cry.Before the hospital, a sudden, unpredictable noise from a baby would have sent Jake’s nervous system into an immediate tailspin.
But not now.Jake didn't flinch. He didn't look for his headphones. He immediately pulled Arthur against his chest, tucking the baby's head beneath his chin. He spread his large hand over Arthur's entire back, applying a firm, steady, continuous deep pressure."Sensory overload," Jake murmured to the baby, his voice dropping into a low, resonant baritone that vibrated through his chest cavity. "The transition from the restraint system to the open air caused a proprioceptive disruption. I understand, Arthur. The world is too big right now. I am providing the boundary."
Jake began to rock. It wasn't the frantic, erratic rocking of a meltdown. It was a slow, deeply mathematical sway. Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. He calculated the momentum, keeping the rhythm flawless.Arthur’s scrunching face instantly smoothed out. The impending cry died in his throat. He felt the deep pressure. He felt the heavy, rhythmic vibration of his father’s voice. He let out a tiny, contented sigh, his little fists relaxing against Jake’s hoodie.You stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, watching your husband work his magic."You're a natural, Spidey," you whispered, your heart swelling until you thought it might burst through your ribs.
Jake looked up at you as he rocked. "His nervous system is essentially a blank hard drive," he explained, though his eyes were incredibly soft. "He does not know how to self-regulate yet. He requires external compression to find his physical coordinates. It is highly logical."
"It's beautiful," you corrected him.
Jake walked over to the crib—the structurally flawless, birch wood fortress he had built. He lowered Arthur into the bassinet, keeping his hand flat against the baby's chest until the very last second, ensuring a smooth transition to the mattress.
Arthur didn't even twitch. He was out cold.Jake stood over the crib for a long moment, verifying the rise and fall of the tiny chest. He checked the digital thermometer on the changing table."The environment is stable," Jake announced quietly.He turned away from the crib and walked over to you. He didn't stop a foot away. He stepped directly into your space, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your tired, aching body flush against his."Your turn," Jake whispered into your hair."My turn for what?" you asked, melting against his solid warmth, letting him support your weight.
"Maintenance," he stated factually. "You have undergone massive biological trauma. The fluid loss, the muscle exertion, the sleep deprivation. Your structural integrity is compromised. I must initiate the recovery protocol." He didn't wait for you to argue. He swept one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you entirely off your feet. You let out a startled laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Jake! I'm heavy!"
"Your mass is irrelevant. I have calculated the load-bearing capacity of my skeletal structure," he replied, carrying you out of the nursery and down the hall toward the master bedroom. "You are not to walk anymore today. It introduces unnecessary friction to your healing tissues."He carried you into the master bedroom. The blackout curtains were drawn tight. The bed was freshly made, the sheets crisp and smelling of his unscented detergent.He set you down gently on the edge of the mattress. He knelt in front of you, carefully untying your sneakers and sliding them off your swollen feet. He pulled your socks off, his thumbs instinctively pressing into your arches to offer that deep, soothing pressure."The swelling is already decreasing," he noted, analyzing your ankles. "But you require hydration and horizontal rest."
He stood up, pulling the heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket back. "Get in."
You didn't need to be told twice. You slid under the sheets, groaning in absolute bliss as the familiar, heavy weight of the blanket settled over your exhausted body. It was like sinking into a cloud of pure safetyJake didn't immediately join you. He went into the master bathroom, returning a minute later with a large glass of ice water—no, room temperature water, because ice clinked and the cold shocked the system.
He set it on the nightstand, then walked around to his side of the bed.
He stripped off his hoodie, leaving him in his soft, tagless t-shirt, and climbed under the weighted blanket beside you.The moment his body settled against the mattress, the final piece of the algorithm locked into place. He pulled you flush against his side, his heavy arm slinging over your waist, his long legs tangling with yours.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your collarbone.
"The static is entirely gone," Jake whispered, his voice incredibly thick.
"Me too," you murmured, your eyes already drifting shut, anchored by his heavy, beautiful weight. "I love you, Jake."
"I love you, Y/N," he replied, his hand resting flat against your stomach, which was now soft and empty. "And I love Arthur. The variables are perfect."
The house was completely silent. The temperature was exactly 69 degrees. Down the hall, the anomaly slept peacefully in his mathematically sound crib. And in the quiet dark of the bedroom, Jake Sim finally allowed his hyper-vigilant processor to power down. He had built the perimeter. He had survived the noise. And as he held you in the safety of the beige house, he knew with absolute certainty that no matter how loud the world outside got, he would always be the wall that kept you safe.
The first few weeks of parenthood were exactly what Jake had calculated they would be: a massive, systemic disruption of their previous baseline. Sleep was fragmented into two-hour intervals. The laundry machine ran almost constantly, cycling through organic cotton burp cloths and tagless onesies. The pristine quiet of the beige two-story house was frequently punctuated by the sharp, demanding cries of a newborn who had not yet learned how to exist in a world with gravity and cold air.
But miraculously, the system didn't crash.Jake had adapted with the fierce, hyper-focused dedication he usually reserved for three-thousand-piece architectural models. He had built a schedule so airtight it left no room for the paralyzing anxiety of the unknown. He tracked Arthur’s ounces of milk intake on his iPad spreadsheet. He mapped out the exact times to dim the smart bulbs to promote melatonin production. He became an absolute master of the swaddle, folding the organic receiving blankets around Arthur with the precise tension required to simulate the deep pressure of the womb.It was exactly 3:14 AM on a Tuesday, roughly three weeks after you had brought Arthur home. You woke up with a slow, heavy blink, the phantom echo of a baby’s cry pulling you out of a deep sleep. You reached your hand out instinctively across the mattress.Your fingers met cool, empty sheets.You pushed yourself up, the heavy grey weighted blanket sliding off your shoulders. The house was utterly silent. The ambient temperature was locked at 69 degrees.
You slid your feet into your quiet, rubber-soled slippers and walked softly out of the master bedroom, the acoustic dampening of the hallway absorbing the sound of your steps.A soft, warm amber glow was spilling out from the open doorway of the nursery.
You didn't walk in right away. You stopped just behind the doorframe, peeking into the room.The scene inside made your breath catch in your throat.Jake was sitting in the wide, upholstered rocking chair in the corner of the room. He wasn't wearing his noise-canceling headphones. He was dressed in his soft, worn-in navy hoodie, the hood pushed down, his fluffy dark curls sleep-mussed and sticking up in every direction.Arthur was fully awake, resting against Jake’s chest, swaddled perfectly into a tight, dark blue burrito. The baby’s large, dark eyes—an exact mirror of his father’s—were wide open, staring up at Jake’s face in the dim light.
Jake was rocking the chair. Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. The momentum was perfectly calculated.He was talking to his son. His voice was pitched to that low, resonant baritone, a steady, vibrating hum that you knew provided Arthur with immense tactile comfort."The light you are currently observing is a wavelength of approximately 590 nanometers," Jake was whispering, his long, elegant fingers gently stroking the soft peach fuzz on the top of Arthur's head. "It is the color amber. It is statistically proven to be the least disruptive to your circadian rhythm. That means it is safe for your eyes."
Arthur let out a tiny, soft coo, a bubble of spit forming on his lips.
Jake’s expression softened into a look of such absolute, unvarnished adoration that it made your heart physically ache. He didn't pull a tissue. He just used the soft sleeve Pof his hoodie to gently wipe the baby's chin. "You are experiencing rapid neurological growth," Jake continued, his tone factual but completely laced with wonder. "Every time you blink, your synapses are forming new pathways. It must be very overwhelming. The data input is massive. But you do not need to process it all at once, Arthur. I have optimized the perimeter."Jake leaned his head back against the chair, keeping the baby securely anchored to his chest."When I was your age," Jake murmured, his voice growing incredibly quiet, "the world was very loud. The lights were too sharp. The tags on my clothes felt like sandpaper. My processor did not know how to filter the noise. I was very afraid, very often."You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, tears pricking your eyes. You had never heard him talk about his infancy this way."But you will not have to be afraid," Jake promised his son, his hand flattening against Arthur’s tiny back, providing that essential deep pressure. "I have audited the textiles. I have sealed the windows. And when the variables become too unpredictable, I will be the wall. Just as your mother is the wall for me. You are fifty percent her, which means you are structurally flawless."
Arthur blinked slowly, his heavy eyelids finally beginning to droop under the soothing cadence of his father’s voice and the rhythmic math of the rocking chair.
"You are my favorite anomaly," Jake whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the baby's forehead. "Now, initiate sleep mode. The environment is stable."
You stepped into the room, unable to stay hidden any longer.
"You're amazing with him," you whispered, walking over to the rocking chair.
Jake looked up, his dark eyes instantly finding yours. The hyper-vigilant tension he carried in the outside world was entirely absent. Here, in the amber light, holding his son, he just looked like a man perfectly at peace."His distress vocalizations woke me at exactly 3:02 AM," Jake reported softly, not stopping the rocking motion. "He required a diaper change and an additional two ounces of formula. He is now entering the final stages of the sleep cycle. You did not need to break your REM sleep, Y/N. The sequence was under control."
"I know it was," you smiled, reaching out to run your fingers through Jake's messy curls. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his warm cheek. "I just woke up and missed my permanent variable. Both of them."Jake hummed, a deep sound of profound satisfaction, and leaned his face against your stomach as you stood beside him. "The volume of my love for you is mathematically incalculable," he murmured into your shirt.
"I love you too, Jakey," you whispered, watching Arthur's eyes flutter entirely shut. "Let's put him down and go back to sleep. We have a lot of variables to conquer tomorrow."
Two Years Later
"Dada! Bwock!"
The joyful, demanding shout echoed through the sunlit living room of the house.
It was a Saturday morning. The world outside had thawed into a beautiful, vibrant spring, but inside, the climate control was, as always, locked at a comfortable 69 degrees.You were standing at the kitchen island, a mug of hot coffee in your hands, watching the scene unfolding on the plush living room rug with a heart so full it felt like it might burst.Arthur was now two years old.
He was a whirlwind of kinetic energy, a miniature clone of his father with the same fluffy, dark curls and enormous brown eyes. But unlike Jake’s historically cautious approach to the world, Arthur attacked his environment with fearless enthusiasm, entirely confident that his parents had made the world perfectly safe for him to explore.Jake was sitting cross-legged on the floor.He was wearing his favorite vintage Spider-Man pajama set—the soft, tagless ones with the flat seams. Sitting exactly opposite him, mirroring his posture with striking accuracy, was Arthur, wearing an exact, miniature replica of the same tagless Spider-Man pajamas. Between them sat a massive plastic bin of vibrant, primary-colored LEGO Duplo blocks.
Jake had originally planned to introduce standard LEGO sets when Arthur's fine motor skills developed, but he quickly realized that the larger, safer Duplo blocks were mathematically perfect for a toddler's grip. "Bwock, Dada!" Arthur demanded again, slapping his small, chubby hand against the carpet.Jake picked up a bright red 2x4 Duplo brick. He didn't just hand it to his son; he held it up, examining it with the same intense, analytical focus he used for his architectural commissions.
"This is a fundamental structural component," Jake explained to the two-year-old, his tone perfectly serious and respectful. He never used 'baby talk'. He spoke to Arthur as if he were a colleague. "The clutch power of the interlocking tubes underneath will allow us to build a stable foundation. You must align the studs precisely."
He handed the red block to Arthur.Arthur grabbed it with both hands. He picked up a blue block from the carpet and, with a look of intense concentration that mirrored Jake’s exactly, mashed the two blocks together.
Click.
"I did it!" Arthur cheered, throwing his hands in the air."Your spatial awareness is developing flawlessly," Jake praised, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across his face. He leaned forward and ruffled Arthur's dark curls. "You have achieved a successful connection. Now, we must reinforce the lateral stability." You took a sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter. Watching Jake as a father was the greatest privilege of your life. All the fears he had harbored during your pregnancy—that his sensory limitations would make him inadequate, that he wouldn't be able to handle the noise of a child—had been completely dismantled. He hadn't stopped being autistic. The world outside the house was still too loud, the grocery store still required noise-canceling headphones, and unexpected changes to his schedule still caused his anxiety to spike. But with Arthur, Jake had rewritten his own algorithm.
If Arthur cried loudly because he scraped his knee, Jake didn't cover his ears. He immediately recognized the sound as 'distress data' rather than 'chaotic noise', and his protective instinct completely overrode his sensory defenses. He would scoop Arthur up, apply the deep pressure his son loved, and calmly assess the "malfunction."
He was the most patient, attentive, and deeply affectionate father you had ever seen. He was, in every sense of the word, a puppy husband—utterly devoted, deeply loving, and profoundly safe. "Mama! Look!" Arthur shrieked, spotting you in the kitchen. He scrambled to his feet, abandoning his Duplo tower, and ran across the living room on his sturdy little legs. "I see it, my brave little spider!" you laughed, putting your coffee down just in time to catch him as he crashed into your knees. You scooped him up, settling his warm, solid weight onto your hip. You pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to his cheek, making him giggle uncontrollably. Jake stood up from the carpet. He uncrossed his long legs with fluid grace and walked over to the kitchen island, his eyes locked onto the two of you. He stepped directly into your space, wrapping his long arms around both you and Arthur, pulling his entire family into a massive, encompassing hug. He pressed his face against the side of your head, inhaling your scent, then leaned down to bump his nose affectionately against Arthur’s. "The tower is incomplete," Jake informed his son, his eyes crinkling with warmth. "But Mama required morning compression. We will resume the construction sequence in approximately five minutes."
"Okay, Dada," Arthur chirped, resting his head on your shoulder and immediately beginning to play with the zipper of your cardigan. You looked up at Jake, running your free hand up his chest to rest flat against his heart. It was beating in a slow, steady, perfect rhythm. "Are you happy, Spidey?" you asked softly, the morning sun catching the lapis lazuli in his wedding band as he held you.
Jake didn't need to run an internal diagnostic to answer the question. The data was glaringly obvious.He looked around the house. He looked at the Duplo blocks scattered on the rug. He looked at the acoustic panels on the walls that kept the world at bay. And then, he looked at you—the woman who had walked into his life three years ago with a crooked diploma and a willingness to understand the math of his mind."Before you arrived, my brain was filled with static," Jake said, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant octave reserved only for you. "I spent all my energy building walls to keep the unpredictable variables out."
He lifted his hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light and incredibly tender."But you did not break my walls," he continued, his dark brown eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered devotion. "You walked inside them. You helped me reinforce the foundation. And then, we built Arthur."
He looked at the toddler currently trying to put your zipper in his mouth, pulling it gently away.
"I am not just happy, Y/N," Jake stated, leaning down until his forehead rested flush against yours. "The static isn't entirely gone but it feels like it is. The variables are perfect. My life is... it is no longer an equation to be solved. It is a masterpiece."
You smiled, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. He kissed you back immediately, a deep, grounding pressure that anchored you to the earth. "Ew! Kisses!" Arthur protested loudly, squirming against your hip. Jake pulled back, a genuine, hearty laugh escaping his chest—a sound that still felt like a victory every time you heard it. He reached out and scooped Arthur out of your arms, tossing the squealing toddler slightly in the air before settling him securely against his chest.
"Kisses are highly optimal for maintaining the parental bond, Arthur," Jake informed his giggling son, turning back toward the living room rug. "Now, we must finish the tower. The structural integrity depends on us."
You stood in the kitchen, picking your coffee mug back up, and watched your two Spider-Men sit back down on the carpet. Jake picked up a blue piece of plastic. It wasn't a Duplo block. It was the translucent blue, polycarbonite "power blast" web piece that he had given you on that rainy afternoon three years ago. The one you still kept in the ceramic bowl on the counter.
He held it up for Arthur to see. "This," Jake told his son, his voice thick with meaning, "is a web. It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." He looked over his shoulder, catching your eye across the room, and flashed you a smile so bright it outshined the morning sun. "And it never breaks."
You took a sip of your coffee, the warmth spreading through your chest, settling deep in your bones. The diploma was still hanging in your office at the community center. You had plenty of real-world experience now. But your greatest achievement wasn't a file folder or a caseload.
It was right here. In this perfectly controlled, 69-degree sanctuary, watching the man who had once been terrified of the world teach his son how to build a beautiful, indestructible life, one plastic brick at a time.
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Pairings: Autistic! Jake x Caretaker! fem! reader
Wordcount:32k
Summary:Hired to help a brilliant, autistic young man navigate a world that is far too loud, you, a newly graduated social worker learns to speak his unique language of logic, LEGOs, and quiet routines. As you become the one permanent variable that makes the static in his mind finally stop, the strict boundaries of your job description slowly blur into a profound, life-changing connection.
Warnings:Caretaker/Client Relationship (Blurring of Professional Boundaries), Autism Spectrum Representation, Sensory Overload & Severe Meltdowns, Ableism & Public Bullying, Mild Self-Harm (Frustration Stimming/Hitting Head - quickly stopped by Yn), Panic Attacks/Hyperventilating, Emotional Angst (Self-Doubt/Feeling "Broken"), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Reader, Extreme Fluff, Touch-Starved Jake, Slow Burn, First Time/Virginity Loss (Jake), Smut (M/F)(FULL CONSENT I’m not a weirdo 😒), Sensory-Focused Intimacy, Emotional Overstimulation (Happy Tears).get those tissues ready for the absolute softest boy.
A/N: can you tell I love writing for jake because I can. I did a lot of watching videos with people that have autism and this fic came to mind, how we all should treat people even if they’re different from us the same because they’re trying too! But I’m such a sappy girl.Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.
[Masterlist]
The diploma on your wall was still crooked. It had been hanging there for three weeks, a piece of expensive cardstock in a cheap black frame that declared you were now a Bachelor of Social Work. It was supposed to feel like a victory lap. Instead, it felt like the starting gun of a race you weren't sure you were qualified to run.
You were twenty-two years old. You had a head full of theory—systems theory, behavioral psychology, crisis intervention models—and absolutely zero real-world experience. The imposter syndrome wasn't just a whisper in the back of your mind; it was a scream.You sat at your small kitchen table, staring at the file folder the agency, New Horizons Support Services, had couriered over that morning.
Client Name: Jake Sim.
Age: 23.
Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1/High Support Needs during sensory events). Notes: History of high caregiver turnover. Client experiences acute sensory overload. Rigid adherence to routine is required. Previous workers reported difficulty establishing rapport."High caregiver turnover." That was the phrase that stuck. In the social work world, that usually meant the client was "difficult"—aggressive, non-verbal, or physically demanding.But looking at the photo clipped to the inside of the file, you didn't see "difficult." You saw a boy—no, a young man—looking away from the camera. He wasn't smiling. His hair was a fluffy, dark brown mop that seemed to be trying to swallow his head. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big. He didn't look aggressive. He looked… retreating. Like he was trying to fold himself into a shape that the world wouldn't notice.You closed the file. You drank your lukewarm coffee. You adjusted your blazer, which felt too stiff and too "adult," and grabbed your keys. "Okay," you whispered to the empty apartment. "Don't mess this up." The house was in a quiet suburb, the kind with manicured lawns and basketball hoops in every other driveway. It was a beige two-story with a wrap-around porch.
You parked your beat-up sedan on the street, checking your watch. 8:55 AM. Five minutes early. "On time is late, early is on time," your practicum supervisor used to say. You walked up the path, your heels clicking loudly on the pavement. You made a mental note to wear sneakers next time if you got the job. Click-clack sounds could be a sensory trigger. Think, Y/N. Think.
You rang the doorbell.It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full eight hours in a decade. She was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as the boy in the photo, but there were deep lines etched around her mouth."You must be Y/N," she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were scanning you, assessing you. It was the look of a mother bear who was tired of fighting off wolves but was ready to do it again if she had to. "Hi. Yes, I am," you said, extending a hand. "It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sim."
"Sarah, please," she shook your hand firmly. "Come in. Take your shoes off at the door, if you don't mind. We try to keep the outside noise… outside."
You stepped into the foyer. It was cool and smelled faintly of lemon pledge and lavender. It was aggressively tidy. Not a speck of dust, not a stray shoe.
"So," Sarah said, leading you toward the kitchen. "You've read the file?"
"I have."
"Forget half of it," she said bluntly. She leaned against the granite island, crossing her arms. "The agency writes those reports to cover their liability. They make him sound like a list of symptoms. 'Sensory processing disorder.' 'Social deficits.' It makes him sound broken." She looked at you, her expression fierce. "Jake isn't broken. He’s just… on a different frequency. He’s brilliant. He’s funny, in his own way. But he feels everything. Imagine if you couldn't turn down the volume on the world. That’s Jake’s life. Every light is a spotlight. Every sound is a siren." You nodded, listening intently. "I understand. My goal isn't to 'fix' him, Sarah. It’s to help him navigate the volume."
Sarah softened. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "The last girl… she treated him like a toddler. She used that high-pitched 'baby voice.' Jake hated it. He’s twenty-three. He’s a grown man. He just needs help with the logistics of being a grown man."
"I promise," you said seriously. "No baby voice."
Sarah smiled, a real one this time. "Okay. He’s in the living room. It’s his… sanctuary. He’s having a good morning, so he’s building. Just… go in slow. Let him come to you. If you push, he’ll shut down."
"Got it."
"Good luck," she whispered. You walked down the hallway. The floorboards were carpeted here, muffling your footsteps. The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio, no hum of appliances. You reached the archway of the living room and stopped.The room was large, with heavy blackout curtains drawn halfway, filtering the morning sun into a soft, hazy glow. The furniture was pushed to the perimeter of the room.The center of the floor was occupied by a city.There were thousands—literally thousands—of LEGO bricks. But they weren't scattered. They were organized into plastic trays by color, size, and function. Grey plates. Blue pins. Technic beams.
And sitting in the middle of it all was Jake.
He looked exactly like the photo, but realer. Vivid. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over a massive, half-built grey structure. He was wearing a faded brown hoodie with fraying cuffs, the hood down, revealing that fluffy hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck.He was muttering. A low, rapid-fire stream of words.
"...clutch power on the 2x4 is insufficient for the torque... need to reinforce the sub-frame... bag twelve, bag twelve, where is the axle connector..."
You took a breath. You stepped into the room.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge you existed. His long, elegant fingers continued to snap pieces together with a rhythmic click-click-click. You remembered your training. Parallel play. Don't force interaction. Join the space. You walked over to the sofa, which was a safe ten feet away from his construction zone. You sat down slowly. You placed your bag on the floor. You didn't pull out your phone. You just sat there, hands in your lap, watching him. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Most people would have been awkward. They would have cleared their throat or tried to start small talk about the weather. But you found yourself strangely captivated. There was something hypnotic about the way he worked. He wasn't playing. He was engineering. He would pick up a piece, rotate it, inspect it for flaws, and then place it with the precision of a surgeon.
He was beautiful. That was the unprofessional thought that popped into your head. He had a strong jawline, soft lips that were currently pursed in concentration, and eyelashes that were unfairly long. Fifteen minutes in, he paused. He held a long, grey Technic beam in his hand. He frowned. He looked at the instruction booklet—which was thick enough to be a phone book—then back at the beam. "The inventory is incorrect," he said. He didn't look at you. He spoke to the air. But it was an opening.
"Is a piece missing?" you asked, keeping your voice low and level.Jake stiffened slightly. He turned his head slowly, like a wary deer. For the first time, you saw his eyes. They were big. That was the only word for them. Big, dark, liquid brown eyes that held a depth of innocence that hit you right in the chest. They were "puppy eyes" in the truest sense—guileless, open, and slightly fearful.He looked at you. He blinked. He looked at your feet. He looked at your hands. Then, finally, he looked at your face.
"It’s not missing," he corrected you. His voice was smooth, deep, and sounded very matter-of-fact. "It’s the wrong molding variant. This is a 32523, but the instructions call for a 32524. The friction ridges are different. If I use this, the stabilizer fin will wobble." He held the piece out, not to you, but in your general direction.
"That sounds frustrating," you said. "A wobble would ruin the structural integrity."
Jake’s eyes widened a fraction. He pulled his hand back. "Yes. Structural integrity is the primary variable. Most people don't care about the wobble."
"Well, if you're building the UCS Millennium Falcon," you said, gesturing to the box you recognized in the corner, "you want it to be perfect. It’s a collector's item."
He froze. He turned his body fully toward you now, abandoning the LEGOs for a second. "You know the model number?" he asked. It was a test. "75192," you said. "Released in 2017. It’s the biggest set they ever made, right?"
You thanked your lucky stars for your younger brother, who had begged for this set for three Christmases in a row.Jake stared at you. He was processing this data. New girl. Not loud. Not baby voice. Knows the Falcon.
"It was the biggest," he corrected gently. "Until the Art World Map. But the World Map is just tiles. It’s 2D. The Falcon is 3D engineering. It’s superior."
"I agree," you smiled. "Maps are boring compared to spaceships."
The corner of his mouth twitched. A micro-smile. It was there and gone in a second, but you saw it. "I'm Jake," he said. He looked at your name tag, which you had clipped to your blazer. "You are Y/N."
"I am."
"Are you going to tell me to clean this up?" He gestured vaguely to the chaos on the floor. "The last one... Jenny. She said it was a tripping hazard. She made me put it in bins before I was done." The distress in his voice was subtle, but clear. He remembered the disruption of his routine. "No," you said firmly. "I am not going to make you clean it up. It’s not a mess, Jake. It’s a system. I can see you have the plates sorted by size." Jake let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you walked in. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him.
"It is a system," he whispered, relieved. "Sorted by function, then color."
He picked up the grey beam again. He looked at it, then at you.
"Do you want to... inspect the sub-frame?" he asked. "It’s very dense."
It was an invitation into his world.You stood up and walked over. You didn't rush. You sat down on the floor, crossing your legs, keeping a respectful distance.
"Show me," you said.For the next two hours, Jake Sim taught you about the physics of plastic bricks. He showed you how the internal technic frame supported the weight of the outer shell. He explained the concept of "SNOT" (Studs Not On Top) building techniques.
He didn't make eye contact often. mostly he looked at his hands or the model. But every now and then, when he was explaining a particularly clever bit of engineering, he would look up at you to see if you were following. And when he saw that you were listening—really listening, not just nodding politely—his face would light up.It wasn't a loud happiness. It was a quiet, glowing satisfaction."You're a good listener," he said abruptly, around 11:30 AM. "Thank you, Jake."
"Most people stop listening after the first sentence about gear ratios."
"I like gear ratios," you lied. Well, a half-lie. You liked him talking about gear ratios.
"Okay," he said. He turned back to the pile. "I'm hungry now. It is Tuesday. Tuesday is grilled cheese."
"Do you want me to make it?"
He paused. He looked anxious. "Do you know the cut?"
"Diagonal?" you guessed. He nodded vigorously. "Diagonal. It tastes better. The surface area of the crust is distributed more evenly."
"I can do diagonal." You went to the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, pretending to read a magazine, but she was clearly listening to the silence in the living room. She looked up as you entered. "He’s... talking," she said, sounding stunned. "I heard him talking."
"He was telling me about the Falcon," you smiled, grabbing the bread. "He’s brilliant, Sarah. He knows more about engineering than I know about anything."
Sarah’s eyes welled up. She blinked them back quickly. "He likes you. He usually ignores them for the first week. Or hides in his room."
"I think we're going to get along just fine."You made the grilled cheese. You cut it diagonally. You placed it on a plate (blue, his favorite color, according to the file).
You brought it to him. He ate it sitting on the floor, wiping his hands meticulously on a napkin between bites so he wouldn't get grease on the LEGOs.
When the shift ended at 3 PM, you felt exhausted but exhilarated. You gathered your bag."I have to go now, Jake," you said.He didn't look up from bag thirteen. "Okay."
"I'll be back tomorrow."He paused. He placed a brick. Then, without looking up, he spoke."Bring sneakers," he said.
"Sneakers?"
"Your shoes," he pointed to your heels you put back on without looking. "They go click-clack. It echoes. Sneakers are quieter. Stealth mode."
You smiled. "Stealth mode. Got it. Sneakers tomorrow."
The morning sun was hitting the pavement differently today. Yesterday, it had felt like a spotlight of judgment; today, it felt like a gentle invitation.You parked your sedan in the same spot, checking the time. 8:50 AM. You were establishing your own routine: ten minutes early, park, breathe, enter. Consistency was the currency of trust, and you intended to be rich in it. You looked down at your feet. Gone were the stiff, "professional" black heels that pinched your toes and echoed like gunshots in a quiet hallway. In their place were a pair of white Converse—clean, soft-soled, and silent. You had spent twenty minutes the night before scrubbing a scuff mark off the toe, irrationally worried that a smudge might disrupt the visual harmony of Jake’s morning. "Stealth mode," you whispered to yourself, grabbing your bag. You walked up the path. You made a conscious effort to step lightly, rolling from heel to toe. The silence was noticeable. You felt less like an intruder and more like a ghost, slipping into the ecosystem without disturbing the wildlife. Sarah opened the door before you could ring the bell. She was holding a mug of coffee with two hands, looking slightly more awake than yesterday, though the tired lines were still etched deep around her eyes. She wore a soft grey cardigan wrapped tight around her frame. She looked down immediately. She saw the sneakers. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—not the polite, strained smile of yesterday, but something softer. A crack in the armor.
"You listened," she said, opening the door wider. "He asked for sneakers," you said simply, stepping into the cool, lemon-scented foyer. "I figure he knows his ears better than I do."
"You’d be surprised how many people argue with him on that," Sarah murmured, closing the door with a soft click. "They say, 'Oh, you'll get used to the noise.' As if he can just will his neurology to change."
"I'm not here to argue with him, Sarah. I'm here to work with him."
"I'm starting to believe you." She gestured toward the kitchen. "He’s eating. It’s a... process. Keep your voice low. Morning transitions are hard. His brain is still booting up." You followed her down the hallway, your rubber soles making no sound against the hardwood. The house was still unnaturally quiet, a sanctuary of stillness against the chaotic world outside. When you entered the kitchen, the scene was almost tableau-like in its precision. The kitchen was bathed in natural light, but the blinds were tilted just so to prevent any glare. At the round wooden table sat Jake.
He was wearing a different hoodie today—a navy blue one, equally oversized, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He was hunched slightly over his plate, his focus absolute. On the plate were two scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon. But "scrambled eggs and bacon" didn't quite do justice to what you were seeing. The eggs were a uniform yellow—no brown spots, no runny bits. They were separated perfectly from the bacon. The bacon itself had been cut into precise, one-inch squares.Jake held his fork in his right hand. He didn't shovel the food. He speared one square of bacon, lifted it, inspected it for a brief second, and then ate it. He chewed rhythmically. He swallowed. He took a sip of water from a clear glass (no ice, you noted—ice clinks). Then, and only then, did he spear a forkful of eggs.
It was a ritual. A sequence.
"Hi, Jake," you said, pitching your voice to a soft murmur, staying near the doorway.
He paused mid-chew. He didn't look up immediately. He finished chewing, swallowed, and took his sip of water. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His hair was messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts in the back, giving him a disarmingly boyish look. His eyes were heavy, blinking slowly as they found you. He looked at your face. Then, immediately, his gaze dropped to the floor. He stared at your white Converse for a long, intense five seconds. You stood perfectly still, letting him inspect the data.
"White," he said. His voice was raspy with sleep, deeper than it had been yesterday.
"White," you agreed. "And rubber soles. No clicking."
He nodded once—a sharp, decisive chin dip. "Stealth mode active."
"Active," you smiled. He turned back to his eggs. "Acceptable." Sarah let out a silent breath beside you. She touched your elbow gently and tilted her head toward the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was close enough to see him, but far enough to talk without hovering over his plate. You followed her, sitting on a wicker chair while she perched on the edge of a loveseat. She watched her son eat with a mixture of fierce love and terrified vigilance. "Okay," Sarah whispered, turning to you. "Lesson number one: The morning sets the algorithm."
You pulled a small notebook out of your bag. "I'm listening."
"Jake’s energy is a battery," Sarah explained, keeping one eye on the navy-hooded figure at the table. "Most of us start the day at 100%. We spend energy, we get tired, we sleep. Jake starts the day at maybe... 60%. Just existing costs him energy. The lights, the texture of his sheets, the smell of the coffee I’m drinking—it all costs him."
You wrote down: Baseline energy lower. High sensory tax.
"If breakfast goes wrong," Sarah continued, her voice tight, "if the eggs are slimy, or the bacon is burnt, or the spoon is the wrong weight... he loses 20% right there. Then he starts the day in a deficit. And a deficit means a meltdown is almost guaranteed by noon."
"So the routine isn't just about being picky," you said, realizing. "It’s about conservation."
"Exactly," Sarah nodded, looking grateful that you got it. "He’s controlling the variables he can control, because the rest of the world is completely out of control for him. That plate?" She pointed to his breakfast. "That’s safety. He knows exactly what the bacon will taste like. He knows the texture of the eggs. It’s predictable. Predictability is safety." You watched Jake spear another square of bacon. The deliberate nature of it made sense now. He wasn't just eating; he was grounding himself for the day ahead. "Tell me about the food," you asked. "I noticed he cut the bacon before he started." "Texture and size," Sarah said. "He has trouble with proprioception—knowing where his body is in space, and sometimes, manipulating utensils while chewing is too much multitasking. If the food is big, he worries about choking. Or getting grease on his face. He hates having a dirty face. It feels like burning to him."
"So we keep it bite-sized," you noted. "Clean face, no unexpected textures."
"And no mixing," Sarah added quickly. "The eggs cannot touch the bacon. If the syrup from a waffle touches the sausage? The whole meal is ruined. It’s contaminated."
"Separation is key."
"Yes." Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her eyes darkening slightly. "The last aide... she thought it was 'silly.' She tried to mix his corn and mashed potatoes to 'save space' on the plate. He flipped the table." You looked at the calm, quiet boy eating his squares of bacon. It was hard to imagine him flipping a table. "He felt bad about it for weeks," Sarah whispered, seeing your expression. "He cried for two days. He kept saying, 'I broke the plate, Mom. I’m bad.' He’s not violent, Y/N. He’s never hurt a fly on purpose. But when the sensory overload hits... it’s like a power surge. His body just explodes to get the feeling out."
"I read about the meltdowns in the file," you said gently. "But the file called them 'behavioral outbursts.'"
Sarah scoffed. "Behavioral implies he’s doing it to get something. To manipulate. He’s not. It’s a system crash. It’s pain. Imagine someone blasts an airhorn in your ear while flashing a strobe light in your eyes and scratching a chalkboard. That’s what a disrupted routine feels like to him. The screaming, the rocking? That’s him trying to survive the input." You looked at Jake again. He had finished his food. He was now wiping his mouth with a napkin. Once. Twice. Fold. Wipe again. "What do I do if he crashes?" you asked. "You don't talk much," Sarah said firmly. "That’s the biggest mistake people make. They try to talk him down. 'Calm down, Jake. Use your words, Jake.' He can't use his words. His language center shuts off. Talking just adds more noise."
"So... silence?"
"Presence," Sarah corrected. "Quiet, heavy presence. He responds to deep pressure. You saw the weighted blanket yesterday? He lives under that thing when he’s stressed. If he’s spiraling, don't touch him lightly—light touch feels like bugs crawling on him. But a firm squeeze? A hand on his shoulder, pressing down? That tells his brain where his body is. It anchors him." You wrote down: No light touch. Deep pressure. Silence > Words. "He’s an empath, you know," Sarah said suddenly, her voice softening. You looked up. "The file said he has 'social deficits.'"
"The file is garbage," Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "He struggles with social cues. He doesn't understand sarcasm or hidden agendas. But emotions? He absorbs them like a sponge. If you are stressed, he will be stressed. If you are sad, he will be devastated. He can't filter out other people's feelings. That’s why he withdraws. It’s too loud emotionally." She looked at you pointedly. "So, you have to be calm. Even if you’re panicking inside, you have to be a rock on the outside. If you bring chaos into this house, he will shatter." It was a heavy responsibility. You were twenty-two. You were barely an adult yourself. But looking at Sarah’s exhausted face, and Jake’s solitary figure at the table, you felt a steel rod of determination form in your spine.
"I can be calm," you promised. "I can be a rock." Just then, the chair scraped against the floor in the kitchen. Jake stood up. He picked up his plate and glass. He walked to the sink, rinsed them both, and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, he turned and walked toward the sunroom. He stopped in the doorway, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked at his mom, then at you. "Breakfast is complete," he announced. "Good job, honey," Sarah said.
Jake looked at you. His eyes were clearer now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by that keen, observant intelligence you had seen yesterday. "Are we going to the living room?" he asked you.
"We can," you said, standing up. "Or we can do something else. What’s the plan for Wednesday?"
Jake frowned slightly. "Wednesday is... mid-week. The energy is medium." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I want to disassemble the sub-frame of the Falcon. I dreamed about a better anchor point for the hyperdrive."
"Disassembly," you nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at your feet again.
"They really are quiet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like a ninja." Then he disappeared down the hallway. Sarah let out a laugh, a short, breathy sound. "A ninja. That’s high praise. He likes ninjas. They have discipline."
"I'll take it," you smiled.
"Go on," Sarah shooed you gently. "I'm going to actually take a shower without worrying the house is burning down. You have the conn."
"I have the conn," you repeated. You walked down the hallway, your sneakers silent on the carpet. You found Jake in the living room, exactly where you left him yesterday. He was kneeling beside the massive LEGO structure. He didn't look up when you entered, but his shoulders didn't tense up either. He knew you were there. He accepted you were there.You walked over to your spot on the sofa and sat down.
"So," you said softly. "The hyperdrive anchor. What was wrong with the old one?"
Jake picked up a section of the ship. He rotated it, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It was too rigid," he said. "If the ship moves, the stress fractures the connector. It needs flex. The universe has flex. Ships should too."
"That’s a good philosophy," you noted. "Flexibility prevents breaking."
He looked up at you then. A long, steady look. "Yes," he said. "
People break because they don't flex. They are rigid about the wrong things."
You felt a chill go down your spine. For someone who supposedly struggled with social concepts, he had just nailed the human condition in two sentences.
"I'll try to be flexible, Jake," you said. "Good," he said. He handed you a small bucket of grey pins. "You can sort these. By length. The short ones go on the left."
It was an order, but it was also an inclusion. He wasn't just letting you watch; he was letting you help. You took the bucket. You slid off the sofa and sat on the floor—keeping a respectful three feet of distance.
"Short ones on the left," you repeated. You worked in silence for twenty minutes. It was a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the click-click of his building and the soft rattle of your sorting.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
He didn't look up. He was fitting a gear into place.
"Thank you for the shoes," he said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "The clicking... it hurts my teeth. It makes my spine feel itchy."
"I didn't know," you said. "I'm sorry about yesterday."
"You didn't know the variable," he said simply. "Now you have the data. You updated your software."
"I did."
"That is efficient." He paused, then added, "Jenny never updated her software. She just wore the loud shoes every day." Your heart broke a little for him. You could imagine him sitting here, day after day, his spine "itching" from the sound, unable to articulate why he was so agitated, while a well-meaning but oblivious support worker clattered around him. "I will always try to update my software, Jake," you vowed. "If something hurts, you tell me. I’ll fix it."
He looked at you. He studied your face, your eyes, your posture. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the condescension. He didn't find it. "Okay," he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, red 2x4 brick. He held it out to you. "This doesn't belong in the Falcon," he said. "The Falcon is grey and beige. This is red. It’s an anomaly." You reached out and took the brick. It was warm from his pocket. "What should I do with it?"
"Keep it," he said, turning back to his work. "It’s a good color. High saturation. But it needs to be somewhere else. You can hold it."
You closed your hand around the red brick. It felt like a token. A peace offering. A key. "I'll keep it safe," you said.You spent the rest of the morning sorting pins and listening to him explain the difference between torque and horsepower. You watched the way his hands moved, so sure and graceful. You watched the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.You thought about Sarah’s warning: He feels everything.You looked at the boy who was building a spaceship to escape to a galaxy far, far away, and you thought, I will make sure this room is safe enough that you don't have to leave.By lunchtime (grilled cheese, diagonal cut, blue plate), you had learned more about thermal exhaust ports than you ever thought possible.
But more importantly, when you put the plate down in front of him, he didn't just stare at the food.He looked up. He gave you a micro-smile—a tiny quirk of the lip.
"Diagonal," he noted approvingly.
"Flexibility," you countered with a smile.
"Touché," he whispered.
And as he took his first bite, you realized that the crooked diploma on your wall didn't matter. The textbooks didn't matter. This mattered. The quiet boy, the blue plate, the silent shoes, and the fragile, beautiful bridge you were starting to build, brick by brick.
The warm, soapy water in the kitchen sink was turning a pale, creamy orange—the remnants of the roasted tomato bisque you had served for lunch. You moved the sponge in slow, rhythmic circles against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, the motion meditative. Three months. It had been ninety days since you first walked into this house with your squeaky dress shoes and your imposter syndrome. Ninety days of learning that "on time" meant ten minutes early, that "quiet" meant silent, and that the world was a cacophony that Jake Sim fought to tune out every single minute of his life. Sarah had left an hour ago. It was a milestone, really. For the first two months, she had hovered. She was a ghost in the periphery—folding laundry in the next room, "checking emails" at the dining table while you and Jake were in the living room, watering plants that were already drowned. You didn't blame her. The stories she had told you about previous support workers were horror shows of incompetence and impatience. But last week, she had looked at you, then looked at Jake, who was calmly explaining the aerodynamics of a LEGO helicopter to you, and she had exhaled. A long, heavy breath that released years of tension.
"I'm going to the grocery store," she had said today, pulling on her coat. "Alone. And then... I might go to the library. I might be gone for three hours."
"Go," you had smiled, handing her keys. "We have the conn."
"You have the conn," she’d repeated, a small, terrified smile on her face.
And she had left. Now, it was just you, the soup bowls, and the faint sounds of explosions coming from the living room. You rinsed the bowl, placing it in the drying rack. You wiped your hands on the towel, taking a moment to scan the kitchen. It was spotless. Jake liked spotless. Clutter was "visual noise." If a spoon was left on the counter, he wouldn't say anything, but he would stare at it, his brow furrowed, his internal processor snagging on the anomaly until you moved it.You thought about the lunch you had just shared. Tomato soup. Pureed. No chunks. You had learned the hard way about Jake’s dietary landscape. It was a map filled with landmines.
No surprises. That was the golden rule. A piece of onion in a smooth sauce was a betrayal. A crunch in a soft food was a systemic failure. And the colors... that was a fascinating chapter in your education. Jake hated white foods. You remembered the "Cauliflower Incident" of Month Two. Sarah had been sick, so you tried to make dinner. You mashed cauliflower, thinking it was a healthy alternative to potatoes. You put a scoop on his blue plate. Jake had looked at it like it was radioactive waste. He had pushed his chair back, his breathing hitching.
"It’s a ghost," he had whispered, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "It has no data. It’s blank."
"It's cauliflower, Jake," you’d said gently.
"It’s deceptive," he’d countered, his voice trembling. "It looks like nothing, but it tastes like wet earth. It’s lying to my eyes." He hadn't eaten it. He hadn't eaten anything that night until you brought him a glass of milk. Milk was the exception. You had asked him why, fascinated by the logic. "Milk is structural," he had explained, drinking it down in three large gulps. "It builds bone density. Calcium is a metal. It’s not food; it’s construction material. Therefore, the color is irrelevant."
Logic. It was always about logic. You smiled to yourself, folding the dish towel. You checked the clock. 1:15 PM. Transition time. You walked out of the kitchen, your worn-in Converse making zero sound on the hardwood. You moved like a shadow, a skill you had perfected to avoid startling him.You stopped in the archway of the living room.The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a twilight effect that Jake preferred. The only light came from the massive 65-inch TV screen, which was currently exploding with red and blue light. Spider-Man: No Way Home. Again. Jake was sitting on the floor. He never sat on the couch when he was watching Spider-Man. He needed to be grounded, literally. He sat on the plush rug, his legs crossed, his posture rigid with focus. And he was wearing the pajamas. It was 1:15 PM on a Tuesday, but Jake was wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas covered in little Miles Morales masks. He had three sets. One with the classic logo, one with the Venom symbiote (which he only wore when he was moody), and this one.
He loved them because they were "high-tensile cotton," soft but durable, with no tags. He loved them because Peter Parker was his hero. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, just watching him.It was... cute. There was no other word for it. He wasn't just watching the movie; he was participating in it. He held a small LEGO minifigure of Spider-Man in his left hand. Every time Tom Holland shot a web on screen, Jake’s left hand would twitch, mimicking the thwip motion. It was a subtle stim, a way of processing the action. You knew why he loved Spider-Man. He had told you, in bits and pieces, over the last three months. "He has to wear the suit," Jake had said once, tracing the logo on his pajama shirt. "Because the world is too loud. The suit dampens the input. It holds him together."
"And the Spidey Sense?" you had asked. "Overload," Jake had replied, his voice serious. "When the air changes pressure. When he hears everything at once. He has to learn to dial it down. That is... relatable." Peter Parker was a boy who was overwhelmed by his own senses, who had to hide his true self to survive, who was awkward and nerdy but deeply good. Of course Jake loved him. Jake was him, just without the radioactive spider bite. On the screen, Spider-Man was swinging through New York, the camera panning dizzyingly. Jake rocked slightly back and forth, syncing his vestibular system with the movement on screen.You waited for a quiet moment in the dialogue before speaking. You never interrupted an action sequence. That was a rule. The scene changed to Peter and MJ talking on a roof. "Does the mask fit today?" you asked softly. Jake didn't jump. He knew you were there. He had probably heard your breathing change when you entered the room.
He turned his head slowly. His hair was a chaotic, fluffy halo around his head—he had shampooed it this morning, and it always got extra floofy on wash days. His big brown eyes blinked at you behind his glasses. "The mask is theoretical," he said. His voice was that familiar, soothing baritone. "But the pajamas are optimal. The flannel is at peak softness."
"They look very comfortable," you said, walking over and sitting on the sofa behind him. You didn't sit on the floor with him unless invited. "Is that the bridge scene?"
"It is the preamble to the bridge scene," Jake corrected gently. He turned back to the TV, but he leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It meant you are safe. You are part of the furniture. I can rest on you. You resisted the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair. You knew he liked head scratches, but only when he initiated. Unexpected touch was "bugs." Initiated touch was "grounding."
"I made a discovery today," Jake said, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"Oh?"
"The soup," he said. "The viscosity was different."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Different bad or different good?"
He paused. He tapped the LEGO minifigure against his knee three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Different... efficient," he decided. "You roasted the tomatoes longer. The caramelization added depth. It reduced the acidity. It was... surprisingly pleasant."
You let out a breath. "I'm glad. I tried a new recipe."
"It is approved," Jake said. "You may add it to the rotation."
"Noted. Roasted tomato bisque: Approved." He went quiet for a moment, watching Peter Parker awkwardly try to explain his feelings to MJ. "Peter is bad at talking," Jake observed. "He is," you agreed. "He gets nervous."
"He has too many variables in his head," Jake said, twisting the LEGO figure. "He wants to say 'I like you,' but his brain is saying 'villains, aunt may, geometry, web fluid.' The output gets jammed."
"Does your output get jammed, Jake?" you asked softly.
He went still. The rocking stopped. He turned his head around to look up at you, craning his neck. His face was upside down from your perspective. His eyes were wide, searching yours. "Sometimes," he whispered. "With you."
Your breath caught. "With me?"
"Yes." He blinked. "Usually, with people, the output is jammed because I don't have the script. I don't know what they want me to say. It’s... static."
He paused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing.
"But with you," he continued, "the output jams because... there is too much data. I want to tell you about the soup. And the LEGOs. And the way your shoes don't make noise. And the way you smell like vanilla and oats. It all tries to come out at once. And I get... stuck."
He looked so earnest, so frustrated by his own inability to verbalize the torrent of thoughts in his head.
"That’s okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say it all at once. You can just give me one piece of data at a time."
He seemed to consider this. He righted his head and turned back to the TV.
He reached into the pocket of his Spider-Man pajama pants. He pulled something out.
He held his hand up over his shoulder, blindly offering it to you.
"Data point one," he said.
You reached out and opened your hand. He dropped a small, plastic object into your palm. It was a LEGO piece. A translucent blue "power blast" piece that came with the Spider-Man sets. It was meant to look like energy or webbing.
"It’s a web," he explained, staring at the screen. "It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." You closed your fingers around the small, sharp plastic. It was better than a diamond ring."Thank you, Jake," you whispered. "I love it."
"It’s polycarbonite," he added practically. "It won't break."
"Neither will we." He hummed—that happy, vibrating sound that meant he was content. He leaned harder against your legs. "Do you want a snack?" you asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "It’s 1:30." Jake stiffened. The snack question. It was always a gamble. "No sweets," he said immediately. "Sugar makes my teeth feel fuzzy sometimes. It makes my brain go bzzzzzt." He made a chaotic hand gesture. "No sweets," you promised. "I was thinking... pretzels? Or cheese cubes?"
"Cheese cubes," he said decisively. "Cheddar. Sharp. Cut into 1x1 centimeter blocks."
"I can do that."
"And... maybe milk?"
"Milk is structural," you recited his rule back to him.
"Correct," he said. "Milk is structural."
You stood up to go to the kitchen. Jake turned to watch you go.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jakey?"
He looked at you, really looked at you, with that puppy-dog innocence that masked a profound, deep-feeling soul.
"Sarah is gone," he stated.
"She is."
"And the house is not on fire."
"Nope. No fire."
"And I am not screaming."
"You are definitely not screaming."
He nodded, a slow, satisfied movement. "This is a successful variable test."
"I think so too."
"Okay. Cheese cubes now."
He turned back to the movie, lifting his LEGO Spider-Man in the air to help Peter Parker swing across the screen. You walked to the kitchen, clutching the translucent blue LEGO piece in your pocket like a talisman. You opened the fridge and pulled out the block of sharp cheddar. You got the knife. You cut the cheese into precise, measured cubes. You thought about the last three months. You thought about the crooked diploma on your wall that you used to feel unworthy of. You didn't feel unworthy anymore. You didn't feel like a social worker "managing a case."
You felt like a web. You were holding him, and he was holding you, and together, you were swinging through the chaos of the world, one quiet, comfortable afternoon at a time. You put the cheese on the blue plate—making sure none of the cubes were touching—and poured the milk. "Coming through," you whispered to the empty kitchen. "Stealth mode active." You walked back into the living room, where the boy in the Spider-Man pajamas was waiting for you, safe in the sanctuary you had built together.
The six-month mark didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived with a quiet, steady hum of competence. You were no longer the nervous grad with the squeaky shoes. You were Y/N, the keeper of the routine, the translator of the static, the one who knew that if the humidity was above 80%, Jake’s hair would frizz and the sensation would make him irritable unless he wore his hood up. You knew him. You knew the specific cadence of his breathing when he was happy (slow, deep) versus when he was anxious (shallow, catching in his throat). You knew that he categorized people by color auras he imagined for them—Sarah was a soft yellow, you were a "protective blue." Sarah trusted you completely now. She had started taking yoga classes on Tuesday mornings. She had gone to lunch with a friend. She was reclaiming pieces of her life because she knew that when she left the house, you had the conn. "We need apples," Jake announced one Tuesday morning. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl. It contained three bananas (too ripe, brown spots—he wouldn't touch them) and one orange. Zero apples. "We do," you agreed, closing the dishwasher. "Honeycrisp. No bruises."
"The Gala ones are mealy," Jake said, a shudder running through his shoulders. "Mealy is... bad texture. It feels like wet sand."
"Honeycrisp it is." He looked at you then. He was wearing his "going out" clothes: dark jeans that were soft and worn-in, and a grey hoodie that didn't have logos. He looked calm. His hands were steady at his sides. "I can assist," he said. You paused. "You want to come to the store?"
"Yes." He nodded once, firmly. "I have calculated the variables. It is Tuesday. The store is statistically less crowded at 10:00 AM. I can select the apples myself. To ensure quality control."
It was a big step. You hadn't taken him to the grocery store in two months. The last time had been... okay, but tense. He had gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles turned white."Are you sure?" you asked gently.
"I am operating at 90% battery," he stated confidently. "I have my hoodie. I am prepared."
"Okay," you smiled, grabbing your keys. "Let’s go on a mission."
The drive was easy. You played his favorite playlist—lo-fi hip hop beats with no lyrics. He tapped his fingers against his thigh in time with the rhythm, looking out the window at the passing trees. "The leaves are changing," he noted. "Entropy."
"It’s pretty though."
"It is acceptable decay," he conceded. You pulled into the parking lot of the massive supermarket. It wasn't too full, just as he predicted. Tuesday mornings were for retirees and stay-at-home parents. You turned off the engine.
"Okay," you said, unbuckling. "Game plan. In, apples, maybe some of that specific cheddar you like, and out. Fifteen minutes max."
"Stealth mission," Jake whispered. You got out of the car. Jake got out.
He reached into his hoodie pocket. And froze. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. Then his jeans. He turned to look at the backseat of your car. "Y/N," he said. His voice wasn't calm anymore. It had a sudden, sharp edge to it.
"What is it?" You walked around the car to him.
"My headphones," he said, staring at the empty backseat. "I... I put them on the table. By the door. I didn't pick them up."
Your stomach dropped. The headphones. The Sony noise-canceling over-ear ones. His shield. His buffer against the world. He never left the house without them.
"Oh, Jake," you said, scanning the car quickly, hoping they had just fallen. But you knew. You had seen them on the console table when you grabbed your keys. You had been so focused on making sure you had your wallet that you hadn't done the equipment check. "I forgot them," he whispered. He looked at the looming sliding glass doors of the supermarket. Suddenly, the building didn't look like a store. It looked like a monster's mouth.
"We can go back," you said immediately. "It’s a ten-minute drive. We’ll go get them."
Jake shook his head. He was clenching his fists at his sides. "No," he said. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to show you he could do it. "No. It’s Tuesday. 10:00 AM. Low crowd density. I can do it. I have to flex."
"Jake, you don't have to flex on this. The store is loud."
"I can do it," he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "If we go back, we lose the window. The crowd density increases after 11:00. We are here. I am capable."
He looked so determined. He pulled his hood up over his head, tightening the strings until only his nose and eyes were visible.
"Hood up," he muttered. "Muffled." You hesitated. Every instinct in your social worker brain said abort mission. But every instinct in your heart wanted to support his autonomy. He was an adult. He was telling you he could handle it. "Okay," you said, your voice low. "But the second—the second—you feel the static getting too loud, you squeeze my hand three times. And we leave. We leave the apples, we leave the cart, we just go. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Three squeezes. Emergency exit." He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Let’s execute." The mistake became apparent the moment the automatic doors whooshed open. You had forgotten how aggressive a grocery store is. You filtered it out—your brain ignored the hum of the freezers, the beep of the scanners, the squeak of cart wheels, the generic pop music playing over the PA system. But for Jake, without his headphones, there was no filter.
He flinched as we stepped onto the linoleum. The air conditioning blasted him, a physical wall of cold air.
"Okay?" you checked, moving close to his side.
"Buzzy," he muttered, keeping his head down. "Lights are... flickering. 60 hertz cycle."
"We'll be fast," you promised. "Produce is right here."
You steered him toward the apples. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He was making himself small.
"Honeycrisp," you said, grabbing a plastic bag. "Help me pick three good ones."
He focused on the task. The task was a lifeline. He inspected the apples with intense scrutiny, turning them over in his hands.
"Bruise," he whispered, rejecting one. "Soft spot."
He found three perfect apples. He placed them in the bag gently.
"Good," he said. "Done."
"Okay. Cheese next? Aisle four."
"Aisle four," he repeated. "Dairy. Cold."
You started walking. The store was indeed mostly empty, but 'mostly' isn't 'completely'.
A cart rattled past us. One of the wheels was stuck, making a rhythmic thud-squeak-thud-squeak sound.
Jake winced. He pressed his shoulder against yours. You leaned back into him, offering your solidity.
"Almost there," you murmured.
We turned into Aisle Four. And that’s when the variables shifted. An employee was restocking the yogurt. He was tossing the plastic containers onto the shelf. Clack. Clack. Clack. At the other end of the aisle, a price scanner beeped loudly. BEEP. And then, the intercom crackled to life. "Price check on register three. Clean up in aisle nine." The voice was distorted, loud, and metallic. It echoed off the high industrial ceilings. Jake stopped walking. "Jake?" you whispered.He didn't answer. He was staring at the yogurt cups. His breathing had gone shallow. In-in-out. In-in-out. "Too many," he whispered. "Too many layers."
"Okay," you said instantly. "We're done. Let’s go."
You reached for his hand.But then, the final variable dropped. A woman turned the corner into the aisle. She was pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller was a baby.
The baby wasn't just crying. It was shrieking. It was that high-pitched, piercing wail that evolution designed to be impossible to ignore. It cut through the air like a jagged knife.Jake gasped. It sounded like he had been punched in the stomach.
His hands flew out of his pockets and slapped over his ears, pressing the fabric of his hood tight against his head. "No," he whimpered. "No no no."
"Jake," you said, stepping in front of him. "Look at me. Eyes on me." But the baby screamed again. A sharp, fluctuating cry. Jake’s knees buckled.
He didn't fall; he crumbled. He dropped straight down to the cold linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. He tucked his head between his knees, his hands clamped over his ears so hard his knuckles were white. "Make it stop," he keened. It was a high, thin sound of pure distress. "It’s needles. It’s needles in my ears."
The woman with the stroller stopped. She looked at the grown man curled on the floor. She looked at you.
"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice loud, concerned but intrusive.
"He's fine," you said, your voice sharp, protective. "Please, just keep moving. The noise." She looked offended, but she pushed the stroller away. The crying faded, but the damage was done. Jake was rocking now. Fast. Forward and back. Forward and back. Thump. His head hit his knees. Thump. "Jake," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. You abandoned the cart. You didn't care about the apples. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here." He couldn't hear you. The static had swallowed him. He was in the red zone. System failure. You saw the panic in his posture. He was hyperventilating, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless strobe to his overloaded brain.You knew what you had to do.You moved in. You sat on the floor behind him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his back against your chest.
You wrapped your arms around his chest, over his arms, locking your hands together.
And you squeezed. "Deep pressure," you whispered into his hood. "I've got you. I am the shield." You squeezed him with everything you had. You compressed his ribcage, grounding him. He fought it for a second, his body rigid and trembling, radiating heat. He let out a sob—a broken, terrified sound. "Hurts," he choked out. "Everything hurts."
"I know," you murmured, resting your chin on top of his hooded head. "I know, baby. Transfer it to me. Give me the noise." You started to rock with him. You synchronized your movement with his. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.People were staring. A manager was walking over, looking concerned.You held up one hand, palm out. Stop.
The manager paused. He saw the way you were holding him. He nodded once and backed off, diverting traffic away from the aisle. Thank god for small mercies.
"Breathe with me," you commanded softly, pressing your sternum against his spine. You took a deep, exaggerated breath. In. You held it. Out. Jake struggled. His breath was catching in jagged hiccups. "Focus on my arms," you said. "Feel how heavy they are. Feel the floor. The floor is hard. You are here. You are Jake. I am Y/N."
"Y/N," he gasped. It was a lifeline.
"That’s right. I'm right here. I forgot the headphones, Jake. I’m so sorry. I messed up. But I’ve got you now." He was shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him.
We sat there on the floor of Aisle Four for what felt like an eternity. It was probably ten minutes. Slowly, the rocking slowed. His hands, still clamped over his ears, loosened their grip slightly.
"Static," he whispered. "It’s... lowering."
"Good. Keep breathing."
"The baby?"
"Gone. The baby is gone."
He slumped back against you, his weight fully supported by your chest. He was exhausted. A meltdown burned energy like a marathon. "I fell down," he whispered, shame creeping into his voice. "You sat down," you corrected firmly. "You did what you needed to do to survive the input. That is valid."
"People are looking."
"Let them look. They’re just jealous of how good I am at hugging."
He let out a weak, watery huff of laughter. It was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension. "Okay," you said, loosening your grip just a fraction. "Can we move? Or do we need more time?"
"Car," he said immediately. "I want the car. The bubble."
"Okay. We're going to the car. Do you want to walk, or do you want me to help you?"
"Help," he whispered. "My legs are... jelly. The signal is weak."
"I've got you."
Standing up was an ordeal. You had to hoist him up, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes squeezed shut, hiding inside his hood.
You left the cart with the apples and the cheese. You didn't look back.
The walk to the exit was a gauntlet, but you moved fast. You glared at anyone who lingered too long with their gaze. Move along, your eyes said. This is my person.
When the automatic doors whooshed open, the humid, real air hit you. It was better than the recycled freeze of the store.
You got him to the passenger side. You opened the door. He practically collapsed into the seat. You ran around to the driver's side and got in. You locked the doors. You didn't start the car. You just sat in the sudden, blessed silence of the sedan.
Jake pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball on the seat. He pulled his hood down further. "I failed," he said. His voice was muffled and thick with tears.
"No," you said, turning to him. "No, you didn't."
"I did," he insisted, a sob breaking through. "I said I could do it. I said I could flex. But I broke. The baby cried and I broke." He turned his head to look at you, and your heart shattered. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with such profound disappointment in himself. "I wanted to be good for you," he whispered. "I wanted to show you I could be normal." You unbuckled your seatbelt. You reached across the console. You couldn't hug him fully, so you put your hand on his knee and squeezed hard. "Jake," you said fiercely. "You are good. You are so good. You don't have to be 'normal.' Normal is boring. Normal is overrated."
"But I ruined the mission. No apples."
"Screw the apples," you said. "Jake, look at me."
He blinked at you. "This was my fault," you said. "I forgot the headphones. I am the support worker. It is my job to check the equipment. I sent you into a construction zone without a hard hat. Of course it hurt. That’s not you failing. That’s physics."
"Physics?"
"Yes. If you pour too much water into a cup, it spills. The store poured too much noise into your ears. You spilled. That’s just cause and effect."
He sniffled, processing this logic. "So... I didn't malfunction?"
"No. Your sensors were just overwhelmed. And you know what? You signaled. You didn't scream at the lady. You didn't throw the yogurt. You sat down. That was control."
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It felt like dying."
"I know," you softened. "I know it did. And I am so, so sorry I let that happen to you."
He looked at your hand on his knee. He reached out and covered it with his own. His hand was cold and clammy. "You squeezed me," he said softly.
"Always."
"You blocked the noise. You felt like... a wall."
"I will always be your wall, Jake." He looked up at you then, and the look in his eyes was so open, so raw, it took your breath away. It wasn't the look of a client looking at a worker. It was the look of a man looking at his safe harbor. "I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered, reaching up to touch your cheek. You hadn't realized you were crying until he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "I'm not sad," you lied, your voice wavering. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt."
"I'm okay now," he said. "The static is gone. You're here."
He leaned his head across the center console, resting it awkwardly on your shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, the gear shift was digging into his side, but he needed the contact.
"Can we go home?" he asked. "To the blanket?"
"Yes," you sniffed, resting your cheek on his head. "Home. Blanket. And I’m ordering pizza. No cooking tonight."
"Pizza," he agreed. "Pepperoni. Symmetrical distribution."
"Symmetrical distribution," you promised.
You started the car. The engine purred to life. As you drove out of the parking lot, He reached over and took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed three times.
Thank you
It was the signal you had established for "emergency exit," but in the quiet of the car, with the sun filtering through the trees, it felt like it meant something else entirely.
You squeezed back three times.
You're Welcome
You drove home in silence, hand in hand, the apples forgotten, but the trust between you stronger than any reinforced concrete. You had weathered the storm. You had survived the spill. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as you had the conn, he would always be safe.
The plan for New Year’s Eve was simple, safe, and delightfully boring. You were going to wear your ugliest, most comfortable sweatpants, order an obscene amount of pad thai, and binge-watch the new drama that had dropped on Netflix. You had bought a bottle of cheap sparkling cider (because champagne gave you a headache) and planned to be asleep by 12:05 AM. You were looking forward to the silence. After 9 months of working as a support specialist—a job that required hyper-vigilance, constant emotional regulation, and a lot of noise management—silence was a luxury.
Then, at 9:45 PM, your phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Sarah Sim.
Your stomach did a little flip. Sarah never called after hours unless something was wrong. You answered immediately, pausing the drama where the lead actors were staring longingly at each other in the rain. "Sarah? Is everything okay?"
"Y/N, I am so sorry," Sarah’s voice was breathless, pitched high with stress. In the background, you could hear the distinct panic motion. "I hate to do this to you on a holiday. I really, really hate it."
"Sarah, breathe. What’s going on?"
"It’s my sister. Linda. She slipped on some ice in her driveway and... well, it looks like she broke her hip. She’s at the ER, and her husband is out of town on business, and the kids are..." She trailed off, a jagged sound of frustration escaping her. "I have to go. I’m preparing to go there now. But I can't take Jake. The ER waiting room on New Year's Eve? It would be a nightmare. The sirens, the people, the smell of antiseptic... he’d spiral before we even checked in."
"Say no more," you said, already standing up and reaching for your keys. "I’m coming over."
"Are you sure? It’s New Year’s. You must have plans. You’re twenty-three, you should be out at a party."
You laughed, grabbing your coat. "My plans involved noodles and pajamas, Sarah. I’m not missing anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."
"Thank you," she sobbed, a sound of pure relief. "Thank you. He’s... he’s anxious. The fireworks have started early in the neighborhood. He’s got his headphones on, but he’s pacing."
"I’ve got him," you promised. The drive to the Sims' house was a gauntlet of festive chaos. Even though it wasn't even 8:00 PM yet, the suburbs were alive. You saw teenagers running on lawns with sparklers, and every few minutes, a distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoed off the houses.
You gripped the steering wheel tighter. You knew exactly what those sounds were doing to Jake. To him, a firecracker wasn't a celebration. It was a sonic assault. It was unpredictable, sharp, and threatening. It was a breach of the peace he worked so hard to maintain. When you pulled into the driveway, Sarah was already standing on the porch. The front door was open behind her, spilling warm yellow light onto the snow-dusted concrete. She had her purse over one shoulder and her car keys clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a coat over what looked like lounge clothes.
"You made good time," she said as you walked up the path, your sneakers silent on the pavement.
"Traffic was light," you said. "Go. Go take care of your sister. Don't worry about anything here."
"He’s in the living room," Sarah said, glancing back at the house. "He ate dinner—chicken nuggets, oven-baked, no sauce. He’s... rigid tonight. The noise is getting to him. He keeps checking the windows."
"I'll handle it," you assured her. "We'll build a fort if we need to. We'll turn up the white noise."
She squeezed your arm, her eyes wet. "You're a lifesaver, Y/N. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, Sarah."
She hurried to her car, and you watched her back out before you turned to the house. You took a deep breath, shaking off the cold and the residual stress of the drive, and stepped inside.The transition was instant. The outside world was a cacophony of wind and distant explosions. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The air smelled of lemon and old books. It was warm.You locked the door behind you, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. "Stealth mode active," you whispered to yourself, toeing off your shoes and leaving them on the mat.You walked down the hallway. The house felt different at night. The shadows were longer, the silence heavier. You could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that radiated from the living room. You reached the archway.
The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room against the flashing lights outside. The only illumination came from the TV screen. Jake was sitting on the couch.Usually, he sat on the floor with his LEGOs, or in his recliner. But tonight, he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to his chest.
He was wearing a blue hoodie you hadn't seen before. It looked incredibly soft, a velvet-touch fabric that caught the light of the TV. His pajama pants were a dark plaid flannel. He had his big Sony headphones on, but they were slightly askew, as if he had been adjusting them frequently.He was watching Big Hero 6. The scene where Baymax and Hiro are flying over San Fransokyo at sunset. It was a quiet, visually stunning scene.
He didn't hear you come in.
You stood there for a moment, just watching him. He looked small. He was a grown man, broad-shouldered and tall, but curled up like that, protecting his vital organs from the invisible threat of the noise, he looked like the boy in the file photo from six months ago.You stepped into his line of sight, moving slowly so you wouldn't startle him.Jake’s head snapped up. For a second, there was fear in his eyes—a deer-in-headlights look. Then, recognition flooded in. His face transformed. The tension in his jaw released. His shoulders dropped three inches.
His eyes—those big, expressive, puppy-dog eyes that had hooked you from day one—lit up. It wasn't a dramatic smile; it was a softening. A light turning on in a dark room. He pulled his headphones down around his neck.
"Y/N," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly, walking over to the couch. "Your mom had to go help her sister. So you're stuck with me tonight."
"I am not stuck," he corrected immediately, uncurling his legs. "This is an upgrade. Mom is stressed. Her aura is jagged yellow. You are blue. Blue is calm."
You smiled, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, giving him space but close enough to be an anchor. "I'm glad I'm blue. How are you holding up? It’s loud out there." Jake frowned, looking toward the curtained window.
"The explosions are irregular," he murmured. "There is no pattern. Pop. Then silence. Then boom. My brain tries to predict the next one, but it can't. It’s a broken algorithm."
He picked at the fuzz on his blue hoodie. "I hate the sound. It vibrates in my teeth."
"I know," you said sympathetically. "It’s the worst kind of noise."
"But..." He hesitated. He looked at the TV screen, where colorful lights were dancing. "I like the data. I like the chemistry."
"The chemistry?"
"Strontium carbonate," he said, listing it like a fact from a textbook. "That makes red fireworks. Barium chloride makes green. Copper chloride makes blue. It’s just burning metal. It should be beautiful. Physics is beautiful."
He looked at you, his expression wistful and sad. "I want to see the chemistry. But I can't handle the physics of the sound wave."
Your heart gave a little tug.You thought about the parking lot downtown. The one on the hill that overlooked the river. It was a popular spot, but if you stayed in the car...
An idea formed."Jake," you said slowly. "What if I told you there was a way to see the chemistry without feeling the sound wave?" He tilted his head. "That is impossible. Light and sound travel together. Well, light is faster, but the sound always arrives."
"Not if we're in a bubble," you said. "My car. It’s insulated. If we drive to the lookout, park, roll the windows up tight, turn on the heater, and put your headphones on... you’d see them through the windshield. But you wouldn't hear the boom. Or at least, it would be a tiny thud. Not a bang."
He stared at you. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was calculating the risk. "The car is a Faraday cage," he whispered. "For sound."
"Exactly. A shield." He looked at the window, then back at you. He trusted you. You had established that over six months of grilled cheese sandwiches and LEGO builds. You were the one who saved him in the grocery store. You were the one who brought the frozen peas for his headache.
"Can I bring my blanket?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And the headphones?"
"Non-negotiable."
He took a deep breath. He stood up. He smoothed down the front of his soft blue hoodie.
"Okay," he said. "Let’s go to the bubble."
The preparation for the expedition was precise.
Jake put on his shoes (velcro, no laces to trip on). He grabbed his grey weighted blanket. He put his headphones on, checking the battery life (84%—acceptable). He grabbed a small bag of pretzels, just in case he needed to chew to regulate his jaw tension.
You walked him to your car. The cold air bit at your cheeks. Somewhere down the street, a firecracker went off—a sharp CRACK. Jake flinched violently, stopping in the middle of the driveway. His hands flew to his ears over the headphones.
"Hey," you said, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the street. "Eyes on me. Look at my coat. Look at the buttons." He focused on your coat. He breathed in. He breathed out.
"Car," he gasped.
"Car," you agreed.
You got him inside and slammed the door. You ran to the driver's side and got in. You immediately cranked the heater and turned on the radio to a classical station—low, steady cello music. "Status?" you asked, looking at him. He was adjusting his headphones. He pushed the noise-canceling button. The world outside muted.
"Status green," he said, though his voice sounded far away to himself. "The seal is tight."
"Okay. We're moving."
The drive to the lookout took twenty minutes. The traffic was light; most people were already at their parties. You drove carefully, avoiding potholes, keeping the ride as smooth as possible. Jake sat in the passenger seat, clutching his weighted blanket to his chest. He watched the streetlights pass by, counting them under his breath.
"You look nice," he said suddenly. You glanced at him, surprised. You were wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat. You had zero makeup on. "I look like a marshmallow, Jake."
"No," he said seriously. "Your face is... nice. And you look calm. You always look calm. It makes the inside of the car feel slow."
"Slow is good?"
"Fast is scary. Slow is safe. You feel safe."
You felt a flush rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the heater. "Thank you, Jake. You look nice too. That hoodie looks very soft."
He looked down at his chest. He rubbed the fabric. "It is velvet-fleece blend. Sarah bought it. I usually only wear hoodies with zippers, but this one... the texture is superior. It feels like a cat."
"A cat hoodie. I like it." You reached the lookout. It was a large paved lot on a bluff overlooking the River. Across the water, the city skyline was lit up. There were other cars parked there, facing the river, their engines idling, mist rising from their tailpipes.
You found a spot near the edge, away from a truck that was blasting bass-heavy music. You put the car in park. "We have arrived," you announced.
Jake leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The view was panoramic. The dark water reflected the city lights, creating a shimmering mirror.
"The vantage point is optimal," he noted.
"We have about fifteen minutes until midnight," you said, checking the dashboard clock. 11:45 PM.
"Fifteen minutes," Jake repeated. "900 seconds."
He leaned back, relaxing slightly. He pulled the weighted blanket up so it covered his chin, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. He looked like a cozy, anxious turtle. "Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Why are you here?"
The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"
"It’s New Year's Eve," he said. "The social convention is to be at a gathering. Drinking ethanol. Counting down with many people. You are twenty-three. The data suggests you should be partying." He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.
"I didn't want to be at a party," you said honestly. "Parties are loud. And the floor is usually sticky. And you have to talk to people you don't know."
"You don't like loud?" Jake looked surprised.
"Not really. I do it for work, but... I like quiet. I like slow."
"Like the car."
"Like the car." You turned in your seat to face him fully. "And besides... I’d rather be here. With you." Jake went still. He stared at you. You could see him processing the statement, turning it over in his mind, looking for the hidden meaning.
"With me?" he whispered. "But I am... work."
"No," you shook your head gently. "You stopped being just work a long time ago, Jake. We're friends. Right?"
He blinked. "Friends."
"Yes. And I like hanging out with my friend. Especially when he teaches me about strontium carbonate." A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He snuggled deeper into his blanket. "Friends," he tested the word. "That is... acceptable. Highly acceptable."
He looked back out the windshield. "Sarah says friends don't get paid to hang out."
"Well, tonight I'm not getting paid," you lied (technically the agency would bill for this, but the sentiment was real). "Tonight I’m just Y/N."
"Just Y/N," he echoed. "And just Jake."
"Just Jake."
The dashboard clock clicked to 11:59 PM.
"One minute," you said. "Sixty seconds."
Jake tensed up. He pressed his hands over his headphones, ensuring the seal was perfect. "The bubble holds," he whispered to himself.
"The bubble holds," you confirmed.
Across the river, in the city center, a single flare shot up into the sky. A white streak against the black. Then—bloom. A massive golden sphere exploded in the air. It was huge, glittering, and silent. Inside the car, you heard nothing. Just the cello music and the heater. Jake flinched visually when the light exploded, his shoulders jerking up. He waited. He braced himself for the boom.
One second. Two seconds. No boom. Just a soft, dull thud that vibrated vaguely in the floorboards, barely noticeable. Jake let out a breath. His shoulders dropped.
Another one went up. Red this time. Strontium carbonate. It burst into a heart shape.
Jake leaned forward. He pressed his hands against the dashboard. His eyes went wide. "Red," he breathed. Then came the finale. The sky erupted. Greens, blues, purples, golds. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of chemistry and light. The river below caught the reflections, doubling the show.
You weren't watching the sky.
You were watching Jake.
The colored light from the fireworks washed over his face in waves—blue, then red, then gold. His glasses reflected the explosions, making his eyes look like they held galaxies.
His mouth was slightly open in awe. The fear was completely gone, replaced by a childlike wonder that was so pure it made your chest ache. He wasn't the anxious young man in the grocery store aisle. He wasn't the client with the file. He was just a boy loving the lights.
He looked beautiful.
The soft slope of his nose, the messy hair falling over his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught the light. You felt a swell of emotion so strong it almost knocked the wind out of you. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just protectiveness.
It was love. You had known it for a while, but here, in the quiet bubble of the car, with the new year raining down in sparks of fire, it felt undeniable.
Suddenly, Jake turned his head.
He caught you staring. Usually, when you were caught staring, you would look away. You would check your phone. You would pretend you were looking past him.
But tonight, you didn't. You held his gaze. The fireworks were still exploding behind him, framing his silhouette in halos of light.Jake looked at you. He saw the way you were looking at him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his shoes.
He smiled.It wasn't his polite smile. It wasn't his nervous smile. It was an innocent, soft, intimate smile that said I see you seeing me, and I am okay with it.
He reached up and pulled one side of his headphones back, just an inch, breaking the seal.
"Happy New Year, Y/N," he said softly.
The cello music swelled. The heater hummed.
"Happy New Year, Jake," you whispered.
He didn't put the headphone back. He kept looking at you. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, one he probably didn't even realize he made, but you saw it.
"The chemistry is beautiful," he said.
"Yeah," you breathed, looking right into his brown eyes. "It really is."
He held your gaze for another long second, the air between you thick and warm and incredibly soft. It felt like the start of something. Not a frantic race, but a slow, steady walk.Then, he turned back to the windshield as a massive blue weeping willow firework drifted down toward the water. "Copper chloride," he noted, sliding his headphone back into place. But he reached out his hand, the one not holding the blanket, and placed it palm-up on the center console.
It was an invitation. You reached out and placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours. His hand was warm. He squeezed three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You squeezed back three times.
The fireworks ended. The smoke drifted over the river. The year turned over.
But in the quiet car, holding Jake’s hand while he hummed a happy little tune under his breath, you knew the best part of the year had already begun. The new year didn't come in with a bang. It came in with a soft, steady warmth, wearing a blue hoodie and holding your hand.
March arrived with a slow, hesitant thaw, washing away the stubborn winter snow and leaving behind a world that felt raw, muddy, and ready to wake up.
It had been months since you first walked up the driveway of that quiet suburban home, a fresh-faced social work graduate clutching a file folder that tried to summarize a human being into a list of clinical symptoms. Back then, you had been terrified of making a mistake, of wearing the wrong shoes or breathing too loudly. Now, as the first hints of spring began to show through the living room windows, you navigated the complex, beautiful landscape of Jake Sim’s life with a quiet, practiced confidence.
You were officially his support worker. But unofficially, you had become his translator, his anchor, and his closest confidante. The boundaries of your job description had blurred into a deep, unwavering affection. You weren't his girlfriend—you strictly maintained your professional role, aware of the ethics and the fragile nature of his trust—but the feelings you harbored for the twenty-four-year-old were a warm, heavy reality in your chest that you could no longer deny.
Over the winter, the walls Jake had built to protect himself from a world that was too loud, too bright, and too unpredictable had slowly begun to lower. He was more trusting now. The rigid, closed-off young man from the file was gone, replaced by someone who sought out your presence.
You knew him completely. You knew his dietary map so well you didn't even need to consult the notes Sarah had left you on your first day. You knew he despised the texture of anything "mealy," like certain types of apples or boiled potatoes. You knew he had a strict rule against white-colored foods because they felt "deceptive" to his brain, with the sole exception of milk, which he categorized as "structural calcium" rather than a beverage. You had even managed to successfully introduce new variables into his routine. It had happened on a quiet Tuesday in early March. You had taken a massive gamble and driven him to a small, dimly lit Mexican restaurant on the edge of town for a late lunch. Jake had been rigid in the passenger seat, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray hoodie.
"Spicy is a pain signal," he had informed you, his brow furrowed anxiously behind his glasses. "Capsaicin tricks the brain into thinking the tissue is burning. I do not wish to be tricked. My baseline for sensory input is already at capacity."
"I promise we won't get anything spicy," you had assured him, parking the car in the empty lot. "But they have chips. Corn chips. And I think you’ll like the texture. They're uniform and crunchy." He had agreed to the mission, trusting you enough to step inside. The restaurant was practically deserted, which kept his anxiety at bay. When the basket of warm tortilla chips arrived, Jake had inspected one like a scientist examining a new element. He noted the uniform triangle shape. He took a tiny bite.
The loud, satisfying crunch made his eyes widen. He hummed, a low vibration of approval in his chest.
Then, you introduced the mild salsa. You explained that it was blended completely smooth—no hidden chunks of onion or tomato to surprise his palate. He had dipped the microscopic corner of a chip into the red sauce. He ate it. He blinked, processed the flavor profile, and dipped again, a little deeper this time.
"The acidity of the tomato cuts through the oil of the corn chip," he had observed, looking at you with a profound sense of realization. "It is mathematically balanced. It is... highly acceptable."Chips and smooth salsa had instantly become a staple. You started keeping jars of it in the pantry, and he would happily eat it as a snack while watching his shows.That same evening, the shift in his trust had become distinctly physical. You were sitting on the couch in the living room, the blackout curtains drawn, watching an animated movie.Usually, when you watched movies, Jake would either sit on the floor, grounded on the rug, or he would sit on the far end of the sofa, leaving a careful, deliberate two-foot gap between you. He wasn't big on physical proximity unless he was in the middle of a meltdown and needed deep pressure to ground himself.But that night, he had sat down on the sofa and looked at the gap. He looked at you. And then, he scooted over.He didn't press flush against you, but the gap shrank to a mere inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. When he leaned forward to watch a visually intense scene, his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn't pull away.You had frozen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering tap-dance against your ribs. You didn't pull away, but you didn't push closer, either. You just sat there, hyper-aware of his presence, feeling incredibly honored that he felt safe enough to let his guard down and share your personal space.
A few days later, a new sensory challenge presented itself.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. The house was quiet, but Jake was not. He was pacing the length of the living room, his steps heavy and agitated. He kept reaching up to swat at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing as if something invisible was attacking him. "Jake?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter, where you were organizing his schedule for the week. "Is your shirt tag bothering you? I can cut it out."
He stopped pacing. He looked at you, his brown eyes clouded with severe distress. He reached up and grabbed a handful of his dark, fluffy hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten long over the winter—curling over the tops of his ears and brushing against the collar of his hoodie. "It’s not the shirt," he said, his voice tight and breathless. "It’s my hair. It’s touching me. Every time I turn my head, it feels like cobwebs. Constant, heavy cobwebs. It is distracting my processor. The input is overwhelming."
"Do you want me to ask your mom to make an appointment at the barber?" you suggested gently. The look of sheer, visceral terror that crossed his face made you instantly regret the question. The barber was a sensory nightmare for him. It meant the loud buzzing of electric clippers vibrating against his skull, the strong smell of chemical barbicide, the bright fluorescent lights, and the unpredictable, light touch of a stranger’s hands on his sensitive scalp."No," he breathed, taking a step back, his hands flapping slightly at his sides as he tried to regulate his rising panic. "No barber. The buzzing hurts my teeth. The cape is too tight on my throat. I can't. I can't go."
"Okay," you said instantly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "No barber. I promise, Jake. We won't go." You thought for a second, watching him scratch frantically at the back of his neck.
"What if... what if I did it?" you offered.
He blinked, his hands freezing. "You?"
"Me. Right here in the kitchen. No buzzing clippers, just regular scissors. We can take breaks whenever you need to. I won't tie a cape around your neck; we'll just use your favorite soft towel."
He considered this. His logical brain weighed the risk of a bad haircut against the immediate relief of getting the "cobwebs" off his neck. He looked at your hands. He trusted your hands."Do you have the data?" he asked skeptically. "Are you trained in cosmetology?"
"I don't have the data yet," you admitted with a reassuring smile. "But I have YouTube. Give me ten minutes to study the algorithm."
He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Okay. Ten minutes."
You set up a wooden dining chair in the middle of the kitchen linoleum. You found a pair of sharp styling shears Sarah kept in the bathroom vanity. You propped your phone up against the sugar bowl and watched a video titled How to Trim Men's Medium Length Hair - Scissors Only.When you were ready, Jake walked into the kitchen. He had changed into an old, faded t-shirt. He sat down in the chair, his posture rigid as a board. You draped his favorite plush bath towel over his shoulders, securing it loosely with a binder clip so nothing constricted his throat."Okay," you murmured, standing behind him. "I'm going to touch your hair now. Deep pressure, just like we always do."
"Deep pressure," he echoed, closing his eyes tightly.
You placed your hands firmly on his scalp, letting him feel the solid weight of your touch before you ran a comb through his dark waves. He shivered slightly, but he didn't pull away."I'm going to start at the back," you narrated, knowing that unexpected sensory input was his biggest trigger. "You're going to hear the scissors. They make a sharp snip sound."
Snip. Snip.
"It sounds like a metronome," Jake observed softly, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair seat. "A fast metronome."
"Just focus on the rhythm," you soothed, working meticulously.
You weren't a professional, but you were infinitely careful. You trimmed the heavy curls away from his collar. You cleared the bulk from the sides. Every time you had to fold his ear down to cut around it, you warned him first.
It took forty-five minutes. A barber would have been done in ten. But this wasn't about efficiency; it was about safety. He sat perfectly still for you, enduring the falling hair and the metallic snip of the blades because he knew you were on the other end of them."Alright," you said finally, stepping back and carefully brushing the loose trimmings off the towel. "I think we're done, Jake. The cobwebs are gone."
He opened his eyes. He reached a hesitant hand up to the back of his neck. He felt the smooth skin, the clean line of hair that no longer brushed his collar. He felt around his ears, marveling at the empty air.
A slow, brilliant smile broke across his face. He stood up, shaking off the towel, and turned to look at you."It is optimal," he breathed, running his long fingers through the top of his hair, which you had left perfectly fluffy. "The static is reduced. My head feels... lighter. The processing speed is back to normal."
"You look very handsome," you smiled, reaching out to brush a stray clipping from his shoulder."Thank you, Y/N," he said softly, holding your gaze for a long moment. "I trust your scissors."
The trust they shared spilled over into the following week.
It was a chilly afternoon, the kind that made the house feel like a cozy, insulated bubble. It was the perfect afternoon for baking. "Cookies," Jake had announced around 2:00 PM, pulling his favorite glass mixing bowl from the cabinet. "The barometric pressure is low. We need to introduce a superior olfactory variable. Vanilla and butter."
"Sugar cookies?" you asked, rolling up your sleeves and washing your hands.
"Cutouts," he specified, retrieving his plastic container of cookie cutters.
Baking with Jake was a science experiment. He didn't believe in "eyeballing" ingredients. Everything was leveled with the flat edge of a butter knife. The dough had to be chilled for exactly thirty minutes. You did the main work—measuring, mixing, and rolling the heavy dough out flat on the counter—while he stood close beside you, supervising the chemistry of it all.
When it was time to cut the shapes, Jake took over. He treated the rolled-out dough like a puzzle of spatial geometry. He had chosen the star cutter and a specific dinosaur cutter.
"The goal is optimization," he explained seriously, pressing the star into the very edge of the dough. "We must minimize the negative space between the shapes to reduce the need for re-rolling. Re-rolling introduces excess flour and toughens the gluten matrix."
"You are a cookie architect," you laughed, watching his precise, careful movements.
"I am maximizing yield," he corrected gently, pressing the dinosaur cutter down directly next to the star.
You took the filled trays and slid them into the oven. "Okay, timer set for twelve minutes." But variables happen. Your phone buzzed on the counter—it was a call from the agency about a sudden change in scheduling protocols. You answered it, stepping into the hallway so you wouldn't disturb Jake, who was focused on washing the mixing bowl. The coordinator on the phone was chatty, and you got pulled into a frustrating, complicated discussion about paperwork.
You didn't hear the oven timer go off over the sound of the phone call.
You smelled it first. The sweet, buttery scent of baking cookies suddenly turned sharp, followed by the undeniable, acrid smell of burning sugar.
"Oh, shoot!" you gasped, hanging up on the coordinator mid-sentence.
You ran into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, and yanked the trays out. Smoke billowed into the air.You slammed the trays onto the stovetop. The cookies were ruined. The stars were a dark, unhappy brown, and the dinosaurs looked like they had been caught in a prehistoric meteorite strike. They were hard as rocks and blackened around the edges."Dammit," you sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You felt a hot prickle of tears in your eyes. You were his support worker; you were supposed to be on top of things. You had ruined his perfectly optimized geometric dough because you were distracted.Jake turned around from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at the smoking trays. He looked at your face.
He saw the disappointment. He saw the way you were picking at your thumbnail—a nervous habit he had memorized over the last six months.
He walked up to the stove. He looked at the burnt, sad little dinosaurs.
He reached out and picked one up. It was still hot, but he barely flinched.
"Jake, don't, it’s going to taste like ash," you warned, reaching out to stop him.
He lifted the burnt cookie to his mouth and took a bite.
A loud, aggressive CRUNCH echoed in the kitchen. You winced, waiting for him to spit it out. You knew how sensitive his palate was. Bitter flavors were usually an instant, gag-inducing rejection.He chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. He looked at the cookie, then looked at you.
"The structural integrity is phenomenal," he stated, his face completely serious.
"Jake, they're burnt."
"They are heavily caramelized," he corrected smoothly. "The Maillard reaction was simply allowed to progress further than usual. It adds a... bold, smoky complexity."
He took another bite. Another loud crunch.
"And the crunch is superior," he continued, holding eye contact with you. "Soft cookies crumble. These cookies are resilient. They require effort. I appreciate the effort."
He was overriding his own intense sensory aversions. He was eating a burnt, bitter cookie just to protect your feelings, to make sure you didn't feel like you had failed him. He was a total sweetheart, wrapping his rigid sensory needs around his care for you.Your heart melted right into the linoleum. You couldn't help yourself—you walked over and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face into his chest in a brief, fierce hug.
"You are the absolute sweetest guy in the world, Jake Sim," you mumbled against his shirt.He patted your back awkwardly but affectionately with his free hand. "I am just analyzing the data," he said, taking a third, agonizingly crunchy bite. "But thank you. They really are good."The emotional safety established on those quiet afternoons paved the way for something far more delicate.
It happened late one evening, a few days later. Sarah had gone to a late movie with a friend, leaving the two of you in the living room. The lights were dimmed, and the TV was playing softly in the background.
Jake was sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his hoodie. He had been quiet for an hour, a heavy, contemplative silence that usually preceded a deep thought.
"Y/N?" he murmured finally. His voice was low, lacking its usual confident, factual cadence."Yeah, Jakey? I'm here."
He kept his eyes glued to the loose thread. "I had a birthday a few months ago. Before you started working here."
"I know," you smiled gently. "Your mom told me. You turned twenty-four."
"I am twenty-four," he repeated, rolling the number around in his mouth like it tasted strange and unpleasant. "You are twenty-three."
"That’s right. You’re older than me."
He didn't smile. His brow furrowed deeply, and he stared down at his hands.
"Twenty-four is a prime integer for adulthood," he said softly. "I read articles online. At twenty-four, normal men are... doing things. They are driving on the interstate. They are navigating tax brackets. They are going to loud places and drinking ethanol. They wear suits that scratch their necks. They live alone."
He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice jagged and painful to hear.
"I do not do those things," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I cannot drive on the highway because the cars move too fast and the input overwhelms my processor. I cannot do taxes. I wear pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. I spend hours sorting plastic bricks. I need Mom to help me make doctor appointments. I need you to help me go to the grocery store."He turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes swimming with a profound, deep-seated insecurity. It was the awareness of a man who knew he was out of sync with the timeline of the world, a man who felt like he was failing a test everyone else inherently knew how to pass.
"I feel... broken," he choked out, the word hitting the quiet room like a dropped glass. "Like I missed the manual on how to be an adult. And you... you have a degree. You fit in the world. I don't understand how you can stand being here with someone who is stuck on the wrong setting."Your heart cracked right down the middle. You shifted on the couch, turning fully toward him, and reached out to take both of his hands in yours. You held them tightly, anchoring him to the present moment."Jake, look at me," you said fiercely.He blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but he met your eyes."There is no manual," you said, your voice steady and full of absolute conviction. "There is no 'normal' in adulthood. Everyone is just guessing and hoping they don't mess up."He sniffled, processing this. "But they do the normal things."
"Normal is a myth," you promised him. "You think because I have a degree I know everything? Jake, I had to Google how to fix a leaky pipe yesterday, and I still couldn't do it. I am terrified of making phone calls to strangers. I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week. Everyone has things they can't handle. Adulthood is completely new for everyone, and we're all just trying to survive the input."
You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his cheek, gently wiping the tear away with your thumb.
"You aren't broken, Jake. You are just you. You built a working replica of the Titanic from memory. You notice when the air pressure drops before the weather app does. You ate a burnt, charcoal cookie just so I wouldn't feel bad about my baking skills. Do you know how rare that kind of empathy is? How brilliant your brain is?"
He leaned into your palm, closing his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips.
"You don't have to like loud bars or scratchy suits to be a man," you whispered, maintaining your professional boundary but pouring every ounce of your care into your words. "You just have to be kind, and honest, and try your best. And you do that every single day. You don't have to fit into the rest of the world, Jake. Everything is new, and you just find where you fit most."
He opened his eyes. The fear was slowly draining away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful relief.
"Find where I fit most," he repeated, testing the weight of the concept.
"Exactly. And you fit beautifully right here, just the way you are."
He let out a shaky breath, a small smile finally breaking through the sadness. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, pulling you into a tight, grounding hug.
"You are my favorite variable, Y/N," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you for the data." To prove your point that his interests were valid and wonderful, you stopped by a department store the very next morning before your shift. When you walked into the house, you handed him a plastic shopping bag. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously. "A reminder that what you like is perfectly fine," you smiled.
He reached in and pulled out a brand new, neatly folded package of pajama pants. They were dark navy blue, covered in small, minimalist red Spider-Man logos.
"I checked the tags," you said proudly. "They are tagless. And it’s a modal-cotton blend. Super soft." Jake’s eyes lit up instantly. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, checking the friction coefficient.
"It is superior," he breathed, a wide grin stretching across his face, the insecurities of the previous night completely forgotten. "The texture is incredibly smooth. Thank you, Y/N."
"You're welcome, Spidey. Go test them out."
He hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was wearing the new pants, looking incredibly cozy and relaxed. He did a small crouch in the living room, testing the stretch of the fabric."Range of motion is uninhibited," he declared happily. "They are perfect."The final days of March brought the first true, undeniable breath of spring. The sun came out, warm and insistent, waking up the dormant life in the backyard.
It was a Saturday morning. You were standing at the kitchen sink, washing out your coffee mug, while Sarah sat at the island, looking over some mail. Jake had been outside in the backyard for twenty minutes, "patrolling the perimeter" in his new Spider-Man pajamas and a light jacket.
You watched him through the window. He was pacing the fence line, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the gentle breeze.Suddenly, he stopped. He knelt down in the grass, inspecting something on the ground. Carefully, with precise, deliberate movements, he pinched something between his fingers and plucked it from the earth.
He stood up and turned around, walking back toward the house with a determined stride.
When the back door opened, he walked straight into the kitchen, bypassing his usual routine of wiping his shoes exactly three times. He walked right up to you, holding his hand out, his fist closed around something delicate.
"I found anomalies in the grass," he announced.
He opened his hand.
Sitting in his palm were a half-dozen dandelions. They were bright, aggressive yellow, their stems slightly crushed from his firm grip.
"They are weeds," Jake explained, looking at you earnestly. "Most people apply herbicide to them to make their lawns uniform. But I researched them. They are the first food for bees in the spring. They are incredibly resilient. They grow through cracks in the driveway. They do not care if they belong; they just grow where they fit."
He held the messy, yellow bouquet out to you."I picked them for you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "Because you are resilient. And because you help me find where I fit."You stared at the bright yellow flowers.You were horribly, violently allergic to dandelions. The pollen made your throat itch, your eyes swell, and your nose run like a broken faucet. If you held them too close, you’d be sneezing for the rest of the day in absolute misery.You didn't hesitate for a microsecond.
You reached out and gently took the crushed, beautiful weeds from his hand. You would never, ever tell him."They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, Jake," you said, forcing your breathing to remain shallow so you didn't inhale the pollen directly. "Thank you so much. I love them."
His chest puffed out slightly with pride. "They require water. A small vessel. Their stems are short."
"I’ll put them in a shot glass right now," you promised.
You turned around, grabbed a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and arranged the dandelions carefully on the windowsill above the sink. As soon as his back was turned to grab a glass of water, you quickly turned your head and stifled a massive, aggressive sneeze into the crook of your elbow.
"Bless you," Jake said, drinking his water.
"Just dust," you lied smoothly, your voice thick as you quickly washed your hands with soap to remove the pollen. "Spring dust."
Sarah had watched the entire exchange from the kitchen island, her mail forgotten. As Jake wandered into the living room to adjust the volume on the TV, feeling successful and completely at ease, Sarah stepped closer to you.
She looked at the dandelions in the shot glass, and then she looked at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're allergic to those, aren't you?" she whispered, having seen you pop an antihistamine just yesterday when a neighbor mowed their lawn.
"Deathly," you whispered back, rubbing your itchy nose with the back of a clean hand.
Sarah let out a soft, watery laugh. She reached out and squeezed your arm, her grip tight and full of a mother's profound gratitude.
"He hasn't picked flowers for anyone since he was six years old," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Before the world got too loud and he folded in on himself. I used to wonder if I’d ever see that sweet, expressive little boy again."
She looked out toward the living room, where Jake was happily sitting on the couch, completely in his element. He wasn't hiding behind his hands or his headphones. He was just a young man, comfortable in his own skin, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas you bought him."He’s not just surviving anymore, Y/N," Sarah said, looking back at you with fierce, unwavering respect and praise. "He is living. He is confident, and he is himself again. But he’s not doing it alone. He has you. You brought him back."
You looked at the dandelions, their bright yellow petals soaking up the sun in the window, stubborn and resilient against all odds. You weren't his girlfriend, and you were technically just doing your job, but looking at the life and light that had returned to Jake Sim’s eyes, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I think we're just finding where we fit, Sarah," you smiled, your eyes watering from the pollen, but your heart completely full. "I really do."
April crept in with a deceptive warmth, bringing days that started crisp and ended bathed in golden, gentle sunlight. Over the past month, the trust between you and Jake had solidified into something unbreakable. The boundaries of your job title as his support worker had softened so completely that you often forgot you were on the clock. You were just Y/N and Jake, navigating the world together, one carefully calculated variable at a time.
Because he had been doing so well—expanding his safe foods, managing his sensory input, and initiating communication—you had planned a special outing.
There was a specialty hobby shop about twenty minutes away. It wasn't a big-box toy store with screaming children and blinding fluorescent lights; it was a quiet, dimly lit collector’s shop. It smelled of old cardboard, modeling clay, and dust. More importantly, they carried retired, vintage LEGO sets. Jake had been talking about a specific, out-of-production Architecture set for three weeks. He had saved his own money for it, meticulously budgeting his allowance in a small notebook.
"The crowd density on a Thursday at 11:00 AM will be approximately 12% of peak capacity," Jake had announced that morning, standing by the front door.
He was prepared. He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones securely around his neck, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Underneath his unzipped, soft grey hoodie, he wore a subtle, vintage-wash Spider-Man t-shirt you had found for him online. It didn't have any scratchy tags, and the seams were flat.
"The math is solid," you agreed, jingling your car keys. "We have a clear window. Are you feeling good? Battery at 100%?" He closed his eyes for a brief second, running an internal diagnostic. "Battery is at 94%. I slept well. The eggs were uniform. I am ready to initiate the mission."
"Let's go get that set, Spidey."The drive was peaceful. You kept the radio volume low, playing a soft instrumental track that Jake liked because the time signature was mathematically consistent. He spent the drive looking out the window, his fingers tapping a complex, rhythmic pattern against his thigh. He was excited. It was a subtle excitement to anyone else, but to you, it was loud and vibrant.
When you pulled into the strip mall where the hobby shop was located, the parking lot was blissfully empty."Twelve percent capacity might have been an overestimation," you smiled, turning off the engine. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves."
Jake unbuckled his seatbelt, a small, proud smile on his face. "My calculations included a margin of error. Empty is an optimal variable."
You walked into the store together. The bell above the door chimed—a soft, pleasant ding that made Jake blink, but he didn't flinch. The shop owner, an older man reading a magazine behind the counter, offered a quiet nod and went back to his reading. It was perfect.
Jake immediately navigated toward the back corner of the store, where shelves were stacked high with pristine, sealed boxes.
You hung back a few feet, giving him space to explore his element. This was his territory. He moved down the aisle with absolute reverence, his eyes scanning the boxes, reading the piece counts and set numbers like they were lines of poetry.
"They have it," he whispered suddenly.You stepped closer. "The Architecture set?"
"Yes." He pointed to a high shelf. "Set number 21010. The Robie House. 2,276 pieces. It was discontinued years ago. The dark red brick count is unprecedented."
His hands started to move. It was a happy stim—his fingers fluttering rapidly in front of his chest, a physical manifestation of the joy bubbling over in his brain. He bounced slightly on his heels, a soft, high-pitched hum of pure excitement vibrating in his throat."I have the exact funds required," he said, turning to look at you, his brown eyes shining with absolute delight. "This is... this is a highly significant acquisition."
"I'm so happy for you, Jake," you beamed, your heart swelling at the sight of his unbridled joy. "Let me help you get it down."
You reached up and carefully pulled the box from the top shelf, handing it to him. He took it as if it were made of glass, tracing the edges of the cardboard, his happy humming growing a little louder.
And then, the bell above the door chimed again.
You didn't think much of it at first. But then the voices carried down the aisle. Loud, booming, aggressively casual.
"Bro, I swear they sell Warhammer stuff here, just look."
Three guys turned the corner into the aisle. They were roughly Jake's age, maybe a year or two younger. College kids. They were wearing baseball caps backward, reeking of sharp, chemical body spray that immediately made your nose wrinkle. They were talking over each other, their voices echoing harshly in the quiet shop.
You saw Jake stiffen instantly. The happy humming cut off. His fingers stopped fluttering and clenched into tight fists around the edges of the LEGO box. He instinctively took a step back, pressing his shoulders against the shelving unit, trying to make himself smaller. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes.
You casually moved, placing yourself slightly in front of him, creating a physical buffer between him and the newcomers.
The guys walked down the aisle, completely oblivious to the sudden tension. One of them, a guy in a bright red polo shirt, stopped to look at the shelf right next to where Jake was standing.
"Man, who drops three hundred bucks on plastic bricks?" the guy scoffed, laughing loudly. Jake flinched at the volume. His hands were shaking. He pulled the box tighter to his chest. He was trying to be invisible, but the movement caught the guy's attention.The guy in the red polo looked at Jake. He looked at the way Jake was hunched over, avoiding eye contact. He looked at the vintage Spider-Man t-shirt peeking out from the hoodie.Then, the guy smirked. He nudged his friend.
"Hey, check it out," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "We got a real-life man-child over here. Hey buddy, aren't you a little old for the kids' aisle?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Jake froze entirely. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut."Excuse me," you said immediately, your voice cold and sharp as a razor. You stepped fully in front of Jake, locking eyes with the guy in the red polo. "Back off."The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, letting out an obnoxious laugh. "Whoa, chill out. I was just making a joke. Didn't realize his mommy was here to defend him."
"I said, back off," you repeated, taking a step toward him, the protective fury blazing in your chest. You didn't care about professionalism. You didn't care about causing a scene. You only cared about the man trembling behind you. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."The second friend sneered, looking Jake up and down. "Jeez, what's wrong with him? He's shaking like a weirdo. Does he need a diaper change or something?"
Snap.
You moved forward, jabbing your index finger hard into the second guy's chest. "If you say one more word to him, I am going to have the owner throw you out by your hair. You are pathetic, miserable little bullies. Walk. Away. Now."
Your voice wasn't yelling, but it was deadly. The guys looked at your face, realizing you were genuinely a second away from a physical altercation. The bravado faltered.
"Whatever, crazy bitch," the red polo guy muttered, rolling his eyes. "Place is a freak show anyway. Let's go."They turned and swaggered out of the aisle, laughing loudly to save face ,mimicking disabilities, their heavy footsteps echoing as the front door chimed and they left the store.The silence that followed was suffocating.You turned around instantly, your heart hammering. "Jake," you breathed, reaching out. "Jake, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
He wasn't okay.He was staring blankly at the floor. His face was entirely devoid of color. The box he had been holding so carefully slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the linoleum with a loud, hollow thud.
"Jake?" you asked softly, not touching him, knowing better than to initiate contact when he was in shock.He didn't look at the box. He didn't look at you. He reached up with shaking, jerky movements and pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned around, completely ignoring the set he had saved up for, and began speed-walking toward the exit."Jake, wait!" you called, abandoning the box on the floor and jogging after him.You caught up to him just as he pushed through the front door. The bright April sun hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands coming up to grip the edges of his headphones so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
"Car," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and entirely monotone. "Take me to the bubble."
"Okay," you said instantly, unlocking the car with your fob. "We're going. We're going right now."
He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He didn't put his seatbelt on. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled into a tight, defensive ball, and pulled his hood over his head and his headphones. He was burying himself alive.
You got in, started the car, and drove.The twenty-minute drive back to his house was the longest of your life. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet you were used to. It was a heavy, toxic, suffocating silence. It was the sound of a mind tearing itself apart.You wanted to reach over. You wanted to pull over to the side of the road, wrap your arms around him, and squeeze the pain out of him. But his body language was a massive, neon DO NOT TOUCH sign. He was completely closed off. The static in his head had turned into a roar.
When you pulled into his driveway, you noticed Sarah's car was gone. She was at her yoga class. It was just the two of you.
Jake opened his door before you even put the car in park. He scrambled out, almost tripping over his own feet, and half-ran to the front door. You hurried after him, unlocking it quickly.He didn't take his shoes off. He walked straight down the hallway, into his bedroom, and slammed the door.
You stood in the empty, quiet living room, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.You gave him ten minutes. You knew he needed time to process the massive spike of negative data. You went to the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water, and tried to steady your own breathing. Your hands were shaking with residual anger at those boys. You wanted to drive back and key their car.
But anger wouldn't help Jake.
After fifteen minutes, you walked down the hall and stood outside his bedroom door. You listened.You didn't hear crying. You heard a rhythmic, dull thump. Thump. Thump.Your stomach dropped.It was a sound you had only heard once, during his worst meltdown months ago. He was hitting his head. Not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to try and physically jar the overwhelming thoughts out of his brain. It was a frustration stim.
You didn't knock. You opened the door.
The blackout curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness. Jake was sitting on the floor in the corner, wedged between his bed frame and the wall. He had his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was rocking violently forward and backward.
Every time he rocked back, the back of his head hit the drywall. Thump.
"Jake, stop," you said, your voice firm but laced with panic. You crossed the room in three strides.
You dropped to your knees in front of him and slid your hand between the back of his head and the wall. When he rocked back again, his head hit your soft palm instead of the drywall.He gasped, the unexpected texture breaking his rhythm. He opened his eyes, glaring at you through the darkness. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn't sobbing. He was hyperventilating, trapped in a spiral of pure, toxic shame.
"Get out," he rasped, his voice raw.
It was the first time he had ever told you to leave. It felt like a physical blow to the chest, but you held your ground. You kept your hand behind his head.
"I'm not leaving you, Jake."
"Get out!" he yelled, a sudden, desperate burst of volume. He grabbed your wrist, trying to pry your hand away from the wall. His grip was frantic. "You are off the clock! Go away! Go back to your adult life!"
"I don't care about the clock," you said fiercely, refusing to let him push you away. You slid closer, ignoring his attempts to push you back, and grabbed both of his wrists, holding them firmly against his chest. Deep pressure. "Look at me. Look at my face."
"No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, trying to hide his face in his knees. "Don't look at me. I am... I am a freak show. I am a man-child."
He was echoing their words. The toxic data had infiltrated his system, overwriting all the confidence you had built together over the last six months.
"They were wrong, Jake," you pleaded, leaning in until your forehead was almost touching his. "They were stupid, miserable bullies who don't know anything about you."
"They were right!" he cried out, a ragged sob finally breaking through his throat. He stopped fighting your grip, his whole body slumping in defeat. "I am twenty-four years old! I wear a superhero shirt! I play with children's toys! I can't even go to a store without my mom or my... my paid caretaker to defend me!"
He pulled his hands out of your grip and buried his face in his palms, weeping openly. The sound of his heartbreak was agonizing.
"I thought I was doing good," he sobbed, his chest heaving. "I thought... I thought I was finding where I fit. But I don't fit anywhere. I am broken. The world looks at me and they see a joke. And you... you just pity me."
"Jake, no," you gasped, the tears finally spilling over your own eyelashes.
"You do," he insisted, his voice muffled by his hands. "You are beautiful. You are smart. You fix leaky pipes and drive cars and yell at scary men. You are a real adult. I am just your charity case. I am a job. You just pretend I am a man so I don't feel bad."
The absolute devastation in his voice, the deep-seated insecurity that had been completely laid bare by three cruel strangers, ripped through you. He didn't just feel humiliated; he felt unlovable. He felt like an imposter in his own life.
You didn't try to reason with him. You couldn't fight this level of emotional static with words alone.You moved. You uncrossed your legs and slid directly into his space. You didn't ask for permission. You wrapped your arms tightly around his trembling shoulders and pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the corner until his chest hit yours.You wrapped your legs around his hips, trapping him in a tight, full-body embrace. You buried one hand in his dark, fluffy hair, pressing his head firmly against your shoulder, and wrapped your other arm tightly around his back. You applied as much deep pressure as your body could physically muster, crushing the space between you.
He stiffened violently, a gasp tearing from his throat at the sudden, overwhelming input. But he didn't fight it. He never fought your pressure.
"Listen to me," you whispered fiercely into his ear, your voice trembling with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Listen to my voice. You are going to delete that data right now. Do you hear me?"
He let out a broken, hiccuping sob against your neck, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides.
"You are not a charity case," you continued, holding him tighter. "You have never been just a job to me. Those boys in the store? They are cowards. They tear people down because they have nothing interesting or beautiful inside their own heads. But you? Your brain is a masterpiece, Jake."
He shook his head weakly against your shoulder. "I'm a child."
"You are a man," you stated firmly, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. You grabbed his face in both of your hands, your thumbs wiping away the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
His brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly shattered, staring at you in the dark room. "A real man isn't someone who wears a scratchy suit and drinks at a bar," you told him, staring directly into his eyes, refusing to let him look away. "A real man is someone who is kind. Someone who is honest. A real man notices when I'm sad and gives up his favorite weighted blanket to comfort me. A real man eats a burnt, awful cookie just so I don't feel like a failure. A real man picks resilient yellow weeds for me because he knows I love them."He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.
"You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible man I have ever met, Jake Sim," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And I don't pity you. I am in awe of you."
You didn't plan the next part. You didn't calculate the professional boundaries or the risk of sensory overload. You just acted on the overwhelming, desperate need to prove to him that he was loved exactly as he was.You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.It wasn't a hesitant, chaste peck. It was firm, grounding, and full of every ounce of love and fierce protectiveness you harbored for him. You kept your hands cradling his face, anchoring him to the sensation.For one agonizing second, Jake froze. He went completely rigid beneath you. The new sensory input—the softness of your lips, the heat, the overwhelming intimacy—was massive.
But then, he melted.
A soft, desperate whimper vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly, came up and gripped your waist with a frantic strength. He didn't know what he was doing, but his instincts took over. He pressed back into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily but eagerly against yours. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.
You kissed him until the shaking in his body finally, slowly began to subside. You kissed him until the frantic rhythm of his heart slowed to a manageable beat against your chest. When you finally pulled back, you kept your foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping softly for air in the quiet, dark room. Jake's eyes were closed. His eyelashes were wet with tears, but his face had lost that pale, terrified pallor. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurt, grounding himself in your physical presence. "Did you mean it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small, incredibly fragile. "I meant every single word," you promised, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, Jake. I don't want a 'normal' guy. I want you. With your Spider-Man shirts and your LEGOs and your beautiful, brilliant brain." He opened his eyes. The shattered glass look was gone. The insecurity hadn't vanished completely—it never did, not instantly—but the toxic shame had been washed away by the absolute certainty in your voice and the lingering heat on his lips.
He swallowed hard. "I dropped the Robie House set."
You let out a wet, tearful laugh, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We can go back tomorrow. Or we can order it online. Whatever you want."
"Online," he decided immediately, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "The crowd density in that store is heavily polluted with negative variables."
"Online it is." He took a deep breath, processing the massive emotional shift that had just occurred. He loosened his death-grip on your waist, moving his hands up to carefully, hesitantly wrap his arms around your back, returning the full-body hug. He rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair.
"You smell like vanilla and anger," he murmured into your neck.
You laughed again, burying your face in his soft hoodie. "I was very angry. I wanted to hit them."
"I am glad you didn't," he said seriously. "Assault is a felony. That would disrupt our routine."
"You're right. No felonies."
You sat there on the floor for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The sting of the outside world, the cruelty of strangers, was still there, but it was locked outside. Inside this room, inside the circle of your arms, he wasn't a man-child. He wasn't a broken algorithm.
"Y/N?" he whispered after a long silence.
"Yeah, Jakey?"
"When you kissed me... the static stopped completely."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. It was... highly effective. Superior to the noise-canceling headphones."
You smiled against his shoulder, your heart finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to keep doing it. For medicinal purposes, of course."
"Agreed," he hummed, the vibration rumbling happily against your chest. "Frequent application is recommended." And as you held him in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, you knew that no matter how loud or cruel the world got, you would always be his quiet place. And he, in all his honest, beautiful complexity, would always be yours.
The aftermath of that afternoon on his bedroom floor shifted the entire axis of your relationship. The kiss had been an impulsive, desperate act of protection on your part, meant to shock him out of a spiral of toxic shame. But for Jake, it had fundamentally rewritten his internal algorithm.
You had become his baseline. In the weeks that followed as April blossomed into a warm, gentle May, Jake became undeniably, profoundly clingy. It wasn't a demanding, suffocating kind of clinginess. It was a quiet, constant gravitational pull. He simply needed to be in your orbit.
Before, he had valued his solitary space. He would spend hours in the living room building LEGOs while you read in the armchair, comfortable but separate. Now, if you sat on the sofa, he sat on the sofa, his hip pressed firmly against yours. If you stood at the kitchen island cutting his grilled cheese or pouring his milk, he would stand right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
He initiated touch constantly. It was never light or brushing—he still hated the "spiderweb" feeling of gentle contact. Instead, it was firm and deliberate. He would reach out and wrap his long fingers securely around your wrist while you were talking to Sarah. He would drop his heavy head onto your shoulder while waiting for the microwave to beep. He would randomly press his palm flat against the center of your back as you walked down the hallway.He was seeking deep pressure, but more than that, he was seeking you. You were the variable that made the static stop, and he wanted that quiet safety as much as possible.
You didn't mind it. In fact, your heart swelled every single time he reached for you. You returned his affection in equal measure, leaning into his weight, squeezing his hand back, and resting your cheek against his fluffy, dark hair whenever he ducked his head into your neck.
Nothing was labeled. You hadn't sat down and had a formal discussion about being "boyfriend and girlfriend." You were just existing in this warm, safe bubble of mutual adoration, letting Jake process the new physical and emotional data at his own pace.
Sarah, of course, noticed the shift immediately.
It was impossible to miss. One Tuesday morning, you were standing at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of oatmeal (no lumps, perfectly smooth). Jake had padded into the kitchen wearing his tagless Spider-Man pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. Instead of sitting at his usual spot at the round table, he walked straight up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and let out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against your back.You had simply smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, and kept stirring. "Morning, Jakey. Did you sleep well?"
"Eight hours and twelve minutes," he mumbled into your skin, his arms tightening in a firm squeeze. "The humidity dropped. The sheets felt correct."
Sarah had walked in right at that moment, pausing in the doorway. She froze, a mug of coffee half-raised to her lips. She stared at the way her son, who had spent his entire life flinching away from unexpected contact, was willingly, eagerly anchoring himself to another human being.She caught your eye over Jake’s shoulder. You offered her a soft, reassuring smile.Sarah’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She didn't say anything to disrupt his peace; she just pressed her lips together, gave you a shaky, incredibly grateful nod, and quietly backed out of the kitchen to give you both privacy.Later that afternoon, while Jake was in the backyard inspecting the growth of his beloved dandelions, Sarah sat next to you on the porch."I have never seen him like this," she whispered, watching him carefully step over a line of worker ants on the patio. "He’s always been so guarded. Even with me, sometimes. His sensory threshold is just so delicate. But with you... it’s like he doesn't have a threshold at all. You’re just part of him.""He makes it easy, Sarah," you said honestly, pulling your cardigan tighter against the spring breeze. "He’s so honest. There’s no guessing games with him. I know exactly where I stand."
"You know he likes you, right?" she asked gently, turning to look at you. "More than just as a support worker. I know the agency has rules, but Y/N... I am his mother. And I have never, ever seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
"I like him too," you admitted, the truth feeling warm and bright in the cool air. "I really, really do. We’re just... taking it slow. I want him to figure out the feelings on his own timetable."
"Take all the time you need," Sarah smiled, her shoulders dropping in profound relief. "Just... thank you. For seeing him. For really seeing him."
The culmination of all those quiet, clingy weeks happened on a rainy Friday evening.
It was Movie Night. The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a cozy, insulated cave in the living room. The TV was glowing brightly with the saturated colors of Spider-Man: Far From Home.
Jake was sitting on the sofa. You were tucked seamlessly into his side. His arm was wrapped heavy and secure around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together beneath his favorite fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket. The pressure of the blanket combined with the solid weight of his body pressing against yours was incredibly grounding.
On the screen, Peter Parker was awkwardly fumbling through a conversation with MJ in Venice, clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances and his desperate, clumsy desire to just tell her how he felt.
Jake was usually hyper-focused during Marvel movies, cataloging the physics of the web-shooters or the structural damage to the buildings. But tonight, he was distracted.
His fingers were tracing a repetitive, rhythmic circle on your upper arm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was a self-soothing stim. He had been doing it for twenty minutes."Is the volume okay?" you whispered, tilting your head up to look at his profile. The blue and red light from the television painted sharp angles across his jawline."The volume is at level 14. It is optimal," he replied softly.
He didn't look down at you. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He stopped tracing circles on your arm.
"Y/N?" he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your side.
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Peter's heart rate is elevated," he observed, watching the animated panic on Tom Holland's face. "He is experiencing a stress response. But there is no immediate physical threat. The elemental monsters are not present in this scene."
"No," you agreed softly. "There are no monsters. He's just stressed because he's trying to talk to MJ."
"Because he wants to give her the black dahlia necklace," Jake stated factually. "Because he likes her."
"Exactly. He likes her, and he's terrified of messing it up. Feelings can cause a stress response too, Jake. Adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A fast heart rate."
Jake went completely still. The slight, rhythmic bouncing of his foot beneath the weighted blanket stopped. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I have been experiencing a stress response," he said. The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing a systemic error.
Your heart did a tiny, nervous flip. You shifted slightly under the heavy blanket, turning your body more toward him. "Are you experiencing one right now? Is the environment too loud?"
"No," he said quickly, his grip on your shoulder tightening in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "The environment is safe. The blackout curtains are closed. The blanket is heavy. You are here. The variables are all controlled."
"Then what's causing the stress response, Jakey?"
He finally pulled his eyes away from the television screen. He looked down at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, intensely focused, and swimming with an emotion so raw and heavy it practically took your breath away.
"You," he said simply.
You froze. "Me?"
"Yes," he nodded, his expression deadpan but his eyes betraying a frantic, searching vulnerability. "I have been analyzing the data for weeks. Ever since... ever since the incident at the hobby store. When you kissed me. My baseline changed."
He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, bringing it up to rest flat against the center of his own chest, right over his heart.
"It feels heavy in here," he explained, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to articulate the abstract chaos inside his mind. "But it's not the bad heavy. It’s not a meltdown. It’s like... like when I put the weighted blanket on, but it’s on the inside of my ribs."He reached out and carefully took your hand, lacing his long, elegant fingers through yours. He squeezed firmly.
"When you are not here, the static comes back. When you leave to go to your apartment, I count the hours until 8:50 AM when your car pulls into the driveway. I check the window. And when I see you wearing your quiet white shoes... my heart beats very fast. Like Peter Parker." Tears immediately pricked the back of your eyes. The absolute, unvarnished honesty of his words was staggering. There were no games. There was no posturing. He was laying his entire internal processor bare for you to see. "Jake," you breathed, your voice thick.
"I didn't know how to categorize the data," he continued, his thumb rubbing firmly over your knuckles. "I read the diagnostic criteria for anxiety, but the symptoms didn't match perfectly. Because anxiety makes me want to hide. This feeling... makes me want to be exactly where I am. Sitting right next to you. With no gap between the cushions."
He looked back at the TV for a split second, pointing at Peter and MJ, who were now sharing a quiet, charged moment on the screen.
"Peter feels it," Jake said, looking back down at you. "He feels the heavy, fast thing in his chest. And he calls it love." A single tear spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. Jake saw it. He immediately let go of your hand, his face falling into a mask of panic. "You are leaking. I said the wrong thing. I processed the variable incorrectly—"
"No, no, Jake, look at me," you interrupted quickly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. You held his cheeks firmly, applying the deep pressure he needed to stay grounded in the moment. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm happy. Because it's a good heavy feeling."
He stopped pulling away. He leaned into your palms, his wide eyes searching yours for confirmation. "It is a good variable?"
"It’s the best variable," you sobbed out a watery laugh, swiping your thumbs under his eyes. "You're saying you love me, Jake?"
"Yes," he said. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter. He looked at you with an innocence and a certainty that shattered every doubt you had ever harbored. "I love you. I love your quiet shoes. I love that you know I need the cheese cut into squares. I love that you fought those loud men for me. You are my safe place, Y/N. I love you."
Your heart took a massive, soaring leap against your ribs. You pulled his face down and pressed your lips firmly against his.
It was better than the first kiss. The first kiss had been born of panic and desperation. This kiss was born of absolute, undeniable clarity. Jake responded instantly, his hands coming down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you with that same meticulous, focused attention he applied to everything he cared about, learning the exact pressure and rhythm that made you sigh into his mouth.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jake’s glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed a beautiful, vibrant pink.
"I love you too, Jake," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "So much. My chest gets heavy when I look at you, too."
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a massive weight lifting off his broad shoulders. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "Optimal," he whispered, a huge, gummy smile breaking across his face. You laughed, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since we both have the same data... does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?"
Jake paused. He blinked, processing the terminology. He tilted his head slightly.
"Boyfriend," he repeated slowly. "And you would be my girlfriend."
"If you want to be."
He thought about it. "Labels are useful. They categorize relationships so the boundaries are clear. A girlfriend is a primary, permanent variable."
"I would very much like to be a permanent variable, Jake."
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Yes. I will be your boyfriend. That is... a very pleasing symmetry."
"It's perfect symmetry." He pulled you back against his side, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders, tighter than before. He dragged the weighted blanket higher up over your chests, cocooning the two of you in the dim, flashing light of the television.
"Y/N?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on the top of your head.
"Yeah, boyfriend?" you teased gently. He hummed, a deep, happy vibration that rattled pleasantly against your ribs. "I do not need to buy you a black dahlia necklace like Peter Parker, do I? Because you do not like jewelry that clicks against the table. And glass is fragile."
You couldn't help the joyous laugh that bubbled out of you. "No, Jake. No glass necklaces required."
"Good," he said practically. "I will buy you more smooth salsa instead. It is a superior investment."
"I'd love nothing more." As Spider-Man swung across the screen, saving the city from chaos, you sat safely in the dark, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the boy who held you. There was no more static. There was no more confusion about where you fit into his life. You were dating Jake Sim, and as he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to your hairline, you knew absolutely that you had found exactly where you belonged.
The transition from support worker to girlfriend wasn't just an emotional shift; it required a logistical one, too.
Two days after that rainy movie night on the couch, you walked into the drab, fluorescent-lit office of New Horizons Support Services and placed your ID badge on your supervisor's desk. You explained that you could no longer remain objective. You didn't give them the deeply personal details, but you told them enough: the professional boundary had dissolved, and it was no longer ethical for you to clock in and bill the state for the time you spent at the Sim household.
Your supervisor had sighed, citing "high turnover" again, but you didn't care. You walked out of that office feeling lighter than air.
You drove straight to Jake’s house. When you walked through the front door, you weren't wearing your agency polo. You were just wearing a comfortable sweater and your quiet white Converse. Jake was sitting at the kitchen island, meticulously peeling an apple in one continuous ribbon. Sarah was at the stove, boiling water for pasta. "I quit my job today," you announced softly, standing in the archway.
Sarah froze, the wooden spoon pausing in the pot. She turned to look at you, panic momentarily flashing in her dark eyes. "You... you quit? Y/N, what happened? Did the agency—"
"No, Mom," Jake interrupted. He didn't look up from his apple, but his voice was remarkably steady, imbued with a quiet, undeniable pride. The apple peel fell to the cutting board in a perfect spiral. "She did not quit me. She quit the agency. It is a conflict of interest for her to be on the payroll." Sarah blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you. "Conflict of interest?"
Jake finally looked up. He set the paring knife down carefully. He walked over to where you were standing in the archway. He didn't hesitate, didn't check the room for variables. He simply reached out, took your hand in his, and intertwined his long fingers with yours. He gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.
"Y/N is my girlfriend now," Jake stated, looking at his mother with absolute clarity. "She is my permanent variable. We are dating."
For a full ten seconds, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rolling boil of the pasta water.
Then, Sarah dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered against the stove. She covered her mouth with both hands, a loud, wet sob escaping her throat.
"Oh, my God," she wept, the tears spilling over her cheeks in a flood of sheer, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Jakey." She crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a crushing, messy hug. Jake stiffened slightly at the suddenness of the contact, but he didn't pull away. He just patted his mother’s back awkwardly with his free hand, while keeping his other hand locked tightly in yours.
"I am so happy," Sarah cried into your shoulder, squeezing you tight. "I am so, so happy for both of you. Y/N, you... you are family. You were already family, but this... thank you. Thank you for loving him."
"I couldn't stop if I tried, Sarah," you whispered, wiping your own eyes.
From that day on, it wasn't a job anymore. You were just taking care of your love, and he, in his own brilliant, meticulous way, was taking care of you.
As the damp chill of spring gave way to the heavy, golden warmth of summer, Jake bloomed.The boy who used to flinch away from unexpected contact became entirely, wonderfully unabashed about seeking it from you. He didn't care who was watching. If he needed grounding, he took it.
You started going to the local metro parks together. It was a massive sensory step for him—parks were unpredictable. There were off-leash dogs, shouting children, and the sudden, sharp crack of baseball bats from the nearby diamonds. But he wanted to go, because he knew you liked the walking trails.
To manage the input, he wore his noise-canceling headphones, a pair of dark polarized sunglasses to cut the glare of the sun, and, most importantly, he held your hand.
Jake’s hand-holding wasn't a casual, loose grip. It was a firm, deliberate anchor. He would press the palm of his hand flush against yours, locking your fingers together so tightly you could feel his pulse beating against your skin.
"Deep pressure," he would murmur, adjusting his grip as you walked down the shaded, tree-lined paths. "It keeps the static away. You are my tether."
"I've got you, Spidey," you would smile, swinging your joined arms gently.
One particularly warm afternoon in late June, a golden retriever slipped its leash and came bounding toward you on the trail, barking excitedly. Before you could even react, Jake stepped directly in front of you, placing his body between you and the dog. He was terrified of loud, unpredictable animals, his shoulders hitching up to his ears, but his first instinct was to shield you.
When the owner ran up apologizing and leashed the dog, Jake let out a long, shaky breath."You stepped in front of me," you said softly, rubbing his tense back as he watched the dog walk away.
"I am the boyfriend," he stated, his voice trembling slightly from the adrenaline, but laced with a fierce, protective logic. "The boyfriend protects the girlfriend from biological anomalies. It is in the protocol."
You had pulled him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissed him right there on the trail, surrounded by the buzzing cicadas and the summer heat. He had melted into the kiss instantly, his hands finding your waist, the fear of the dog entirely overridden by the overwhelming, consuming input of your lips against his.
Summer evenings in Jake's backyard became your sanctuary.
When the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple, pink, and deep, saturated orange, the temperature would drop to a comfortable coolness. The neighborhood would quiet down, and the sensory input of the world would finally dial back to a manageable hum.
One evening in July, you had brought a cheap, plastic bottle of bubbles from the grocery store.Jake had been sitting on the patio chair, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the grass. You sat on the grass in front of him, unscrewed the cap, and blew a stream of bubbles into the warm evening air.Jake’s eyes went wide. He watched the translucent spheres float upward, catching the dying light of the sunset.
"They are perfectly spherical," he breathed, leaning forward, utterly captivated. "Surface tension forces the liquid into the shape with the least surface area. It is... mathematically flawless."
"They're pretty, aren't they?" you smiled, blowing another stream toward him.
He reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. It didn't pop immediately. He brought it closer to his face, his dark eyes reflecting the shimmering, rainbow-colored surface of the soap film."Thin-film interference," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The light waves are bouncing off the inner and outer boundaries of the soap film. They are interfering with each other to create the colors. Magenta. Cyan. Yellow. It is chemistry and physics working together."
Pop. The bubble vanished, leaving a tiny drop of soapy water on his skin. He laughed. It was a rare, full-bellied sound that bubbled up from his chest, pure and bright.
"Do it again," he requested, his eyes shining.
You spent an hour blowing bubbles for him. He didn't just watch them; he analyzed them. He tried to catch them without popping them. He tracked their flight paths, calculating the wind currents. And every time he laughed, your heart swelled until you thought it might burst.He looked so beautiful in the fading light. He was stripped of all his anxieties, all his fears about fitting into the "normal" world. He was just a brilliant, joyful man marveling at the physics of a soap bubble.
When the bottle was empty, he slid off the patio chair and sat on the grass beside you. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on your shoulder.
"That was a superior activity," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "The visual input was highly stimulating, but not overwhelming. It was... soft."
"We can get more tomorrow," you promised, resting your cheek against the top of his fluffy hair.
"Yes. But only the brand with the pink wand. The fluid viscosity was excellent."
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his chest and pulling him backward until you were both lying flat on the cool grass, looking up at the first stars pricking through the twilight. He rolled onto his side, throwing a heavy leg over yours and burying his face in your chest.
"I love you, Y/N," he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice drowsy and content.
"I love you too, Jakey."
As the summer wore on, your integration into his daily life became seamless. You didn't just watch him build LEGOs anymore; you built them with him.
It was a profound level of trust. Jake was highly territorial over his LEGO sets. They were his system of order in a chaotic world. But one rainy August afternoon, he pushed the massive instruction booklet for the LEGO Rivendell set toward the middle of the coffee table.
"You may assemble the roof tiles," he announced, handing you a plastic sorting tray filled with hundreds of tiny, earth-toned pieces.
You took the tray, deeply honored. "Are you sure? I don't want to mess up the symmetry."
"I have observed your fine motor skills," he stated pragmatically, clicking a wall piece into place. "You are careful. You do not force the bricks if they resist. And... I like seeing your hands next to mine."
You spent four hours sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. You learned the specific, satisfying snap of a perfectly placed tile. You learned not to talk when he was counting studs. It was an intimate, quiet language you developed together.
When you finished the Elven council ring, Jake stopped. He looked at the structure, then looked at you."We built this," he said, the realization settling heavily on him. "Together as a unit."
"We make a good team."He reached out and traced the edge of the plastic roof you had assembled. "My life used to be a solo build. I did not want anyone to touch my pieces because they always knocked them over. But you... you reinforce the structure. You make the build stronger."By the time the leaves began to turn the vibrant reds and oranges of October, months had passed since the kiss.And with the passage of time came the deepest intimacy of all: spending the night.
The first time it happened, it hadn't been planned. You had been watching a marathon of animated movies, and the heavy rain outside had lulled you to sleep on the sofa, your head pillowed on his chest.
When you woke up, it was 2:00 AM. Jake was still awake. He was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his arm wrapped tightly around you.
"Jake?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? Your arm has to be numb."
"My arm is numb," he confirmed softly. "But you were in the REM cycle of sleep. Your breathing was deep. Interrupting the REM cycle causes cognitive fatigue. And... I liked the weight of you. It is better than the blanket."
You had smiled sleepily, stretching your stiff back. "I should probably drive home."
Jake’s grip on your waist tightened instantly. His heart rate spiked against your cheek.
"The roads are slick," he said, his voice rising in that familiar, anxious pitch. "The visibility is reduced by 60%. The statistical probability of an accident is elevated."
He looked down at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading in the dim light of the living room. "Please do not drive. The variables are unsafe. My bed is... it is a king size. There is room. You can sleep there."
You hadn't hesitated. "Okay. I'll stay."
Sleeping in Jake’s bed was a sensory experience in itself. His mattress was firm. His sheets were 100% Egyptian cotton, washed in unscented detergent because artificial lavender made his nose itch.
When you climbed into the bed, wearing a spare oversized Spider-Man t-shirt he had given you, he immediately pulled his heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket over both of you."Is the weight acceptable?" he asked anxiously, hovering over you. "It can be crushing to neurotypical nervous systems."
"It feels like a hug," you assured him, settling into the pillows.
Jake climbed in beside you. He didn't leave a gap. He closed the distance immediately, turning on his side and wrapping himself around you like an octopus. He pulled your back flush against his chest, throwing his heavy arm over your waist and tangling his long legs entirely with yours.
He buried his face in the back of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.
"Optimal," he whispered into your skin.
You reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach. "Goodnight, Jake."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You learned that Jake didn't move in his sleep. Once he found his anchoring position against you, he was dead weight. He slept deeply and heavily, his breathing a steady, soothing rhythm against your spine.
Waking up to him was even better.The first time you opened your eyes in his bed, the morning sun was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Jake was already awake.He was propped up on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand, just staring at you. His hair was an absolute bird's nest of fluffy, chaotic curls sticking up in every direction. His face was soft, relaxed, completely devoid of the tension he carried during the day.
"You have a freckle on your left eyelid," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "I never noticed it before. It is very small. Exactly 1.5 millimeters."
You smiled lazily, reaching up to push a stray curl out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Spidey."
"You look different when you sleep," he observed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Your facial muscles lose their tension. You look very peaceful. It made my chest feel heavy again. The good heavy."
"I was peaceful because I was sleeping next to you," you murmured, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until his chest rested against yours.
He hummed happily, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. Waking up together became a staple of your weekends. You learned that he needed exactly ten minutes of quiet transition time before speaking about complex topics. You learned that he liked it when you traced light patterns on his bare back to help him wake up his sensory receptors.You learned that you had never, ever felt a love like this before.
It was a love completely stripped of games, manipulation, and societal expectations. It was a love built on raw honesty, calculated variables, and an intense, unwavering loyalty.
Now, exactly six months since that rainy New Year's Eve, you were sitting in the living room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
The Thanksgiving break was approaching, and the air outside was biting and crisp. Inside, the fireplace was crackling.
Jake was sitting on the floor, leaning back between your legs as you sat on the couch. This was his favorite position. He called it "the grounding chair." You were running your fingers slowly and rhythmically through his dark hair, scratching gently at his scalp.He had his eyes closed, practically purring.
"The tactile input is superior," he murmured, his head tilting back against your knee to give you better access. You smiled, looking down at him. He was beautiful. He was so incredibly bright. You thought about the file you had read a year ago. Difficulty establishing rapport. Rigid. High support needs. They had missed everything that mattered. They missed the way his mind was a kaleidoscope of logic and empathy. They missed the way he noticed the iridescent colors in a soap bubble. They missed the fierce, protective way he would step in front of a strange dog for the person he loved.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking up at you upside down."I'm thinking about you," you said softly, cupping his face in your hands.
"Is the data positive?" he asked, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. He was learning how to joke with you, understanding the cadence of playful banter.
"The data is overwhelmingly positive," you assured him, leaning down to kiss him upside down, like Spider-Man.
He smiled against your lips. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists."I am operating at 100% battery," Jake whispered, looking at you with those deep, liquid brown eyes that held his entire, beautiful soul. "And you are the power source. I love you, Y/N."
"I love you too, Jake. Forever."
"Forever is a mathematical concept denoting infinite time," he stated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I accept those parameters."
He closed his eyes and leaned back against you, completely at peace, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that your parameters were perfectly, infinitely aligned.
The seven-month mark of your relationship with Jake, the world outside the house had grown cold, brittle, and gray. But inside the house, the atmosphere was a saturated, brilliant gold.
You knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was relaxed; you knew the precise weight of the fifteen-pound blanket; you knew that when the world got too loud, you were the quiet room he retreated into.
It was a Friday night. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windowpanes with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm that would have usually sent Jake into a spiral of sensory defense. But tonight, the blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the unpredictable elements away. The living room was bathed in the warm, colorful glow of the television screen.
You were having a movie night. It was a comedic, wildly colorful animation film about a chaotic family trying to save the world from a robot apocalypse. Jake had initially been skeptical of the plot's disregard for basic physics, but he had quickly become captivated by the vibrant, symmetrical animation style and the logical, deadpan humor of the family’s pug.For the last hour, you had been spooning on the sofa.
It was a position that had required careful calibration over the last few months. Jake’s sensory processing meant that light, feathery touches felt like crawling insects on his skin. But deep, firm pressure was his anchor. So, he lay behind you, his broad chest pressed flush and firm against your back. His heavy arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach, grounding you both. His long legs were tangled with yours beneath the plush velvet blanket.
He was incredibly warm, a human furnace radiating a steady, comforting heat through his vintage, tagless t-shirt.On the screen, the animated pug did something ridiculous, and a bright, bubbly laugh escaped your lips. Behind you, Jake laughed —a bright, resonant vibration in his chest that you could feel all the way down your spine. It was his version of a laugh, a happy, contented sound that meant his battery was operating at optimal capacity."The canine’s center of gravity is entirely disproportionate to its mass," Jake murmured into the shell of your ear, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down your neck. "It is impossible for it to run that fast."
"It's a cartoon, Jakey," you smiled, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. "Physics take a holiday in cartoons."
"Physics never take a holiday," he corrected softly, his nose brushing against your hair. "But I will suspend my disbelief because the color palette is soothing."
You relaxed further into his hold, feeling utterly, completely safe. But after another ten minutes of lying in the exact same position, biology demanded a shift. Your left arm, which was tucked beneath your body and wedged against the cushions, was beginning to tingle uncomfortably.
"Jake," you whispered, squirming just a fraction. "My arm is falling asleep. The nerve is pinched."
"Paresthesia," he noted immediately, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to allow you to move. "You need to restore the blood flow."
"Yeah. Just give me a second."
You pushed backward against him to free your trapped arm, using your hips to gain leverage against the cushions. You shifted your weight, pressing your backside firmly against his lap to brace yourself as you pulled your arm free and rolled your shoulders. As you pushed your hips back into him, Jake made a sound you had never heard before. It wasn't his happy, vibrating hum. It wasn't the sharp, panicked gasp of a sensory overload. It was a low, breathy whimper that hitched in the back of his throat—a sound that was raw, involuntary, and entirely instinctual.
You froze. Before you could ask if you had accidentally hurt him, you felt it. Pressed flush against the soft curve of your backside, right through the fabric of your sweatpants and his soft flannel pajamas, was a distinct, solid ridge of heat.
He was hard.For a microsecond, the living room was dead silent, save for the cartoon explosions on the TV screen. You stopped breathing, your mind racing to process the new variable. Jake’s body, however, didn't wait for his logical brain to catch up.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming biological imperative, Jake’s hips twitched. He pushed forward, pressing that hard, aching heat deliberately into your backside, seeking the friction.Another soft, ragged moan escaped his parted lips, hot against your neck. His heavy arm, which was still wrapped around your waist, suddenly tightened, his large hand gripping your hip with a frantic, desperate pressure.
"Jake?" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flutter against your ribs.
He jerked slightly, as if your voice had snapped him out of a trance. The physical pressure against your back remained, but his breathing had turned shallow and erratic.
"I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to pull his hips back, a sudden wave of panic radiating from his tense muscles. "I did not calculate that reaction. The friction... when you moved... the sensory input was massive. It bypassed my primary processor." You didn't let him pull away. You reached down and placed your hand firmly over his where it gripped your hip, anchoring him to you.
"Jake, it's okay," you said softly, keeping your voice low and steady. "You don't have to apologize. It's just biology. It's a natural variable."
"My heart rate is elevated to 110 beats per minute," he whispered, his chest heaving against your back. "The blood flow has heavily redirected. The physical sensation is... it is loud, Y/N. It is very loud."
"Is it a bad loud?" you asked carefully. "Is it overwhelming like a meltdown, or... is it something else?" He went still, analyzing the internal data. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, taking a shaky breath.
"It is not a meltdown," he confessed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "It does not feel like the static. It feels like... gravity. Like I am being pulled toward the center of the earth. It is a very heavy, concentrated need. I want..." He swallowed hard. "I want to press against you again. The pressure felt... optimal."
Your pulse skyrocketed. You had navigated countless sensory challenges together, but this was uncharted territory. Over the last seven months, your physical intimacy had been limited to deep kisses, fierce hugs, and the quiet comfort of sleeping tangled together. You had let him set the pace, knowing that the intense vulnerability of sex could easily turn into a sensory nightmare if not handled with absolute care and trust.
But right now, his body was telling him what he needed, and he was trusting you enough to vocalize it.
You slowly turned over in his arms, shifting until you were facing him on the sofa.
His dark eyes were wide, blown out, and swimming with a chaotic mix of desire, confusion, and vulnerable trust. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under his t-shirt. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, making him look devastatingly beautiful in the flickering light of the television.
"You can press against me, Jake," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, applying the firm, grounding pressure he loved. "If you want to. We can explore this data together. But only if you feel safe."
He leaned into your palms, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I always feel safe with you. You are my permanent variable."
"Do you want to turn the TV off?" you asked. "To reduce the audio-visual input?"
He opened his eyes and nodded once, a jerky, decisive motion. "Yes. The flashing lights are distracting. I only want to focus on one input. I want to focus on you."
You reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the power button. The room was instantly plunged into a soft, velvety darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. The silence in the room was profound, amplifying the sound of your mingled breathing.
"Is the dark okay?" you murmured, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
"The dark is good," he rasped, his hands sliding from your waist to grip your thighs. "It limits the variables. I can only feel."
"Okay," you breathed. "We're going to go very slow, Jake. If anything feels like too much—if the texture is wrong, or the pressure changes, or the static gets too loud—you just squeeze my hand three times. The emergency exit. And we stop immediately. Deal?"
"Deal," he agreed, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Three squeezes."
You moved closer, swinging one leg over his hips so you were straddling him on the wide cushions of the sofa. You settled your weight down carefully.
The moment your center pressed directly against the hard ridge behind the zipper of his flannel pants, Jake let out a sharp, fractured gasp. His head fell back against the armrest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamped down hard on your hips.
"Deep pressure," he groaned, his hips bucking upward instinctively to meet your weight. "Y/N... the pressure is... oh."
"I know, baby," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to the erratic pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. "I'm right here. Just feel it."
You began to move, establishing a slow, rhythmic rock against him. You knew better than to be unpredictable. He needed a pattern. Forward, back. Press, release. You created a physical metronome with your body, allowing his sensory processor to latch onto the predictability of the friction. Jake’s response was breathtaking. Stripped of his anxieties and grounded by the heavy weight of your body, he surrendered completely to the sensation. His hands roamed over your back, mapping the curve of your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. He was learning the topography of your body in a whole new way. "I need..." he panted, opening his eyes to look up at you. "The barrier. The fabric is creating a secondary friction that is confusing my receptors. I want... skin."
"Okay," you said, your own voice thick with desire. "Let's remove the barriers."
You sat up, reaching for the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you in just your bra. Jake’s dark eyes widened, tracing the exposed skin of your chest and stomach. He didn't reach out with a light, tentative touch; he placed his large, warm palms flat against your ribcage, anchoring himself to your warmth.
"Symmetrical," he whispered, a breathless awe in his voice. "You are structurally perfect."
You smiled, a rush of pure affection warming your blood. You reached down and grabbed the hem of his vintage t-shirt, pulling it up and over his fluffy hair. His chest was broad and pale, his muscles tense and defined under the amber light.
You leaned down, pressing your bare chest flush against his.
The skin-to-skin contact was electric. Jake let out a long, shuddering sigh, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing, desperate hug.
"The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured into your hair, his heart hammering against your breasts. "You feel like... you feel like the sun, Y/N."
"You feel amazing, Jake."
You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants. You shimmied them down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the sofa. Jake followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved his flannel pajama pants and boxers down, kicking them away with a clumsy urgency.
When you settled back over him, entirely bare against him, the reality of the moment hit him. It was his first time. Twenty-four years of guarding his body against a world that was too loud, too bright, and too sharp, and he was opening all the doors for you.
"Y/N," he whispered, his hands gripping your waist tightly. Panic flickered in the depths of his brown eyes, a sudden spike in his data processing. "I do not have the manual for this. I have read the biological mechanics online, but... the practical application... what if I malfunction? What if my rhythm is inefficient?"
You stopped moving. You cupped his face again, bringing your forehead down to rest against his."There is no manual, Jake," you promised him, repeating the words you had told him months ago when he felt broken. "There is no malfunction. This isn't a test with a pass or fail grade. This is just you and me, talking to each other in a different way. You just have to tell me what feels good, and I’ll tell you what feels good. We write our own code."
He blinked, processing the logic. "We write our own code," he echoed.
"Exactly. And I promise you, everything you do is perfect to me."
He let out a shaky breath, the panic subsiding. "Okay. Initiate the sequence."
You reached down, guiding his thick, incredibly hot length to your entrance. He was trembling beneath you, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure anticipation.
"I'm going to go very slow," you whispered, locking your eyes with his. "Deep pressure. Ready?"
"Ready."
You sank down.The entry was a slow, deliberate stretch. You took him inch by inch, allowing his body to process the immense, overwhelming sensation of being enveloped.When you were seated fully at the base, you stopped.
Jake’s reaction was instantaneous and profound. His eyes rolled back slightly, his jaw dropping open in a silent shout. His hands flew up, not to your hips, but to your back, pulling you down into a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid as he absorbed the data.
"Jake?" you whispered, your hands stroking his hair. "Are you okay? Is it too much?"
He shook his head frantically against your collarbone.
"No," he gasped, a wet, fractured sound tearing from his throat. "It is not too much. It is... everything. It is all the data in the universe at once, but it is organized. It is quiet. Y/N, you are so quiet."
He meant it as the highest compliment his brain could formulate. You were the only thing in his life that silenced the chaotic noise of the world.
He didn't wait for you to establish the rhythm. His instincts, buried under layers of logic and sensory defense, roared to life. He surged upward, his hips snapping off the cushions, driving himself deep inside you. You cried out, a loud, breathless sound of pleasure that echoed in the dark room. The sound was a positive variable for him. It fueled him.He began to thrust. It wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't hesitant. It was a firm, relentless, driving rhythm. He found the mathematical perfection of the friction and locked onto it. Up, down. Press, release. He held your hips in a vice grip, ensuring the angle never deviated, maximizing the sensory input for both of you.
"Jake... oh my god, Jake," you moaned, your hands bracing on his broad shoulders as you rode the incredible wave of his momentum.
"Is the depth acceptable?" he panted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Is the velocity optimal?"
"It's perfect," you gasped, leaning down to capture his lips in a fierce, messy kiss. "Don't stop. You feel so good."
He growled into your mouth—a primal, masculine sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. The logical, quiet young man who meticulously sorted LEGO bricks was completely subsumed by the overwhelming, consuming fire of his love for you. The pleasure began to build, a tightening coil of heat that radiated outward. The sensory input in the room narrowed down to just him—the smell of his clean sweat, the sound of his ragged breathing, the solid, heavy impact of his hips against yours. "I'm going to fall," he whimpered suddenly, breaking the kiss. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. His eyes squeezed shut, his head tossing back against the armrest. "Y/N, my system is overloading. The pressure is too high. It's too high!" He wasn't panicking; he was climaxing.
"Let it overload, Jakey," you cried out, feeling your own climax rushing forward to meet his. "I've got you! Just let go!"
With a final, desperate, upward surge, Jake broke.
A high, fractured whimper tore from his throat—a sound of absolute, overwhelming release. He froze, his body bowing upward off the couch, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring. He buried himself as deeply inside you as physically possible, his hands digging into your lower back to anchor you to him as he flooded you with his warmth.
The intensity of his release pushed you right over the edge. You shattered around him, your internal muscles spasming and milking him dry, crying out his name into the quiet, dark room.For a long, endless minute, neither of you moved. You lay collapsed against his chest, your breathing ragged and out of sync.
Slowly, the tension drained out of Jake's body. He slumped back against the cushions, his arms wrapping limply but securely around your waist.
You lifted your head, your hair falling in a messy curtain around your face, and looked down at him.His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. And tracing down the sides of his flushed, sweat-dampened cheeks were two steady streams of tears.
Your heart constricted in a sudden panic. You reached down, wiping your thumb across his cheek. "Jake? Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did it hurt? Was the static too loud?"He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, wet, and incredibly bright.He looked up at you, reaching a trembling hand up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to your skin.
"It didn't hurt," he whispered, a watery, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "The static is completely gone. There is no noise left in my head at all."
"Then why are you leaking?" you asked softly, using his terminology.
"Because my capacity is full," he explained, his voice thick with a profound, overwhelming happiness. "I processed the data of the physical connection, and I combined it with the data of my emotional attachment to you. The resulting sum was larger than my internal storage. It had to spill over."
He let out a shaky, joyful laugh, pulling you back down until your ear was resting right over his racing heart."I am crying because I am exactly where I belong," he murmured into your hair, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. "You are my favorite variable, Y/N. You are the only math that makes sense."You closed your eyes, a few happy tears of your own slipping onto his chest, and held your permanent variable as tightly as you could.
Epilogue
The two years following that rainy autumn night unfolded with a rhythm that was entirely your own. Your relationship with Jake wasn't built on grand, unpredictable gestures or spontaneous cross-country road trips. It was built on the quiet, steady accretion of reliable data. It was built on Tuesday grilled cheese, the specific hum of the dryer on Thursdays, and the absolute certainty that when the world outside grew too sharp, you were each other's soft landing.
The seasons cycled —the oppressive, humid summers fading into the stark, brilliant colors of autumn, giving way to the biting cold of winter, and melting back into the muddy hope of spring. Through it all, Jake continued to bloom.
He still wore his Spider-Man pajama pants. He still organized his LEGOs by size, function, and color. He still required a predictable morning routine to conserve his daily battery. He was still undeniably, beautifully Jake. But the fear that had once defined his interactions with the world had largely dissipated. He was anchored. He had found where he fit.
It was a Saturday morning in late May. The air was warm, and the morning sun was filtering through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.
You were sitting at the kitchen island, wearing one of Jake's oversized grey hoodies, nursing a mug of coffee. You were twenty-five now, working full-time at a local community center. Your imposter syndrome hadn't vanished completely, but you no longer felt like a fraud playing at being an adult. You had a handle on your life, mostly.
Jake was standing at the counter, completely absorbed in the meticulous preparation of his breakfast. Two scrambled eggs (uniform yellow), three strips of bacon (cut into one-inch squares). "The humidity is rising," Jake noted, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. He didn't look away from his plate. "It is currently at 68%. By mid-afternoon, it will likely exceed my comfortable threshold. My hair will experience frizz."
"We can stay inside," you offered, taking a sip of your coffee. "We have the new Star Wars puzzle. The 3,000-piece one."
Jake paused mid-chew. He swallowed and took a deliberate sip of his water.
"No," he said, finally looking up at you. His dark brown eyes were serious, but there was a subtle, nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. He was tapping his left foot against the linoleum—a sign of processing complex variables. "I have calculated a different trajectory for today. I require a change in routine."
You lowered your mug, intrigued. A voluntary change in routine was rare. "Oh? What's the new variable?"
"I would like to visit the city Park," he announced, his posture straightening slightly. "The one with the botanical gardens. The rhododendrons are currently in peak bloom. They are highly saturated in color."
"The Park on a Saturday?" you asked, verifying the data. "It might be crowded, Jakey. High density."
"I am aware," he said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his t-shirt. "I have packed my noise-canceling headphones. I have assessed my battery level. I am operating at 98% capacity. I believe I can manage the input. It is... important."
There was a weight to the word important that made your heart skip a tiny beat. You had learned to trust his self-assessments. If he said he could handle it, he meant it.
"Okay," you smiled warmly. "Let's go see the rhododendrons."
The drive to the Park was filled with the familiar, comforting silence of Jake's lo-fi hip hop playlist. He sat in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping a complex rhythm against his thigh. He was wearing his favorite soft, navy blue hoodie and a pair of clean, comfortable jeans.When you arrived at the park, it was, as predicted, relatively busy. Families were walking dogs, joggers were navigating the paved trails, and children were shouting near the playground.Jake immediately deployed his headphones, pulling them over his ears to muffle the auditory chaos. He reached out with his right hand, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, and waited.You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers tightly. Deep pressure. The anchor.
He squeezed your hand three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
You squeezed back three times.
I love you too.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and together, you began to walk down the main path toward the botanical gardens. The gardens were a stark contrast to the rest of the park. They were quieter, designed for contemplation rather than recreation. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.Jake led the way, navigating the winding stone paths with purpose. He stopped occasionally to examine a specific leaf structure or to identify a flower species under his breath."The Fibonacci sequence is evident in the petal arrangement of the Echinacea purpurpea," he murmured, pointing to a purple coneflower. "Nature relies heavily on mathematical efficiency."
"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning against his side.He guided you deeper into the gardens, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reached a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, ornate wooden gazebo, surrounded on all sides by massive, blooming rhododendron bushes. The flowers were a blinding, saturated magenta.The clearing was entirely empty.
Jake stopped walking. He pulled his headphones down so they rested around his neck.
The sudden exposure to the ambient noise of the park made him blink rapidly for a second, but he didn't put them back on.
He turned to face you.
His breathing had grown shallow. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand, which was still gripping yours tightly.
"Jake?" you asked softly, recognizing the physical signs of a stress response. "Is it too loud? Do you need your headphones?"
"No," he said, his voice hitching slightly. "The noise is acceptable. The variables are within manageable parameters."
He let go of your hand. You frowned, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. Jake never let go of your hand in a public place. It was his primary grounding mechanism.
He took a step back, putting a careful two feet of space between you. He reached his hands into the front pocket of his navy hoodie. He was searching for something.
"Y/N," he began, his voice taking on the formal, factual cadence he used when he was nervous. "I have spent the last two years analyzing the data of our cohabitation. I have observed the statistical probability of a successful, long-term human partnership."Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird."The data indicates," Jake continued, his dark eyes locked intensely on yours, refusing to look away, "that relationships are prone to entropy. They break down due to poor communication, mismatched variables, and a lack of systemic maintenance."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket. He was holding a small, square object made of dark, polished wood. It wasn't a standard velvet jewelry box. It looked distinctly handmade.
"However," he said, his voice softening, the clinical distance dropping away to reveal the raw, beating heart beneath. "My internal processor has run the simulation a thousand times. And in every single simulation, the variable that prevents the entropy... is you."
He took a step forward, closing the gap between you. He didn't drop to one knee—he knew that societal conventions didn't dictate the validity of an action, and the ground was damp—but he held the wooden box out between you."You do not try to rewrite my code," Jake whispered, his eyes shining with an overwhelming, profound sincerity. "You learned my language. You understand that the static is loud, and you are the only thing that makes it quiet. You eat burnt cookies, and you do not make fun of my Spider-Man pajamas, and you provide optimal thermal transfer when I am cold."A tear slipped free from your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe."I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately express the magnitude of my attachment to you," he admitted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the small wooden box. "But I have learned that human tradition utilizes symbolic gestures to denote permanent, primary variables."
He opened the wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a ring. It wasn't a massive, flashy diamond. It was a simple, elegant band of polished titanium, inlaid with a thin, continuous stripe of dark, starry lapis lazuli.
"I selected titanium," Jake explained, his voice gaining confidence as he presented the data. "It has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metallic element. It is incredibly resilient. It will not warp or degrade. And the lapis lazuli is blue. You are my protective blue aura." He looked up from the ring, his gaze finding yours. The puppy-dog innocence was still there, but it was anchored by the unwavering conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted."Y/N," he said, his voice clear and resonant. "Will you agree to be my permanent, legally recognized variable? Will you marry me?" A sob tore from your throat—a loud, messy, uncalculated sound of pure joy. You didn't answer with words initially. You couldn't. You closed the remaining distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours. You kissed him with every ounce of love, gratitude, and fierce devotion you possessed.
Jake gasped against your lips, his hands instantly finding your waist, the wooden box clutched safely in one fist. He kissed you back eagerly, grounding himself in the familiar, perfect pressure of your touch.When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. You rested your forehead against his, your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin."Yes," you whispered, your voice thick and wobbly. "Yes, Jake. A million times, yes. I will be your permanent variable."His face broke into a blinding, full-teeth smile—the kind of smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief."Optimal," he breathed. "The simulation was accurate." He carefully extracted the ring from the wooden box. He took your left hand, his fingers steady now, and slid the titanium band onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly. He had likely measured your finger while you were sleeping, calculating the exact circumference."It's perfect, Jakey," you sobbed, looking at the band. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"It is mathematically precise," he agreed, admiring his handiwork.
He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You buried your face in his navy hoodie, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of unscented detergent and the crisp spring air.
You stood there in the quiet clearing, surrounded by the blinding magenta rhododendrons, holding your fiancé. The static of the world was entirely absent.
The wedding, like your relationship, was exactly what you both needed it to be: small, controlled, and deeply personal.There was no massive reception hall filled with hundreds of strangers. There was no loud DJ blasting bass-heavy music. There were no flashing strobe lights.Instead, six months later, you stood in the backyard of the beige two-story house. The late October air was crisp and smelled of fallen leaves. The trees surrounding the yard were ablaze in oranges and reds.
Sarah had spent weeks transforming the backyard into a quiet, intimate sanctuary. Fairy lights—warm white, non-flickering—were strung through the branches of the old oak tree. The grass was meticulously trimmed.
There were only twelve guests. Your parents, your brother, Sarah, and a few close friends who understood the rules of the environment.
You wore a simple, elegant white dress with no scratchy lace or heavy, restrictive corsetry. You wore your new white Converse sneakers beneath the hem.
Jake stood at the end of the short aisle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He had tried one on during the planning phase, but the stiff collar and the tight constraints of the jacket had sent him into a near-meltdown.Instead, he wore a dark navy blue cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, and dark, comfortable trousers. He looked incredibly handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and entirely at peace.He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, a comforting weight, but he didn't need to turn them on. The environment was safe.When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked onto his. He wasn't looking at the ground. He wasn't looking at your shoes. He was looking directly at your face, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
He held his hand out to you as you approached.
You took it, feeling the immediate, deep pressure of his grip.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
The ceremony was short. The officiant, a close family friend, spoke softly and clearly.
When it came time for the vows, you hadn't written traditional promises. You had written your own code."Jake," you said, your voice steady, holding both of his hands in yours. "I promise to always be your quiet place. I promise to never mix the eggs with the bacon. I promise to always check the weather for humidity spikes, and to always have your noise-canceling headphones charged."
Jake smiled, a single tear slipping down his cheek."I promise to fiercely protect your routines," you continued, your own vision blurring. "Because your routines are what allow your brilliant, beautiful mind to thrive. I promise to love you, exactly as you are, in every variable, in every simulation, for the rest of our lives."
Jake took a deep, shaky breath. He didn't have notes. He had memorized his data.
"Y/N," he began, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre that always grounded you. "Before I met you, the world was a chaotic, unmanageable input. I survived by building walls and closing doors. You did not try to break the walls down. You simply sat outside them, in your quiet shoes, until I realized I wanted to open the door."
He squeezed your hands, his thumb brushing over the titanium ring on your finger.
"You are the most statistically improbable, incredibly fortunate anomaly of my life," he said, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that defied any clinical diagnosis. "I promise to provide optimal thermal transfer when you are cold. I promise to eat the burnt cookies so you do not feel inadequate. I promise to step in front of the unpredictable variables to shield you. I promise to be your permanent, primary partner, until the entropy of the universe consumes us both."
There wasn't a dry eye in the small gathering. Sarah was openly weeping into a tissue, clutching your mother’s hand.
When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissed you with the firm, deliberate passion of a man who had finally found his permanent place in the world.The small crowd cheered softly, clapping their hands—a muted, respectful applause that didn't startle him.The reception was a dinner held in the living room and kitchen. The food was carefully curated. There was a macaroni and cheese bar (no mixing required), a tray of perfectly uniform, sharp cheddar cheese cubes, and a massive bowl of smooth, roasted tomato bisque, a roast Sarah made, a salad.For dessert, there wasn't a traditional, multi-tiered wedding cake.Instead, there was a large platter of sugar cookies and other desserts. The cookies were cut into precise geometric shapes—stars and Stegosauruses. They were baked to a perfect, light golden brown.Jake stood by the dessert table, holding a star cookie. He looked across the room at you. You were talking to your brother, laughing at something he had said.Jake walked over to you. He didn't care that you were mid-conversation. He stepped up behind you, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Deep pressure," he murmured into your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Always," you smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth.
Your brother smiled warmly at the two of you and excused himself to get more macaroni and cheese.Jake held the star cookie out in front of you.
"The bake on these is optimal," he noted, his voice a low, happy rumble against your back. "The structural integrity is sound. The Maillard reaction was controlled."
"I set three timers," you laughed, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I wasn't taking any chances today."He took a bite of the cookie. It crunched satisfyingly.
"They are very good," he decided, chewing thoughtfully. "But..."
"But?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"But I think I prefer the fossilized dinosaurs," he said, his eyes crinkling with a subtle, teasing humor. "They possessed a superior... smoky complexity. And they proved that you are fallible. Which makes you mathematically perfect for me."
You let out a loud, joyous laugh, turning fully in his arms to wrap your hands around his neck."You are ridiculous, Jake Sim," you beamed, looking up at your husband.
"I am entirely logical," he corrected softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. "The data supports my conclusion." He leaned down and kissed you again, right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft murmur of your families and the warm, golden light of the fairy lights.Outside, the world continued its chaotic, unpredictable spin. The traffic roared, the sirens wailed, and the variables shifted without warning.
But inside, wrapped in the arms of the man who organized his life with plastic bricks and unyielding honesty, everything was perfectly, mathematically still. The static was gone. You were home. And you knew, with the absolute certainty of a scientifically proven fact, that you would never need to run from the noise again.
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you’re partnered with the most popular boy at school, oikawa tooru—who you thought never noticed you—but he turns into a flustered mess every time you’re near.
starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader
wc. 10.6k
author's note: hi guys this is luna (@yukkiji) someone reported my account and got it terminated and this is one the few stories that was on my gdocs so I was able to repost it (╥﹏╥) but for the mean time I'll post my saved fics on my new blog
Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.
You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.
You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.
But he did.
He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.
“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.
Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”
“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”
Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”
“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”
Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”
Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”
“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”
Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”
“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”
“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.
“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.
“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”
“I was distracted!”
“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”
“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”
“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”
“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.
They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.
Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”
“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.
Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.
And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.
He did.
A lot.
And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.
It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.
But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.
Oikawa Tooru.
Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.
But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.
“Cool!”
You froze.
He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.
And then he tripped.
It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.
The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.
“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.
Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.
You. Knew. His. Name.
He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.
“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”
“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.
From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”
“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”
Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”
“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.
Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.
But he didn’t care.
Because you knew his name.
And you were worried about him.
God help him, he was doomed.
Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.
Again.
“Tooru.”
It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.
Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”
That did not help.
Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.
“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.
Then, without thinking, he took your hand.
You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.
Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.
“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.
None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.
“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.
You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.
Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.
“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.
You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.
And just like that, Oikawa was gone.
To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.
“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.
Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.
From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.
Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.
“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”
Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”
You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”
The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.
Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”
Oikawa stared.
If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.
“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”
You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.
You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.
When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.
You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.
Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.
And then his phone buzzed.
[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ノ
His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.
“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”
“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”
Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.
“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.
Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.
Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.
The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.
By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.
Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.
Kind of.
Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.
“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.
The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.
“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.
“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.
Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”
A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”
Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”
The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”
Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”
Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.
Then his phone buzzed.
[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´。• ᵕ •。`)
Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.
“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”
He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.
Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.
[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way
[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)
Oikawa screamed.
Like, actually screamed.
He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.
“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”
There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”
Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”
Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”
Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.
And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”
You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.
Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.
"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"
You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.
She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"
"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"
That caught her attention.
She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.
You groaned into the pillow.
"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."
Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."
“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”
"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."
You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.
“I’m never texting anyone again.”
Your phone buzzed.
You shrieked.
[tooru]: see you later also ♡
You stared at your phone.
Oh god.
Why did he send a heart.
Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.
Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.
You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.
“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.
You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.
“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”
Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.
“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”
“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”
“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”
Your brain short-circuited.
Your entire body glitched.
Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.
“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.
She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”
You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”
“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”
You arrived at the café first.
The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.
You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)
Then the soft chime of the door rang.
Your head turned instinctively.
Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.
He lit up immediately.
He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.
Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.
Meanwhile, Oikawa?
He was dying.
His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—
He was done for.
He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.
A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.
A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.
You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”
You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.
“You really okay?”
“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”
You looked away again, biting back a smile.
And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:
I’m so, so screwed.
Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”
He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.
At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.
A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”
“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.
You paused. “Are you sure?”
He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.
He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”
The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.
Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”
It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.
“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.
“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.
Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.
And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.
He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.
He was so screwed.
And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”
Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.
Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.
At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.
What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.
But you showed up.
In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.
“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.
“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.
“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”
You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”
Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”
He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.
Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.
"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.
"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.
"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.
“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”
You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”
Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.
Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.
And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”
He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.
Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.
There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.
It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.
Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.
Not in the way that mattered.
Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.
You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.
And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.
Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.
“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.
“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.
“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”
“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”
“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.
He melted.
You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.
“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”
“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.
“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.
“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.
No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.
Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.
And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.
But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.
Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.
He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.
One bow caught his eye.
It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.
Oikawa lingered, slowing down.
He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.
“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.
“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”
“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”
“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”
“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”
Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”
Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”
“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.
Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”
Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.
Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”
And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.
He bought the bow.
Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.
“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”
“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.
Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.
“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.
“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”
Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”
“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.
Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”
The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”
Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.
“Don’t screw it up,” he said.
And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.
You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.
[tooru]: are you free?
That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.
You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.
You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.
[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?
You blinked.
Then you sat up.
Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.
“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”
You didn’t move.
She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”
You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And?”
“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”
Silence.
Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”
You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”
She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”
You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”
“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”
You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”
Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The one you like.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”
“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”
She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”
You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”
Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”
You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”
She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”
“I forgot!”
“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”
“I’m not in love with him.”
She arched a brow. “You sure?”
You didn’t answer.
She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”
You peeked at your phone again.
[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.
You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.
Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”
Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.
“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”
“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.
“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”
“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”
“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”
Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.
The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.
He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.
After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.
He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.
There you were.
Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.
The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.
Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.
“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.
And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.
Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.
“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”
The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.
Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”
You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.
Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.
“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.
You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.
“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”
Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”
Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”
You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.
Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.
Because this felt different.
There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.
Just you and him.
Just Tooru.
And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.
Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.
“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”
He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.
Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.
Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.
He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.
He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.
"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.
You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.
He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.
“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”
You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.
You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.
“Tooru…?”
He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.
“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”
He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”
Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.
“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”
You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.
The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.
And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”
Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.
You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.
“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”
His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.
“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”
You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”
Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.
“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”
And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.
You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.
You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.
Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.
When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.
“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”
Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.
You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.
But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.
His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.
“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.
You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”
After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.
Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.
You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.
Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.
“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”
“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.
“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”
Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”
But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:
Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.
fluff, f. reader, tw. none | calling for one tsukishima when both brothers were present at the same time led to an offer to call him by his first name
tsukishima would describe you as dependable. despite just being a manager, you have a great game sense that makes the input from your observation reliable. he told himself that's the reason he agreed to let you tag along for his practice with his brother college team.
he almost convinced himself, like a fool in denial.
the older players warmed up to you immediately. you clicked with his brother so well too despite meeting each other for the first time. he had observed from afar how you'd something akiteru said and felt his gut twisted but said nothing about it.
the game went on for a few sets before the captain called for a break. he sighed at his twitching fingers and their loose taping. that needs mending before the next sets, he thought.
he wasn't really paying attention to his surrounding as he rummaged through his bag for the tap when he heard your voice, "here, tsukishima-san!".
"thank you-", "thanks!". his and his brother's voice overlapped, as both turned to receive the water bottle you're passing.
it was an awkward 3 seconds of confusing stare to each other before you nervously clarified that the bottle did belong to his brother, while his was with another player who helped filled it up before the break.
tsukishima wanted to bang his head to the nearest wall, but managed to mutter an apology and went back to redoing his bandage.
the whole time afterward, he tried to focus on the game or the aching muscles all over his body rather than the embarrassment of what happened earlier. however, they proved to be difficult, impossible almost. he had became hyperaware of every of your call for a tsukishima, regardless of them being addressed to him or his brother.
the next break came after a while, you proposed a few suggestions for his form while he wordlessly wiped his sweat away with the towel you handed. "you can try them out in the next set. i think you'd be able to block against their heavier spikes better, tsukishima-kun!".
"kei..", he said in a quiet voice that you barely heard him.
you tilted your head.
"you can call me by my name. it'd be less confusing between me and akiteru, don't you think?". he observed how your face heat up and the tip of your ears reddened as you struggled to form a coherent response. "i'm not forcing you, don't worry", he added immediately because tsukishima himself was secretly spiralling inside.
the captain called for the next set to begin just in time for him to rescue himself from further embarrassment and excused himself.
"kei!".
he stopped dead in his track and looked at you. your cheeks were dusted bright red, and you looked like you're about ready to run away from the scene as well. "do your best!".
tsukishima forgot how to control his face muscle. he intended to keep a straight face to not lose his cool, but he felt himself wanting to smile from ear to ear while at the same time wanting to scowl at himself for losing his composure. amidst intense emotional confusion, he covered his face with his large palm and nodded before getting back in position on the court.
synopsis ଳ kenma has been ignoring you all week and you’re determined to find out why.
content ଳ kenma being an avoidant ass, cowgirl, play(?)fighting going south, intercourse (p in v), unprotected sex, creampie, fem!reader, verystraightforward!reader.
word count ଳ ~2.5k
a/n ଳ GUESS WHO’S BACK??? Ah I’ve been CHEESING these past few days, the glaze is never ending. Thank you! 🥹 Enjoy part two!! (I might’ve spammed em dashes a bit, pls ignore 😭)
“Hey, Kenma.”
I drop my heavy bag on his desk, solely to bother him while he’s typing.
“I see you’re still ignoring me.”
He keeps quiet, but I catch the twitch of his lips at my words. I’ll take the crumbs of any reaction he’ll give me at this point. But then he looks away.
Like one does, I push his laptop to the side and take a seat right where it was. I lean in.
“So, what’s the excuse behind this one? Switching seats.”
I’m meaner this time—demanding. Talking to myself isn’t a thing I do in public, after all. When he looks up at me, I give him the nicest smile I can manage.
“I…couldn’t see the board from the back, so I moved up. I’m not ignoring you.”
That smile is getting increasingly hard to keep.
“It’s now that you realize you can’t see the board? Six months in?” My lips press into a line as he gives me no reply.
“Anyway. Just to be clear, this isn’t you avoiding me.”
“…No, it’s not.”
“And you’re not ignoring me either?”
“I already said I wasn’t.”
I can’t believe he even has the nerve to be snappy at me while lying in my face.
I hold his gaze for a few more seconds before he looks away. He even starts blushing—like I’m the one in the wrong.
“Could you back up a little? You're too close.” He mumbles.
Oh, so I’m harassing him now too?
I get off his desk and head up to my regular spot, cursing him under my breath.
Since the beginning of the week, Kenma has been dead set on giving me the cold shoulder.
He’s not some chatterbox, but I know he can hold conversations that last longer than five words. We’ve had them before, and they were great. Fucking awesome, even.
We weren’t attached at the hip, but come on—I know I was growing on him! He can act blasé all he wants, but there’s no way he didn't at least see me as a friend.
Every attempt I’ve made at talking to him since Monday has been met with either a curt response or no response. Getting to him outside class is pretty much impossible, and I gave up on texting long ago.
It’s embarrassing how desperate I am—but I can’t just sit around when the months of hard work I’ve put into our relationship are on the verge of being flushed down the drain!
It’s like befriending the neighbourhood stray that’s very picky with people, and then it suddenly starts hating you the next morning.
Except the stray is Kenma, and instead of petting, I want to have sex be his friend.
Even if he did somehow learn that I like him, because I do—I like him way more than I should—he could just tell me to stop, like a normal fucking person! But noo, little baby over here doesn’t know how to use his big boy words!
I glare at the back of his head, a deep frown etching itself onto my face as I scoff. What a jerk.
But fine. If this is how he wants to play, then so be it.
ଳ
When the bell rings, Kenma all but runs out of class. I don’t follow, since I know exactly where he’s going.
Every Friday, without fail, Kenma goes to this gaming café not too far from campus. He typically stays until it closes, then returns to his dorm room, where he locks himself in for the weekend.
When that happens, nothing gets him out.
That means I have today—and only today—to fix this before next week.
Challenge accepted.
ଳ
By the time I get there, the café is full with other college students. I take a good look around. It’s a lot…cuter, than expected. Lots of pink and cat stickers. Ha, that’s probably why Kenma comes here so often.
When I find his little booth, he’s playing a game I don’t recognize. He has on headphones and, by his sneer, is losing. He can make really ugly expressions when he wants to.
“I joined 2v2—not 3v1, you moron!” He yells.
I patiently wait for him to finish up. I even sit on the free gaming chair of the booth beside him and roll right next to him. Huh, it’s a volleyball game.
“How the fuck did you rank up to pro!?“
I blow on my fingernails.
“Why are you going for balls that are obviously out?? Are you dumb!?”
I tap my fingers against my thigh. Anytime now.
“I’m not toxic—you’re just ass!”
With that, my patience reaches its limit, and I lean over to leave the game for him. It was 24-6 anyway.
Kenma almost breaks his neck when turning to cuss out the hand’s owner. When he realizes that it’s me, he full-body flinches.
“Took you long enough. Your hair blocks your side vision, you know. Should probably get a trim.”
We stare at each other. Then slowly, very slowly, he puts the headphones down. He gets up, but I catch him by the collar.
Despite how scrawny he looks, it’s pretty hard to hold him back.
"Whoa there, Kenma. Leaving so soon?” I shake my head. “I’m not letting you leave until you do us both a favour and communicate your feelings. Ever heard of that?”
He tests my grip on his collar, before begrudgingly sitting back down. I let go.
“Listen. I’m sure you know that I’m pretty pissed, so let’s keep this brief.”
His lips part, but he stutters, so he clears his throat. They part again—and I wait for it—but he just ends up licking his lips. Then he starts blushing. The guy can’t even get a word out.
When I close my eyes to groan at him, he tries to escape again. This time I’ve had it. I’ve been at my limit with him for a while now, but I’m done done. I’ll force an answer out of him.
“We’re going to my dorm.”
ଳ
It took a lot of convincing for Kenma to even step inside. Turns out ‘so you don’t try to escape’ isn’t a very persuasive reason.
But I managed, like I always do.
“Out with it already.”
Kenma, who’s sat all stiff like a stick got shoved up his ass, stares at the coffee table ahead of him like it’ll tell him what to say.
“Oh my fucking god I’m going to strangle you—say something!”
He glances at me. “You don’t have to yell,” he sighs, pursing his lips. “I just wanted some time alone this week. Sorry, I guess.”
“You guess, huh?” I squint. “So you’ve been blowing me off instead of just telling me this, because…?”
“…I haven’t been sleeping well, so I was tired. Talking is tiring.”
"Well, obviously you don’t sleep well; you don’t sleep at all. Put down your switch sometimes.”
“It’s…” He sighs again, rubbing his hands on his face. “Not because of that.”
“Mkay…do you need melatonin? Cause I have-”
“It’s not that either. Just drop it, you can't..." His leg starts bouncing. “It’s not something you can fix. It’ll pass. Eventually. I think.”
“So until it passes, you’re gonna keep treating me like shit?” I get no response and yet it’s all the response I need.
I lay down on my back and rest my legs on his lap. He shoots me a look of mild disgust when I wiggle my toes.
“Well. Too bad for you, you’re not leaving until you vow to end your jackassery.”
“You said you’d let me leave if I told you why I’ve been acting off.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“I just did.”
When Kenma tries me, I sit back up and wrap my hand around his wrist.
“Just make the vow, and I’ll let you go.” Unfortunately, Kenma’s pride is taller than both of us combined.
Like two street cats, we have a stare-off. Our narrowed eyes—filled with a week's worth of tension—survey the other. We don’t move, nor do we say a word. Until Kenma tries to escape again and I pounce.
My left hand interlocks with his while I attempt to pull him on the couch. “You’re such a big fucking man-child!” He scoffs at my words, locking our right hands together too.
“Being friends with you is so-" I kick his thigh. “Exhausting!”
His whole face scrunches in pain and he brings a hand to stop my leg by my ankle. While he’s distracted, I seize the chance to throw myself at him, making him fall backwards on the couch. He doesn’t let up.
"None of my friends have a problem with me-"
He lifts himself—and me—up and flips so that I’m under him. Fuck, I underestimated his strength. My hands start to give way as I look for an opportunity to chicken out, but he makes sure I don’t fall out of his grasp.
His nose scrunches as he yells. “Because none of them are as nearly as clingy as you!” Kenma’s close enough for the blonde tips of his hair to brush my cheeks, for his scowling expression to be all I see.
His hands are still intertwined with mine—pressed against the couch on either side of my head. He's in between my parted legs, leaning over me all breathless and frustrated, and-
I watch as Kenma’s face goes from angry to confused to mortified. He freezes, eyes wide.
When I try to get out from under him (since this entire situation is making me think things I definitely shouldn’t), he doesn’t let go of me.
“…Kenma?”
My voice wakes him up, and he backs himself all the way to the other arm of the couch.
A raging blush has spread from his cheeks to his ears and neck. He’s breathing way too hard for a tussle that barely lasted a minute. And also…
He pulled a blanket over himself. His lower, self.
“Oh.” I look at him, then the cover, then back at him.
I gently tug on it, but he doesn’t let me take it off.
Oh.
It all clicks.
Why he’s been so standoffish, why he’s been avoiding my eyes, why he’s been so awkward around me!
He covers himself as much as he can, and turns away. You’d almost think he put himself in timeout, with how horrible his posture is.
I stop him from getting up by pulling on his arm.
“Wait, you can’t leave—you’re…” I clear my throat. “You know.”
I get to see his expression, but it’s not of much help since he looks like his soul left his body.
“At least deal with it before you go, I don’t think you want anyone on campus to see you walking around with that.”
“…Don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Dealing with it! It’s not something I can cast a spell on!—I’d have to...to..." He can’t seem to finish.
“What if I did it for you?”
He looks at me like I’ve grown a third head.
His nervous, shaky breaths send chills up my spine. Can he really not tell how bad I have it for him?
Before I can stop myself, I’m leaning in to kiss him. It takes only a moment for him to kiss back.
I pull myself away.
Our eyes shake in mutual surprise. He’s surprised I kissed him. I’m surprised he kissed back.
I lean in again. This time, I notice that his lips are slightly chapped. But his hair, in which I slip my fingers in, is soft. His hands hold onto my waist for dear life while I kiss him silly.
A thin string of saliva connects our lips when we part. That’s the moment I know we’re screwed. Kenma has a look I’ve never seen him wear, but I know what it means.
I know what he wants, and I want the exact same thing.
ଳ
Kenma’s laid down on the couch, barely hanging onto reality with me on his lap.
“Mmh—fuck…” His hands grip my bare thighs as he watches me take his dick out his boxers. He’s so slick, it’s almost worrying. But I keep my mouth shut cause I know I’m in the same boat.
He grabs my wrist when I try to stroke him.
“I’m not…going to last if you…" He chokes on a whine when I tighten my grip and stroke him anyway. “Did you not hear me!?”
I snicker. Might as well get my fun in now, because I have no idea how that’s going to fit. Kenma’s one step ahead of me, having slid the bridge of my panties to the side.
"Someone's…eager." I mumble.
I lift my hips up, and he rubs his tip along my vulva before slotting it against me. His quiet whimpers encourage me to take more of him—but I shouldn’t have believed them. They’re evil.
“Kenma—Kenma, I can't..." I press my eyes shut as he gently pushes me down.
"It's...almost over, just a little bit more..." He mumbles, watching how he sinks into me with attentive eyes. He’s right—I’m back to sitting in his lap a few seconds later. Except he’s twitching inside me.
When his hands find my hips, I’m riding him before I know it. I press my hands flat on his chest and hump so many sweet sounds out of his wet lips. I join in when his thumb finds my clit.
It’s so, so hard to keep quiet, but I do a far better job than Kenma, who’s a mess beneath me. So he reaches for my nape and pulls me down to kiss him, so I can’t bite my lip.
“Fuck—you’re evil.” I cry when he starts thrusting upwards, my insides turning into mush.
Most of them hit the front—pressing on my bladder, but every so often the curve of his dick straightens out, and my cervix faces the brunt of his hips.
His free hand pulls up the back of my right knee, and the reason is lost to me until I see him hypnotized by the spot where his dick slides in. I can’t help the way I clench, and seeing his face only makes me do it again.
"Ngh—keep...keep doing that—please, I'm—haah—"
I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. His pathetic sounds right next to my ear are enough, let alone the ones of his cock slapping just beneath us, or the shocks of pleasure that shoot up my body at every squeeze of my throbbing clit.
It’s getting so good until I hear his voice tremble too much—and if my instincts know anything, it's that he’s close.
“Please don’t cum just yet…just hold it in, I’m almost—“
He starts snapping his hips so fast that it hurts—but then he slows. The feeling of warmth spilling inside me brings me over the edge, my muscles slackening at the waves of pleasure.
I heave for air and push myself up, cringing at the feeling of his cum dripping from my pussy.
Then I look at his face. He’s out like a light; mouth parted, eyes rolled back. Yet his hold on me doesn’t falter. I try and try, but can’t seem to get off.
“Wait...” he mumbles. He’s awake?
“We’re—ha—not done yet."
a/n ଳ I hope it lived up to your expectationssss! Like always, please feel free to comment, I appreciate them very much! Btw, my requests are open, so…👀
synopsis ଳ kenma thinks of you late at night, and gets a bit adventurous with his body.
content ଳ virgin!kenma jerking off to you (a lot of yapping before we get there, but we do get there!), fem!reader.
word count ଳ ~1.4K
Ever since his parents got him his Nintendo as a kid, Kenma had been on a strict nightly routine.
Play until sunrise and make up the lost sleep during classes.
This was the norm for most of his peers. Until about 15, when they’d all added jerking off to the schedule. And since his presence was about as noticeable as a fly on the wall, he’d overheard every single story there is.
It was gross. Those guys did it in the school bathrooms, at their friend’s places—even in class. Back when he was in highschool, some ballsy ones would hide magazines in their desks and have their friends come see.
He wasn’t a prude by any means—Kuroo was his best friend, for god’s sake—but he…he’s never gotten the hype, to put it bluntly. He’s never felt horny or anything that would make a normal guy want to go to town with himself.
He’s never even liked a girl before, and he knows he doesn’t like guys. He doesn’t like anyone, except for Shouyo. Kuroo, too, on a good day.
But then…he met you. You met him, more like. He knew nobody in any of his college courses, and he was as happy as could be. He‘d finally be able to play his games and slack off homework without Kuroo on his ass.
Peace, quiet, and games. All he’s ever wanted.
But then you sat beside him—and this is crazy to say, but you were louder than Bokuto and Kuroo combined. He really wanted to kill himself.
Your friends would swarm around your connected desks, you’d never stop chatting him up, and worst of all, you were touchy. A crazy amount of it.
You’d touch his hair without warning, poke his cheek to get his attention and sing-song his name in the hallway as some sort of warning before jumping on him.
It got bearable when he learned you liked the same games he did. And when you helped him beat a hard boss, his dislike turned into neutrality.
He tolerated you. But you still made him uncomfortable.
You’d respect his space when he told you to stop, though he’d feel awkward right after. It just felt wrong. It was like a necessary evil that made you, you.
So he resigned and let you go ham on him. Expected it. Used it to measure your mood, even.
…He’s not sure he likes you. But he knows he doesn’t not like you. You’re the closest to like he’s ever had.
Kenma groans and lazily throws his head to the left. 2:43 AM. Why’s he even thinking about all this anyway?
His heavy eyes stay glued to the ceiling, his alarm casting a faint blue glow. Then purple, then pink, then red.
The red glow reminds him of the first and only time he tried. Tried to…uh. You know. Fit in.
It was a few years back, and he was lying on his back, facing the ceiling just like now. He only even entertained the idea when he overheard a guy say it was the best feeling in the world.
Kenma didn’t believe him, naturally, since he was pretty sure nothing felt better than getting a new game—a free one (bought by Kuroo)—but it’s not like he had any say. He’d never tried it.
Worst experience of his life. He couldn’t even get it up, so it was just flopping around aimlessly.
And he tried. He really tried, and that’s what was most embarrassing. He thought of boobs, and butts, and whatever explicit thing that should’ve gotten him the tiniest bit horny. Nope. Somehow got him even more flaccid.
He’s 19 now. And if he tried, the same thing would happen. Definitely. But…
No.
Kenma’s cheeks start to get warmer, and he reaches for his Nintendo.
Shit, it wasn’t charging.
The idea crosses his mind again, causing his blush to creep down his neck.
He reaches for his phone, but that’s not charged either, and he considers jumping out of his window for a moment. All to get him to stop thinking about it.
About jerking off to you, instead of to the faceless bodies he imagined years ago.
It wouldn’t work. Is his first thought.
Why do I even want it to work!? His second.
He doesn’t want to jerk off, you’ve got it wrong. He’s just having intrusive thoughts. Very intrusive ones.
He doesn’t even have anything as jerk off material—you don’t wear revealing clothes, and don’t get yourself in compromising positions. Those two are pretty much what make up the few mags he’s seen.
But he then remembers all the small instances in which his mouth went dry.
The first is the time you held his arm and your low cut top gave him a nice view. Then when you leaned over to pick up a pencil and he caught a glimpse of your lacy pink underwear.
When you wore stockings one day and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the way that they squeezed your thighs. When you were looking over his shoulder, and made him jump from your soft voice whispering his name.
He was wrong. It worked.
Kenma’s stomach drops at the odd, intrusive feeling of warmth and tension in his groin. He closes his eyes shut and he stays as still as a statue. Funnily enough, he thinks about boobs and butts—the ones he once tried to get off on—but ends up thinking about your body, and makes it worse.
A cold sweat beads up on his forehead as he opens his eyes and looks down. When he sees it through the sheets, that’s when it really hits. He’s hard. He’s actually hard—and it’s because of you. You!
Something must be wrong with him.
I’m not dealing with it, he decides, but his mind can’t stop drifting to you. About how soft your thighs probably would feel, how nicely his hands could cup them…
A deep pressure hits him in his lower belly, and the tension turns almost painful. Sweat now drips down his forehead. Fuck.
He sits up, and tries not to think about how wrong it is when he eventually lets his right hand venture beneath the sheets. His boxers are damp. His lower belly churns.
It gets hard to breathe when his hands go further. When they go underneath his boxers, to hold himself. Lewd is an understatement. He’s warm and slick, and it’s gross, but he doesn’t want to stop. God he doesn’t want to stop.
His breath catches when he gives himself a little stroke. His eyebrows furrow. His mind races with thoughts you. Reality mixes with fantasy.
Maybe you both find an empty classroom and you sit on a desk. He stands before you, hands gripping your thighs while you kiss his neck. You leave hickey after hickey and remind him to keep quiet.
Or you’re in his room. You have nothing on except for a shirt and those pink lace panties. You think it’s funny to climb on his lap while he’s gaming. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and you barely pay attention to him while you scroll on your phone. One of his hands rests on your thigh, and the other traces the rim of the pink fabric. He gently rocks you against him, watching how you rub against the bulge in his boxers.
Yeah. He likes that one.
An ugly, whiny groan escapes him this time, and he’s panting desperately loud—like he’s ran a lap around the college campus. He wonders if you would catch on…If you’d pull his boxers down just enough so that all you needed to do was push the bridge of your panties to the side.
And you’d use him, you’d use him to get off and he knows it would feel heavenly. His grip gets painfully tights and he whines.
Not yet—hold it, Kenma. Is what you’d say to him, but he can’t. He strokes from his flushed tip to his base, up and down. Again..and again.
“Mmn..ah..” He pants, his thighs tensing. It’s barely been half a minute but he’s so, so close. “Haah..ha-”
The pressure moves from his stomach and gets a bit lighter, a bit ticklish when it gets all the way to his tip. With his mouth agape and his breath hitched, he cums on himself and his sheets.
He’s still catching his breath, chest heaving—reeling—before collapsing on his pillow, having passed out.
a/n ଳ sooooo? how was my debut? :D Icl, I’m really happy with myself on this one! If you have something to say because you loved it so much (teehee) PLEASE don’t hesitate, it would make my day :3
Goes without being said, but don’t post my work elsewhere without my consent! See you next time!
—⊹ this work was originally commissioned and given consent to be shared (personal details about the commissioner had been edited out)
MDNI 🔞 You accepted to help Rafayel with his bad mood tonight, accompanying him to the networking event. You never said how you'll help, though. And no one said anything about making it to the venue, either...
The silk of your dress keeps catching on the leather seat every time you shift, and you’ve shifted about eleven times in the last four minutes because Rafayel’s been counting out loud, and the twelfth time your thigh peels away from the red leather with a sound that makes your face warm, he holds up a finger without even glancing at you.
“Twelve,” he announces, his wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel while the coastal city lights blur into long golden streaks against the windshield. His voice is light and almost bored, but the corner of his mouth is doing that thing where it curves up on one side, the side closest to you, and he knows you can see it.
You tug the hem of your dress down and cross your legs in the other direction, the seatbelt pulling taut against your chest. He’d picked this dress. Showed up at your apartment an hour ago with a garment bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all, like it wasn’t a custom piece he’d had made for you with a neckline that dips low enough to make every breath feel dangerous and a slit that rides dangerously high on your left thigh.
The fabric is this deep midnight blue that he swore matches the exact shade of the ocean at dusk, and you’d rolled your eyes at him until he pinned you against the hallway wall and whispered that he’d sketched the design during a meeting Thomas made him attend, that he’d been thinking about the way this shade of blue would pool around your collarbones while someone was talking to him about profit margins. You’d shoved him away and told him to wait in the living room. He’d gone with a grin that looked like it tasted of something victorious.
He looks devastating tonight and you keep trying not to notice but the car is too small for that kind of restraint. The red ambient lighting keeps catching the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, the beauty marks that dot his fair skin like constellations you’ve long since memorized with your mouth.
His hair is swept back from his face, the usual soft waves of purple tamed into something more intentionally handsome, and the black silk shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned one button too many, exposing the smooth column of his throat and the faintest inch of collarbone where a thin silver chain catches the light every time he turns the wheel.
His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, exposing the lean muscle there, the tendons that flex when he shifts gears, and you remember very specifically how those forearms look when they’re braced on either side of your head so you look away and press your thighs together under the dress.
He’s been sulking since Thomas called. You know just how irritated he is tonight because Rafayel never likes being pestered about attending these events but even by his own dramatic standards he’s been more fussy than usual, had spent ten full minutes sprawled across your couch with his head in your lap complaining about networking events and collectors who don’t understand art trying to talk to him about art, and people who smile with too many teeth, and Thomas’s inability to comprehend that creative genius cannot be scheduled. The whole performance ended with him catching your wrist and pulling you down onto his chest, his lips brushing the shell of your ear when he mumbled that he’d only survive the evening if you came with him.
So here you are. In his ridiculous red sports car that hugs every curve of the coastal road, the engine purring low and constant beneath you, his cologne filling the small space with something warm and oceanic that keeps settling at the base of your skull.
You know exactly how to ease that tension away, how to make those beautiful brows unknit the frown sitting between them, how to coax that tight jaw loose. You’ve been thinking about it since he walked into your apartment looking like something that ruins lives, since you watched him lean against your kitchen counter and eat a strawberry while maintaining eye contact, knowing exactly what he looks like with berry juice on his bottom lip. So you smile to yourself, private and slow, and shift in your seat one more time just to hear him count it.
“Thirteen.” he still isn’t looking at you.
“How long until we arrive at the venue?” you ask, turning your head just enough to watch the way his profile catches the passing streetlights, the way the shadows fill the hollow of his throat where you want to put your mouth.
His fingers drum against the steering wheel, an uneven pattern, restless. “About twenty minutes.” he tilts his head the slightest fraction, his eyes flicking toward you and then back to the road, the lashes catching the light. “Why?”
“Nothing.” you let one second pass, settling deeper into the seat, letting your palm trail down your own thigh in a gesture that might be absent if he weren’t tracking it with his peripheral vision. You feel him tracking it. “Just curious.” you let the silence sit between you for exactly three seconds. “Can you make it half an hour?”
His chin dips, his thumb pauses mid-tap, and that muscle in his jaw, the one that always gives him away, flexes once. He doesn’t turn to look at you but you watch the way his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the way his grip adjusts on the steering wheel, fingers curling and uncurling.
“Tsk.” the sound is soft, almost musical, a little click of his tongue that he weaponizes the way other people weaponize compliments. “What are you plotting, cutie?”
You uncross your legs slowly, letting the slit of the dress fall open to expose the full line of your thigh, and angle your body toward him. Your knee nearly brushes the gearshift. You watch his nostrils flare softly.
“Seeing as you don’t actually wanna attend this event,” you start, keeping your voice light and conversational, “and also that you seem extra irritated tonight...”
His knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“I thought I’d help.”
The words hang in the air between you and you can practically feel the temperature in the car change (or is it your own body heating up in anticipation?), can feel the way his attention sharpens even though he’s still staring at the road, can feel the precise moment his brain catches up to the implication because his breath changes, shortens by a fraction, and the drumming on the wheel stops entirely.
“Help?” he repeats, and the word comes out lower than he probably intended, a little rougher and not all that casual. You catch the way he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the silver chain at his throat, and the sight of it sends a pulse of warmth through your lower stomach. Such a beautiful neck, yours too kiss. You can’t wait to stain it with your lipstick.
You reach over and rest your hand on his thigh, just above the knee. Fingers light, palm warm through the expensive fabric of his trousers. You feel the muscle jump beneath your touch, an involuntary twitch that he can’t hide no matter how carefully he arranges his expression, and the way his body answers you before his mouth can, makes you hot all over.
“Yeah, y’know...” you let your hand slide an inch higher, thumb tracing a slow circle along his inner thigh, your voice dropping into something softer, “Give you a helping hand...” your fingers follow the inseam of his trousers upward, featherlight, barely there. “...Or a mouth.”
The car swerves.
Not much, just enough that his knuckles go bone-white on the steering wheel before he corrects, just enough that the tires hum across the road, and the sound that leaves him is somewhat of a mix of a laugh and a groan, this low punched-out thing that catches in his throat and makes heat crawl up the back of your neck and settle between your thighs.
Rafayel makes the best sounds.
“Oh, cutie.” he laughs, but the sound is ragged and breathless, and when he glances at you his pupils have swallowed up the pink until his eyes are nearly all blue. His tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and he shakes his head, but his thigh pushes up against your palm. “Just say you wanna fuck me in my car. You don’t gotta dress it up all sweet and helpful like you’re doing me some kinda favor.”
His gaze drops to where your hand rests on his thigh and then drags back up to your face, slow and knowing. “I could see you squirming in your seat ever since we left Whitesand Bay. Pressing those pretty thighs together every time I shifted gears, thinking I wouldn’t notice that. Baby, I notice everything you do.”
Your cheeks burn. The audacity of him calling you out so bluntly while his thigh is tensing under your hand, while his chest is rising and falling just a little too fast beneath that silk shirt, while there’s a visible strain beginning to press against the front of his trousers that he hasn’t even tried to adjust.
“Well...” you press your palm flat against his inner thigh, letting him feel the full warmth of your hand, and drag it very slowly higher until your fingers graze the line of his belt. You feel the muscles of his stomach contract above your reach. “We never fucked in your car, so...”
The sentence hangs unfinished, half-whispered, and you watch it land on him like a blow, watch the way his lips part and his breath catches through his nose and his hips rock forward just a little, pressing against the seatbelt, an unconscious movement that pushes his thigh harder into your hand. You know he wants you to touch him, but he ain’t letting go off that pride yet.
The cat still wants to play with the mouse first, before the mouse gets eaten whole.
“Nah, we haven’t, have we?” he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into something darker and thicker, a register that always makes the fine hairs on your arms stand up because it means something hungrier is surfacing. “But I’ve thought about it. Thought about it a lot, actually. You in this passenger seat with your legs on the dash, you in the back seat with those pretty thighs around my hips...” he trails off, chewing the inside of his cheek, and his free hand drops from the steering wheel to cover yours on his thigh, pressing it down harder. “Didn’t think you had the nerve, though. You’re always so proper in public. My responsible little hunter.”
You lean closer, close enough that your lips nearly brush his ear, and you feel the full body shiver that rolls through him when your breath ghosts across his neck. His neck has always been sensitive, so you take advantage of that.
“I’m not technically in public right now,” you whisper, and your fingers curl against the bulge straining his trousers, a firm press that makes his hips jolt and a sharp hiss escape between his teeth.
“Fuck...” his head tips back against the headrest for half a second before his eyes snap open, remembering the road, his jaw clenching so hard you can see the tendons strain in his neck. “You’re gonna... okay. Okay.” he exhales hard through his nose and adjusts his grip on the wheel, his knuckles the color of bone. “You sure you wanna start something you gotta finish in a moving vehicle, cutie? ‘Cause I’m not the one who’s gonna have to explain to Thomas why we’re late.”
You puff out a little giggle, a cheshire smile painting your face as you move to unbuckle your seatbelt. His eyes snap to you, to the road, to you again. His throat works. “What are you...”
But you’re already leaning over the center console, the leather creaking under your shifted weight, your hand sliding from his thigh to the metal of his belt buckle, and the sound he makes when your fingers find it is this low, punched-out breath that he tries to cover with a cough and fails entirely.
His hips lift off the seat just enough for you to work the belt open and pop the button of his trousers with ease. You’ve undone it a hundred times in a hundred different rooms, and that thought makes you hot all over.
The zipper is loud. Everything is loud now, amplified by the small cabin of the car. The rustle of fabric and the pant of his breathing and the wet click of his mouth parting and the dull steady roar of the engine beneath you.
You pull him free and wrap your hand around him, and the weight of his cock in your palm is hot and hard and familiar, already straining, already thick with blood. The groan that tears from his throat is guttural and loud, filling the car like sweet music.
“Oh fuck, okay.” his hand leaves the wheel and grips the headrest behind him, fingers digging into the leather, before he realizes he needs both hands to drive and grabs the wheel again with a shaky exhale. “You really just... you just went for it, huh. No warm-up, no buildup, just straight to... fuck, your hands are so warm.”
You stroke him slow, base to tip, tightening your grip at the head the way you know makes his brain stutter, and his hips push up off the seat to try and press into your fist, the muscles of his thighs quivering beneath the fabric of his pants.
“You’re so hard already,” you murmur against his thigh, pressing your lips to the fabric, and the sound he makes is embarrassingly close to a whimper, high and thin and bitten off.
“Yeah, well, you wore that dress,” he grits out, his voice shaking, “and you’ve been crossing and uncrossing your legs for twenty minutes and you smell like... you smell so fucking good, I’ve been half hard since you got in the car, sue me.”
You lower your mouth to him.
The first contact, just your lips, soft and barely parted against the head, makes his whole body jolt like he’s been electrified. His foot stutters on the gas and the car lurches before he catches it, a strangled curse leaving him. You take just the tip at first, your tongue flat and hot against the sensitive underside, tracing the vein there, tasting salt and clean skin and the faint musk of his arousal that settles heavy on the back of your tongue. You’re high on this scent, and it never fails to get you wetter.
“Fuck...” his voice cracks, breaks open. “You’re gonna make me crash, cutie...”
His free hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pushing you down more on his cock, desperate to have the warmth of your mouth envelop him. You feel his pulse hammering in the thick vein pressed against your tongue, feel the twitch of his cock against the roof of your mouth when you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks.
You pull off slowly, letting him feel the drag of your lips, and press your mouth to the inside of his thigh through his trousers, your breath ghosting hot across the damp fabric. You look up at him through your lashes and his jaw is clenched so hard you can see every tendon in his neck straining, a deep flush spreading from the open collar of his shirt up his throat and across his ears, his pupils blown wide and glassy.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Raf.” you let your lips brush his tip while you speak, just barely, just to watch his stomach clench violently beneath the shirt. “That is, if you want my pretty mouth to continue working...”
“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing, huh?” his fingers tighten in your hair, but this time not pulling or pushing. His hand is just gripping, sending a pulse of wet heat between your own thighs. “You’re genuinely evil and I’m gonna remember this, cutie, I’m gonna remember exactly how smug you look right now and I’m gonna make you pay for it later, I promise you that.”
You just hum and take him back into your mouth, deeper this time, relaxing your throat and swallowing around him until your nose nearly presses against his stomach. He almost sobs at the instant warmth and pleasure shooting through his body, from navel to throat, small moans caressing your own skin.
“Shit...” he’s panting now, open-mouthed, his ribs expanding fast beneath the parted shirt. “You’re so damn good at this. You’re so... fuck, do that again, the thing with your... yeah, yeah that, oh my god.”
You work him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, twisting at the base, your tongue flattened and pressing hard on every upstroke, and the sounds coming from him are obscene, little broken moans and hitched breaths and whispered curses in fragments Lemurian. You feel it all, feel the vibration of his voice through his body, feel the way his thighs shake beneath your forearms, feel the way his hips keep stuttering up despite his best efforts to stay still.
The speedometer drops. You can feel the car decelerating, the hum of the engine lowering in pitch. His foot can’t seem to find the pedal and there’s something intoxicating about that, something that makes you wet and achy between your thighs, the knowledge that you’re reducing Rafayel to a broken, beautiful mess on a coastal highway with just your mouth, that his smugness and all his dominance dissolving one slow stroke at a time.
You take him deep again and swallow around him while his hand fists in your hair, finally pulling at it, a sharp involuntary tug that sends a bolt of sensation straight down your spine to your pussy. You can’t help but moan around him and the vibration of it makes his whole body shudder.
“Okay, okay, stop, stop stop stop,” he gasps, and his hand on your head pushes gently this time, trembling, easing you off. “I’m gonna... I can’t... you gotta stop or I’m either gonna cum down your throat or crash this car and right now both of those feel equally likely.”
You sit up, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His hair is falling loose across his forehead, the careful styling ruined now, and his lips are bitten red and parted, his chest heaving, his cock still wet from your mouth and hard against his stomach, and his eyes when they meet yours are wild, nearly black, desperate in a way that makes your pulse kick between your legs.
The car is already decelerating hard. The turn signal clicks rapidly and frantically as he yanks the wheel and pulls off the highway onto a side road that winds between darkened buildings near the waterfront. He kills the headlights and throws the car into park and the engine ticks in the sudden silence, loud as a heartbeat.
He turns to you and the look on his face makes the air vanish from the car. The sight before you, of Rafayel all disheveled with his cock wet from your mouth and his lips bitten, eyes almost black and starving... it only makes the throbbing of your pussy intensify. The blush burning across his collarbones and up his throat makes you bite your lower lip, too. Almost like wanting to match him.
“Get in the back seat.”
His voice has dropped into a register you rarely hear, low and commanding, which does something devastating to the throbbing between your thighs, turning it sharp and urgent and consuming. He might look more disheveled than you, but you’re just as far gone, needy and wet and wanting his hands on you. Still, you wanna play a little more.
“Please?” you tease, because you can’t help it, because even with your pulse hammering and your underwear soaked and every nerve in your body screaming at you to move, the chance to watch him lose his mind a little further is irresistible.
His hand catches your jaw roughly, his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath your ear, and he pulls you forward and kisses you with a hunger that steals the thought right out of your skull. His tongue slides against yours messily and you taste the wine he’d had at your apartment before you left, sweet and warm. His teeth catch your lower lip and he tugs a little too harshly, pulling a sound from you that you don’t recognize, and when he releases you his mouth hovers close enough that his breath ghosts across your wet lips, making you moan softly. Needy for more.
“I said,” he murmurs, and his thumb traces along your jaw, down the line of your throat, and catches in the neckline of your dress, “get in the fucking back seat.”
He pulls hard, so hard that the silk rips instantly. The sound is sharp and expensive and it shoots through you like something electric, your gasp swallowed by the small hot space between your mouths. He fucking ripped the dress off you, this smug little—
“Oops.” he looks down at the torn fabric falling away from your chest, exposing the bare skin beneath, the lace of your bra where your nipples are perked, and his eyes drag slow and heavy across you with satisfaction, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “That’s a real shame. I worked hard on that design.”
“You’re replacing that,” you scold him, but your voice is breathless and thin and shaking and the words have no teeth at all.
“I’ll make you ten more.” he reaches past you and pulls the seat lever and the passenger seat slides back, giving you clearance to climb between the front seats. “Go.”
You climb into the back gracelessly, your knee catching on the center console, your elbow bumping the seat, and you can feel his eyes on you the entire time, how they shamelessly linger on the curve of your spine through the torn dress, on the backs of your thighs as you settle into the red leather of the backseat.
He follows. Of course he’s more graceful about it, unfolding his long frame through the gap with an ease that shouldn’t be possible in a sports car, and he settles against the door with his legs spread, his trousers open, his shirt hanging off one shoulder where you’d apparently pulled it at some point without realizing. The red leather cradles him like it was designed for this exact moment and he looks up at you through those lashes with the laziest, most devastatingly smug expression you’ve ever seen on another person’s face, his cock hard and flushed against the dark fabric of his trousers, still wet from your mouth and leaking.
“C’mon, baby.” he pats his thigh twice, the sound sharp in the quiet car, while his tone is so smug and so sexy you want to kiss him stupid for it, “You wanted this so bad you couldn’t even let me drive twenty minutes without getting your mouth on me. So show me, yeah? Show me how bad you want it.”
You straddle him and his hands find your hips immediately, fingers pressing hard into the flesh through the thin fabric, yanking you down against him. The contact, the thick hard length of him pressed right against you through the soaked lace of your underwear, makes you both groan at the same time, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.
“Goddammit, you’re soaked.” his fingers slip between your thighs from behind, pressing against the wet fabric, followed by his breath punching out of him hot against your skin. “You’re this wet already, baby? From sucking me off? That really does it for you, doesn’t it, cutie?”
He pulls the lace aside and drags two fingers through the slick heat of you, slow and exploratory, spreading the wetness up and around your clit and then back down, and the moan that falls from your mouth is high and involuntary and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh at the sound. “That’s so fucking hot. You have no idea how hot that is.”
“Raf, baby...” you breathe, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips rolling down against his hand, chasing the pressure and the pleasure you know they’ll bring you if only he’ll give it to you.
“Mm-mm, not yet.” he pulls his glistening fingers away, and the loss of contact makes you whimper, a sound you would be embarrassed about if you could think clearly, which you cannot. He holds those two slick fingers up between you, examining them in the low red light of the car like they’re something fascinating, something worthy of study, and then brings them to his mouth and licks them clean with a slow and so damn sensual drag of his tongue. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Been wanting to taste you all night. Ever since you walked out of your bedroom in this dress looking like something I’d paint and never sell... I only thought about tasting you, before and after I fuck you dumb, of course.”
Your pussy clenches at the filthy things he says, leaking in his lap over the expensive pants he wears. But you don’t care and neither does he. In fact, he revels in it like a cat in the sunlight, smirking up at you and cupping your bare ass, squeezing tight. Nibbling at your jaw, his tongue traces over and down your neck, hot and wet and prompting your thighs to clamp harder around his torso.
“My mind was filled with all the opportunities I’ll get to spread you on my fingers and my cock tonight. To be completely honest with you, cutie, I thought you’d at least keep your hands to yourself until we arrived at the venue, and then drag me into a corner or something.” The image he’s painting is downright filthy, and your mind can’t help but go berserk with every little sweet-nothing he says, picturing him fucking you in a secluded corner of the venue, fill you with his cock in the restroom, fuck you on his fingers somewhere under a table. “But nah, you wanted to run your pretty mouth all over my cock in my car first, such a naughty little girlfriend I have.”
You grab the collar of his ruined shirt and crush your mouth against his, tasting yourself on his tongue, salt and musk. That’s all he needs to smirk into the kiss, his tongue insistent as it slides into your mouth, dancing with your desperate one.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear and pull hard, the elastic giving with a snap that stings your hip and makes you gasp in both pain and pleasure, leaking even more down your thighs.
“You keep ripping my clothes,” you hiss against his mouth. You love it, though. So much in fact that you wish he’d do it more often. But he doesn’t need to hear that now, doesn’t need more ammunition to be such a smug little prick.
“Keep wearing things I wanna rip,” he murmurs back, tossing the ruined lace somewhere into the front seat without looking, his hands returning to your bare hips, thumbs digging into the hollows where your thighs meet your pelvis, holding you open above him. “Now, c’mon. I wanna watch you take me.”
You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, his abs clenching beneath the parted silk. You position him against you, the head of his cock pressing hot and blunt against your squeezing hole, and you just hold it there, letting him feel the wet heat of you without sinking down. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and then his palm goes flat and fast against your thigh. Smack. His slap is not by any means rough, but it makes you moan instantly, clenching around the tip of his cock.
“Don’t tease me right now,” he grits out, and for the first time tonight his voice isn’t playful or smug or teasing. No. It’s raw, almost pleading, but even like that you know you’re in trouble if you keep teasing him. “I swear to god, don’t...”
You sink onto him.
Slow. Inch by inch. Letting yourself feel every stretch, every thick hot inch of him filling you, the burn of it mixing with the slick glide until he’s fully seated and your thighs are flush against his hips and the moan that falls from your mouth is long and shaking and comes from somewhere deep in your chest. He fills you up so good, every damn time.
“Oh fuuuck...” his head drops back against the window with a thud, his eyes rolling closed, his mouth falling open around a sound that isn’t quite a word, this broken guttural thing that reverberates through the car and through your ribs. “Fuck, you feel... you always feel so fucking good, how do you always feel this good...”
You plant your hands on his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin silk, and roll your hips in a slow deep grind that makes his stomach contract and his fingers spasm on your hips. The friction pulls a moan from him that sounds almost pained, making you clench again.
“That’s it.” his eyes open, dark and glittering, and he licks his lips and settles deeper into the seat effortlessly, making your stomach drop. His hands lift from your hips. He reaches up, laces his fingers behind his head, and leans back against the window. The posture is infuriatingly casual, obscenely relaxed, his shirt hanging open, his abs tensed beneath, his cock buried inside you, and the look on his face is the most insufferable thing you’ve ever witnessed. “Go ahead, baby. Do all the work. You’re the one who dragged me off the road for this. You’re the one who couldn’t wait twenty minutes for my cock.”
You still in his lap, your thighs burning from the stiff position, your breath caught between your ribs, the fullness of him inside you making it nearly impossible to form coherent thoughts. “You’re fucking unbelievable... Are you serious?!”
“Tsk, ‘course I’m serious.” he rolls his hips up, one single lazy thrust that grinds deep and hits that spot inside you that makes white light burst behind your eyes, and then stops completely. His smile curls slow and devastating and dripping with satisfaction. “I’m just giving you what you wanted, cutie. Full access. Use me. You’ve been thinking about riding me in this car since we left Whitesand Bay, right? I could see it in your face. Those big pretty eyes kept drifting to my lap every time I shifted gears.” he drops his voice lower, a conspiratorial murmur. “So stop stalling and fuck me like you’ve been fantasizing about.”
The challenge in his voice ignites something in you, something competitive and desperate and burning to prove him you can do all the work, and reduce him to ashes in the process. You lift your hips until only the tip of him remains inside you and then drop back down hard, the slap of skin against leather making a choked moan punch out of his chest, his fingers unclasping from behind his head to grip the seat.
“Fuck, just like that,” he groans, his jaw clenched now, his flush deepening across his chest and throat while his cock pulses and twitches inside you. “Don’t stop, keep going, just like...”
You set a rhythm that makes his spine arch off the seat, rolling your hips on every downstroke, grinding your clit against his pelvis... The friction is maddening on both ends, building a tight hot coil low in your belly that winds tighter with every thrust up and down. The wet sound of your bodies meeting fills the small space, obscene and rhythmic, punctuated by his broken moans and your sharp gasping breaths and your sloppy mouths devouring each other.
“Faster,” he grits out, and the command is undermined by the way his voice breaks on the second syllable, by the way his hands have found your hips again and are gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints, by the desperate clench of his abs as he fights not to thrust up into you.
You slow down instead. A long grind that makes his cock drag against every nerve inside you and you bite your lip against the sound it pulls from your throat, keeping your pace torturously measured.
“Ask nicely,” you taunt, circling your hips, and the look on his face is something you want to photograph and frame, devastation and disbelief and agonized arousal all tangled together.
“You...” his head drops forward against your sternum, his forehead hot and damp against your skin, a strangled sound muffled against the valley of your breasts. “You’re really gonna make me beg, yeah? In my own car?”
“I might.” you clench around his cock, making his whole body shake at the tightness, his moan vibrating against your right nipple.
“Please...” the word is barely a whisper, bitten off and reluctant and so unlike him that it sends a rush of heat through you so intense your vision blurs. “Please, baby, move faster, I need you to...”
You reward him by lifting your hips and slamming back down, hard and fast, and the sound he makes against your skin is close to a sob, his hips surging up to meet yours, the impact jolting through both of you. It doesn’t matter who has the upper hand now, not when yout bodies collapse together into something messier and more desperate, his hips snapping up to meet you with a forcefulness that rocks the entire car on its suspension, your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling the purple waves loose until they’re damp and clinging to his forehead.
The windows are completely fogged. The leather squeaks beneath your knees with every thrust and his hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs until they leave marks, cupping your breasts through the torn dress, dragging his nails down your spine hard enough to make you arch and cry out. His mouth is on your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast above the lace, biting and licking and sucking marks into your skin that you’ll have to cover tomorrow and not caring, neither of you caring.
“Wanna feel you cum,” he pants against your neck, his hand sliding between your bodies, enough for his thumb to flick at your aching nub, make your thighs shake so hard and the coil in your belly wind so tight it hurts. You really, really wanna cum, too. “C’mon, baby, let me feel it, wanna feel you squeeze around me... You’re so fucking tight, you’re so close, I can feel it...”
“Raf, I...” your voice breaks, nails digging into his shoulders until he hisses.
“I know.” his thumb presses harder, faster, his hips driving up into you in short sharp thrusts that hit so deep your vision whites out. “C’mon baby, won’t you cum for me? You said you wanted to help, so help me, yeah? Soak me..."
Who are you to refuse his syrupy words? You clench down around him in syncopated pulses as the orgasm rushes through you from the tip of your skull down to your toes where they curl. Mouth agape, you tip your head back as you keep riding your orgasm, tightening around his throbbing cock over and over again until he’s a moaning mess, too.
A cry rips from your throat when his palm slaps hard on your ass cheek, and he catches with his mouth, swallowing every broken sound as you clench and pulse around him, your thighs shaking and your fingers going numb in his hair. He fucks you through it, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking, and then his own release hits him with a full body shudder that you feel through the sound he makes against your lips.
The only sound is your breathing, ragged and tangled together, his chest heaving against yours, your heartbeats hammering in counterpoint.
You collapse against him, boneless, your face pressing into the crook of his neck where he smells like sweat and sex, so hypnotizing you can only nuzzle into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
His fingers trace slow aimless patterns on your bare back, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath your cheek.
“We’re gonna be so late,” you mumble against his throat.
He turns his head and presses his lips to your temple, lingering there for a bit, breathing you in. You feel the curve of his smile against your skin, warm and satisfied and private, prompting a smile of your own against his neck.
“Gonna tell Thomas we hit traffic.”
You lift your head and look at him, his hair destroyed, his shirt hanging open and half off his shoulder, his lips swollen and red, his neck blooming with marks you don’t remember leaving, and his expression is the most self-satisfied thing you’ve ever witnessed on a living creature, that Rafayel signature grin that sits somewhere between angelic and absolutely insufferable. Which he kinda is right now, if you’re being honest with yourself.
“Raf. My dress is ripped in half and you tore my underwear.”
He blinks slowly and looks down at the ruined fabric pooling around your waist like he’s only just noticed. His lips purse. The absence of remorse on his face is extraordinary.
“Hmm.” he reaches past you to the front seat, fishing his jacket off the floor, and drapes it around your shoulders without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls his phone from the jacket pocket and thumbs it open one-handed while his other arm tightens around your waist, keeping you settled on his lap. “Thomas? Yeah, hey. Nah, we’re not gonna make it tonight. Something came up.”
You bury your face in his shoulder to smother the laugh that shakes your whole body and he pulls you closer, his fingers threading through your ruined hair, tracing the shell of your ear while Thomas’s tinny protests echo from the speaker.
“Blame my bodyguard.” he presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips curling against yours. “She’s very, very thorough.”
He hangs up before Thomas can respond and tosses the phone into the front seat. His hand settles warm on the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the top of your spine, and when you pull back to look at him.
“Wanna stay here for a bit?” he asks, voice all soft and sultry, “The harbor’s nice at night. I could sketch you like this.”
━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with plot, porn with feelings
━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 10.4k (how?????)
━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, switch!raf (like he’s both sub and dom in this, if you don’t like that then this may not be for you), knee humping, standing sex, against the wall sex, sorta rough sex, references to rafayel’s lore (no more than what’s talked about the actual memory), dry humping, slightly aphrodisiac sex, dub con if you squint really really really hard, ejaculating in pants, panty ripping, pheromone kink, lots of teasing (calling raf a cat/kitty), cum play? kinda, nipple teasing, slight use of y/n, reader is mc, second person pov
━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: video | ao3
━ ✧.˖ A/N: the raf fic is here!! based off the 5* rafayel memory ‘your fragrance.’ the build up is realllllllly long on this one since i wanted to stay as true to the memory as possible. you can def just skip to the smut if you’d like!
i struggled to write raf a lot but enjoyed it so much like he’s so fun to write. i’m def a sub girly so i love writing dom partners, thankfully i hc raf as a switch. if you do not like fics where raf is a switch, then this may not be for you!
i can’t believe this fic ended up being 10k words too, i was thinking it would be a quick lil smut lol. i don’t even know how my zayne fic ended up being my shortest fic. enjoy my loves!
also this is dedicated to my bestie who is actually rafayel’s number one slut. follow her on x @/myusuchaa for so much good raf and other purple haired boy content. she is the master of rafayel lore, truly his wifey. a queen to us all.
THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.
✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖
You let out an exasperated sigh as your foot taps irritably against the protective painting tarp Rafayel always has laid out on the ground of his makeshift art studio, stray paint brushes strewn about. Impatiently, you waited for Rafayel to finish changing on the couch behind you, careful not to peek.
Somehow, being Rafayel’s bodyguard also made you his keeper. And Rafayel was not easy to keep. Always dragging you with him on odd trips even if you had work, pestering you at all hours of the day and night, disappearing and unable to be contacted for days on end. This particular time it was the latter; Rafayel had gone mia three days before his important collab launch party with a high end perfume brand. Now, on the night of the party, Rafayel was still unable to be reached.
Thomas had called you, in a sheer panic, as he always did when he needed help wrangling Rafayel. He knew you were the only one in this world that could level with Rafayel. And he’d never told you this before, but you were also the only one who could bend Rafayel’s unbreakable stubbornness; a perfect match for the purple-haired obstinate artist. And thus, Thomas had personally designated you as Rafayel’s keeper.
And so, you found yourself at Rafayel’s massive house, in the most extravagant evening dress you owned, hauling him off to his own damn party.
His annoyingly alluring voice cuts into the silence of the studio, "You can turn around now and give me a hand with something else.” You snap around to be met with the sight of Rafayel, irritatingly and devilishly handsome in his expensive white dress shirt and designer cardigan, leaning lazily against the sofa with the tie you’d previously used to tie his hands with, woven in between his fingers. He grins and holds it up to you expectantly, "Put this on for me.”
"Don’t you have hands?” You snap, but your feet have a mind of their own, and you’re already approaching him on the sofa.
"My hands are numb from being tied up by you for so long.” You roll your eyes, knowing he’s being dramatic. While he waits deceptively patiently for you to give in, he leisurely takes a wristwatch out of his pocket to put on, as if he’s got all the time in the world. "Clock’s ticking, keep it up and we’ll be late at this rate.”
You gape at him. The sheer audacity of this man, as if you’re the reason he’d be late. He only smirks at you, and it just infuriates you all the more. How he could so easily annoy the hell out of you and look so beautiful doing it. But you keep your mouth shut, and exasperatedly lean down to put on his tie for him, doing your best not to strangle him with it. It feels strangely intimate, and the brief reprieve finally gives you an opportunity to speak to him.
"Thomas said you have to be present for all parts of the event. There will be reporters at the entrance taking photos, and…” you rattle off, before you realize Rafayel is being uncharacteristically silent, "Are you even listening?”
You look up from the tie in your fingers to glance at Rafayel’s face. He doesn’t look the least bit interested in your words, instead his eyes are fixated on your wrist. You tap his chest to get his attention but he remains still, eyes still on your hands atop his collarbones. You curiously wave your hand in front of his face, hoping to snap him out of his trance. Fortunately you do, but unfortunately Rafayel grabs your wrist suddenly and urgently.
“...what’s the matter?” The bewilderment is unmistakable in your voice. You’re used to Rafayel’s erratic and quirky behavior, but this was alarming, even to you.
Finally his gaze breaks away from your wrist and he speaks, "I heard you talking about the event…” but just as quickly as you’d diverted his attention, it's back on your wrist. His voice is unusually clouded, deeper than usual. His eyes are back on your wrist that’s enclosed in his fingers, as a strange expression crosses his face. It almost feels as if he’s trying to hold himself back, but you’re unsure from what.
"Your hand…” he trails off, inexplicable emotions caught in his hoarse voice. He suddenly tugs you towards him by your wrist, and you stumble forward.
"Rafayel?! Wait!” As you fall forward, your feet run out of space and hit the bottom of the sofa, causing you to tumble on top of him. He catches you easily, sitting you on top of his lap while he brings your captured wrist right up to the side of his face. The awkward position forces you to settle your legs on either side of his thighs, straddling him against the designer couch. The half knotted tie comes undone and you’re left clutching the smooth material in your hands. If it weren’t for the compromising position you found you and Rafayel in, you'd be slightly disappointed at seeing your hard work unraveled.
The grip on your wrist tightens impossibly, almost possessively, "Hold still.” His command is not totally unusual; Rafayel is always demanding things of you, his precious bodyguard. But his voice comes out in a strange and sensual husk, leaving you confused, nervous, and weirdly burning. His silky smooth dress pants shuffle under you, and you’re reminded of the expensive clothes you’re pressed up against, likely worth more than a month of your hunter salary.
"Your suit! It’ll get wrinkled.”
"I don’t care…let me smell this…” he trails off, his voice sounding impossibly far away. You can feel the tickle of his inhale against your wrist and it makes you shiver, goosebumps forming under his touch.
"What is that?” He asks, mostly to himself, lost in his own little world, "It smells good. And smells familiar…”
It wasn’t at all uncommon for Rafayel to be mysterious and even enigmatic, but this was a whole other level of confusion for you, "What…what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
His behavior is starting to worry you. He’s unusually breathless, and you can see a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. The last thing you needed was him getting sick! You could already hear his needy whines in your head at the mere thought. Demanding to be taken care of and waited on. You almost want to smile at the thought of it; you act constantly annoyed with Rafayel but deep down you know you can’t live without his antics.
"No, I'm fine. Very well, in fact,” but despite his words, Rafayel sounds anything but. His voice, normally a bright and charming, albeit annoying, timbre, is now a hoarse and needy rasp. His ticklish touch on the inside of your wrist reminds you of where you got the perfume that he was so intoxicated by.
"Come to think of it...I tried an unreleased fragrance in the back office of the exhibition hall. It was made with special ingredients,” you scratch your chin with your free hand, trying your best to recall the name of it.
"Perfume? You spritzed the perfume sample on your wrist?”
You glance at him, concern and confusion written all over your face. Isn’t that what you do with perfumes? Rafayel shifts his gaze to your eyes, but his breath remains on the inside of your wrist. It’s deafeningly silent and you realize the scent of the perfume gradually grows stronger as your body temperature rises at the proximity of your body to Rafayel’s. You’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re sitting on his lap, and his face is so very close to your own.
He’s still lost in his own thoughts as he murmurs, more to himself than you, "It’s a bit bitter like fermented plants…but very fragrant.”
"It could be a mixture of artificial chemical stuff. Now, unhand me please,” you’re desperate to detach yourself from him, unsure if you can trust your body when it’s pressed so readily upon Rafayel’s own hard and sturdy stature.
"No.”
Your jaw drops at his audacity. But before you can berate him, he’s reaching his free hand to undo the buttons of his collar, as if the clothing is restricting him and making it hard to breath. His purple eyes are glazed over, and a beautiful faint blush paints his cheeks. His exposed collar and chest have you biting back your words, completely losing your train of thought. You squirm at the sight, but Rafayel’s hand on your thighs grip you in place, not letting you move a single inch.
"I could’ve sworn I've smelled this fragrance before,” he presses your hand against his cheek as he continues to slowly inhale the scent by the mouthful. It wouldn’t be completely out of the question, the unreleased scent had been developed for his artworks for the collaboration, so it’s very likely he could’ve sampled it during production.
"We can worry about it later. Let’s go. Everyone is waiting” you urge, feeling yourself blush as he shifts slightly under you, brushing against your sensitive inner thighs. You pull your hand away from his cheek, only for Rafayel to yank it back, like a child unwilling to share his favorite toy.
"Let me smell it again,” his demand is meant to be gentle, but comes out rough and urgent. You sigh, letting him melt into your hand again. It’s almost endearing; you quite like being so intimate with Rafayel.
"You know, for someone who hates cats, you sure are acting like one,” you tease, "A kitty that found some catnip to be exact.
The mere mention of cats is usually enough to set Rafayel off, pouting like a little baby that’s been teased. But instead, he just distractedly responds, "So then are you a cat? I am not a cat. And also, you’re not allowed to say that. I just couldn’t resist…”
You roll your eyes but can’t help but grin at his adorableness, tempted to just give in to his touch, savoring every moment you possibly can before the bubble bursts.
"What is this weird perfume…” he’s talking to himself again, inspecting your hand carefully. His jumbled thoughts have you worried for him again. Although Rafayel did often have energy that bordered on adhd, this was much more intense than that.
"Are you alright?” You repeat, softly. He doesn’t respond, but leans his cheek into your touch, his lips turning so they’re practically kissing your palm. Like this, he inhales the scent with his parted lips. His adam's apple bobs as he gulps, almost feverishly. His hand reaches to further loosen his collared shirt, pulling it open to let the cool air soothe his burning skin.
"It must be an allergic reaction. This isn’t perfume. How dare they use such underhanded methods to trap me…” his words both confuse and scare you. You’re growing increasingly worried about his flushed and sweaty complexion, his collarbones shining under the faint glow of the city lights through the massive windows. His words fill you with a terror you do not understand.
Rafayel holds the area between the bridge of his nose and his forehead, like his head is pounding, before returning to grip the collar of his dress shirt. His hand that holds yours is shaky as he rocks slowly underneath you, inhaling as much of the perfume as he can. His lap brushes against yours and your brain short circuits at the feeling of him pressed against you.
"H-huh?” Is the only thing you’re capable of getting out.
"Who gave you the perfume? Who sent it?” His questions are increasingly alarming you, but you do your best to keep calm. You can tell he’s nervous as well, and the sight makes your chest squeeze. Wanting to comfort him, you cup his cheek in your palm and he leans into the touch so contentedly and groaning in satisfaction. Truly like a cat.
You blushed despite yourself. It was so difficult to not be aroused in this compromising position. You’d long since had a crush on Rafayel, always craving his silly antics and theatrics. Missing him intensely when he’d disappear for days at a time.
"No one. Um, why do you look like you’re drunk?” You try to deflect from the burning between your thighs, hoping he can’t notice how hot and bothered you’ve become.
"I’m not drunk. I just don’t like the scent,” he pouts, but nuzzles your hand against his cheek like a cat getting cheek scratches. He turns his lips back into your palm, opening his mouth until you can feel his teeth graze your skin. He groans as he continues to inhale the scent, making you bite back a moan of your own at his gentle nibbles.
"Rafayel…you…” but you find yourself at a loss for words as he continues to breathe in your scent like it's the oxygen he needs to survive. Your own breaths start to come out in shallow pants, and you squirm in his lap. Rafayel moans softly into your palm, biting down gently to get you to stop.
"Are you trying to run away again?” He asks, almost painfully, his eyes piercing into yours, so intense and searching. The glassy look in them reminds you of how much you’re worried about his current well being.
"Rafayel, you don’t look so good. Shouldnt you go to the doctor?” You use the hand Rafayel isn’t gripping to take his face between your free fingers and inspect his beautiful and flushed features.
Rafayel’s breath hitches at your touch, goose flesh littering the skin where your touch singes, "I’m not going anywhere.” And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel what’s left unsaid.
And neither are you.
But he continues, dazed, "You’re gonna lock me up again…you’re with them. I just know it. Don’t think I'm unaware of what you’re about to do.” He has both your wrists in his hands now, gripping them on either side of his neck. "Y/n, I won’t fall for it again. Not this time.”
Though his words scare the shit out of you, you’re unable to concentrate on anything but his eyes that are trained on your neck, where your pulse thrums erratically in anticipation. You’re suddenly hyper aware that your heart is beating so fast you can hardly hear him anymore, despite his face being mere inches from yours. Your breath is close enough to mingle with his. It seems he notices too, because he inhales deeply and throws his head back, gasping.
It's then you realize it's not just the scent of the perfume that's setting Rafayel off, but your own scent mingled with it.
"Rafayel, snap out of it!” You beg. But Rafayel can’t seem to hear you as his cold hand grips the side of your neck, where you’d also dabbed the perfume along. Your breath catches in your throat at the icy touch, unsure of what to do.
Rafayel senses your hesitation, "Don’t worry. I’m not gonna do anything to you.” His voice is a throaty groan, and you’re honestly unsure if that’s even what you want. His body is almost on top of yours now, his breath deafening in your ear. And all you can think about is how you’d wish he’d press into you harder, until you’re suffocating, only able to breathe him in.
But you go with your better judgment, pushing him gently, putting some distance between the two of you. He glances up from your neck, eyes unfocused, and says nothing. He finds himself staring at your lips that are parted slightly to let out the short pants of breath you’re wheezing out. He leans in slowly so he can breathe in as much of you as he possibly can, just nearly closing the proximity between your lips.
Suddenly, your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your little bubble with Rafayel, "Its Thomas! He probably wants to remind us of the time. Let's head out!” You shove your phone until Rafayel’s hands, forcing him to take Thomas’s call for you.
While he’s distracted, you slip out from beneath him and bolt to the nearest bathroom. As you move your legs, you’re made acutely aware of the slick that has formed in your panties. But you focus first on furiously washing off the scent from your wrists and neck. As you scrub, you glance up at the mirror in front of you. You swear at the site of yourself, unbelievably disheveled and undeniably aroused.
As you continue to adamantly scrub, you can faintly make out Rafayel on the phone with Thomas, just outside.
"No, we’re not going to make it. I need to take care of something urgent. Don’t call again please, bye.” When you turn off the faucet, you go to lean against the wall adjacent to the sink, trying to steady yourself and collect your thoughts. You turn around and gently rest your forehead against the wall, sighing into the cool surface against your burning skin, willing the arousal between your legs to go away. You try to remind yourself of poor Thomas all alone at the exhibition right now. Your guilt is short lived as you hear the patter of Rafayel’s feet approaching the bathroom.
"Where are you going?” Rafayel’s words are right behind you, and his hand presses against the bathroom wall that your forehead rests on. You whip around and find yourself trapped between Rafayel’s hard body and the solid wall behind you. You back up instinctively, but find yourself hitting the cold surface before you even take a single step back.
"Gotcha,” Rafayel smirks softly, and you tremble at his proximity to you. His other hand grips a towel bar to your left, while his other hand leans against the wall to your right, so you’re utterly trapped against him. He’s so close, close enough that you can feel his rapid breaths fanning across your parted lips. As Rafayel’s eyes roam all over you, from your lips to your heaving chest, you feel very much like a lamb caught in a lion’s den. Except you don’t want to escape.
"Rafayel…” you murmur using both your hands to gently push against his chest, unintentionally brushing against the exposed skin below his collar, under his unbuttoned dress shirt. You’re hoping he’ll have mercy and release you, afraid that the palpable sexual tension in the air would cloud your, and Rafayel’s, judgment.
He shivers as your wet hands brush against his chest, knuckles turning white as they grip the towel bar next to you. His breath comes out in shallow pants, chest heaving up and down, with a light sheen of sweat painting his pale skin. The sight snaps you out of the moment, reminding you that Rafayel seems like he might have a fever.
"Let’s go to the hospital...I’m worried about you,” your hands shift to grip his open shirt, bringing the fabric together to cover him up. Rafayel’s hand releases the towel bar to take both of your hands into his, trapping them against his chest.
"What will it take for you to believe that I'm okay? I’m exactly where I want to be,” his gruff voice invades all your senses while his eyes burn holes through your own. He presses himself further into you, until his forearm is resting against the wall above you, only your joined hands pressed against his chest separating the two of you. He leans down, his face now impossibly close to yours, and for a second you find yourself lost in his purple and blue cosmic eyes.
You take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself to reality, and remind yourself that Rafayel’s actions are only fueled by the strange effects the perfume has on him. He’s not in his right mind, and you need to think for him.
You whisper, craning your neck up to look into his eyes, "You’re not yourself right now. Let me help you, I can take you to the doctor.”
Rafayel leans down, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, the smell of the perfume, still potent despite the scrubbing, mixed with your pheromones invading his very being. Slowly, almost like it pains him to do so, he lifts his head away from you. He releases your hands and uses that same hand that gripped them to lift your chin towards him.
"Do you know the only thing you could do that would help me?” His hooded eyes lock yours in. His voice is the soft purr you know and love, slightly tinged with a rough and carnal desire that shakes you to your core.
"Name it. I’ll do it for you.“ part of you knows that Rafayel isn’t going to ask you for anything regarding his health but you can’t stop the words from coming out of your mouth. You’re stepping into very dangerous territory and you can’t hold yourself back.
"Kiss me,” his voice is low, but the assertive demand in it is undeniable. His command makes you shift in between his legs against the wall, becoming hyper aware of how deeply your bodies pressed into each other. You know you want to, you’ve wanted to for some time now. But you can’t shake the idea that the strange effects of the perfume are clouding Rafayel’s judgment and inhibitions.
"R-Rafayel…” you stutter hesitantly. Trembling ever so slightly, you lean in to peck his flushed cheek. You watch, slightly amused, as Rafayel’s ears get even pinker.
"Why must you always make me beg?” He whines. His lips stick out in a signature Rafayel pout, one you’ve grown to absolutely adore, no matter how annoying it can be.
You can’t help but laugh breathlessly, your chin still in his grip, "I don’t make you. You just love to beg.“
With your face still in his grip, he sighs dramatically, "Then I won’t beg anymore.” He brings his face to yours and captures your lips with his. He swallows your surprised squeak, which is quickly replaced by a throaty moan of longing and anticipation. Rafayel absolutely devours your noises, his lips so commanding against your own, bending them to his every will. They’re so soft, and you can’t help but think they fit so perfectly slotted against your own.
Though you can taste the urgency on him, Rafayel takes his time with you, engraving the taste and feel of you in his mind forever. He takes it so tortuously and deliciously slow that you find yourself nibbling on his bottom lip, begging him to take you fully.
You can just feel his maddening smirk against your lips. Instead of indulging you, Rafayel laces his practiced fingers under your dress’s skirt and onto your thighs. Only when you yelp in surprise does he finally slip his tongue into your mouth, always intentionally doing things to take you by surprise.
The new sensation of your tongues on each other seems to have Rafayel equally feral, because you feel the unmistakable press of his erection into your stomach. Needing to do something with your hands, you trace the outlines of his chest muscles, enjoying the feel of them finally against your fingers.
Rafayel’s hands venture to your back, expertly undoing the zipper of your dress, and then your bra. Gasping into his open mouth as his fingers return to the pebbling skin of your nipples. He gives a harsh flick to each, and your knees buckle against the sensitivity. You sink down against the wall, lips still attached to his for dear life, but Rafayel shifts so that he catches you with his knee instead. The mid length black dress your wore rides up and serves as a sheer layer of protection between your dampening panties and his knee. The friction of his leg against your crotch is unbearable, forcing you to throw your head back in pleasure.
Your reaction only serves to spur Rafayel further, as he begins to knead his knee into your cunt slowly. Your body turns to mush at the ecstasy of his knee against your most sensitive region, but Rafayel holds you steady with his hands gripping you from the swell of your underboobs.
Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he inhales again. Unbeknownst to you, he practically comes undone at the smell of you alone, "You say I'm always whining but look at you.”
You whimper at his teasing words right against your ear, clutching the back of his neck for support as he continues to hump his knee into you.
Suddenly, Rafayel stops, letting his knee still against your increasingly damp cunt. You can’t help but whine as you look up into his amused eyes. There’s mischief in them as he grins, "I’m getting tired. You’re going to have to do the work.”
Despite your lust clouded brain, you can still think coherently enough to see through his brattiness. You narrow your eyes at him, "You’re tired? Let me take you to the hospital. I knew you weren’t feeling well.” You duck down to escape his arms that cage you in, but he only lowers them so that they now trap you at the waist instead.
"You’re so mean to me Y/N,” he huffs, "Can’t you tell how vulnerable I am right now?”
"Because of the perfume? Why does it affect you so much?” You murmur, squeezing his cheeks slightly.
From Rafayel’s expression you can tell he’s unwilling to share too much information. And as annoying as that was, you trusted him wholeheartedly and knew better than to prod him too much. You would take what you could get.
He rests his head on your shoulder, unwilling to meet your stare. Dusting your hair behind your ear, he sniffs you again, practically consuming the scent. You shiver at the slight breeze he creates at your exposed neck, "I-It’s not just the perfume. I’ve dealt with this scent before, and I've developed a tolerance to it.”
You hold his neck against your shoulder, and gently knead his damp skin, letting him inhale the smell like his life depended on it, "Then why?”
Rafayel sighs, releasing the wall behind you but instead trapping you by wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing your bodies together. You sigh in satisfaction as his erection presses warmly against you again, your pussy craving his touch
Finally he speaks, but his voice is low and almost feels dangerous, "The marine plant the perfume is extracted from…on its own no longer does anything to me. But when it’s exposed to another scent that I cannot control myself around…the reaction it causes can be extremely potent.”
The sensations of his body pressed tightly against yours makes your brain practically non-functional, so you’re not following his train of thought, so you ask dumbly, "Like the air?”
You can practically hear Rafayel rolling his eyes in his voice, "I need air to survive but do you think I can’t control myself at all times of the day?”
"Okay well I'm confused! And to be fair you do act like an idiot at all times of the day so how am I supposed to know?!” He ignores you, taking another lungfull of the scent on your skin into his body. This time, he growls through an intense shiver, his grip on your body tightening against him. As if the very smell of your skin drove him into a lust filled craze.
And that’s when you realize what he meant.
"O-oh,” is all you can squeak out. Strangely enough, the idea that your scent is what is driving Rafayel to madness makes you leak further into the puddle that had formed in your panties.
Rafayel groans again, one his fists releasing your body to gently pound into the wall behind you, "I-I can smell the arousal in your scent. It’s driving me insane.”
Knowing he can smell the dampness between your thighs is both utterly embarrassing and completely erotic. Your heart lurches, wanting nothing but to take his discomfort away and make him feel good, "H-how can I help you?”
Reluctantly, he removes his chin off your shoulder and turns to face you, gripping your biceps in his hands, almost to the point of pain, "Do you mean that? Because you can’t take it back.”
Shivering at the implications of his words, you nod slowly but more sure than ever, "Yes. Let me help you. I want to help you”
"I-If you want to help me…” Rafayel’s voice is doubtful, like he’s scared you will deny him before he’s even gotten the chance to put his request out. Between your thighs, you feel his knee creeping its way back against your leaking cunt. The shock to your recovering clit causes you to clutch Rafayel’s firm shoulders and throw your head back with a breathy moan. Rafayel feeds off your pleasure, imagining what you would sound like when you were actually stuffed to the brim with him.
"I want...I need to see you cum all over me,” Rafayels throaty plea makes you blush profusely. You almost want to smack him across the head for his shameless words, but the pout on his face reminds you that he’s absolutely serious that this will help him. That seeing you come undone for him will help take the edge off of the effect the perfume is having on him.
"O-okay.” You gulp, nodding. The relief on his face is mixed with unbridled excitement that makes you squirm in anticipation of what's to come. Your feet shift, which causes you to grind down on his knee once more. Unable to withstand the unintentional teasing any further, you languidly moan and grind your leaking cunt against him to relieve some of the pulsing tension in your gut.
Your broken groans grace Rafayel’s ears and you can actually see his eyes light up with pleasure while his ears burn an even deeper red. His breath is shaky as he dips his head back down, inhaling deeply and dusting a kiss to the pulse point on your neck. You shiver as he gently uses his tongue against your neck to soothe his raging desire.
His reaction intrigues you, and you can’t help but want to tease him further, just a little. Peering at him through your eyelashes, you tip toe upwards so you can fan your bated breath across his face, letting him bask in your scent. Your tongue reaches out to gently swipe across his bottom lip, all the while you continue to pleasure yourself using his thigh.
Rafayel is unable to contain his excitement as he watches you use his body for your own gratification. He pants desperately into the crook of your neck, high off your pheromones invading all his senses. Through both your whiny moans, you reach out to graze his cock through his dress pants.
Rafayel hisses at the slightest contact, and his reaction ignites your confidence, provoking you further. You grip him through the silky smooth trousers, holding his throbbing erection in your hand, using your thumb to tease where you think his slit would be.
"Fuck–hah, be gentle please baby. M’sensitive,” he whines through gritted teeth. Your cunt clenches at his words, so teasing yet so endearing from Rafayel’s lips. You can feel the coil in your gut tightening as you continue to hump into Rafayel’s knee, using his body to chase your own high. Your black dress has ridden up, and now the only barrier between Rafayel’s knee and your sopping pussy is your equally soaked panties. You bite your lip and pray that Rafayel doesn’t notice the moist streaks that are starting to appear on his expensive pants.
Through your hooded eyes, you can see Rafayel is enjoying this just as much, if not more, than you are. His eyes are thick with lust, and you can practically see the pulse of his neck pound against his delicate skin. He desperately gasps for air, or maybe he’s trying to breathe more of you in, as you near your earth shattering climax.
"Touch yourself for me,” you purr at him, purposely jutting your bottom lip out in a pout. He obliges obediently, one hand quickly undoing his belt and slipping in to grab his unbelievably hard cock into his hands.
As you watch his face contort in pleasure, you’re filled with the need to grab him into your own hands. "Can I touch you too?” You ask innocently with wide eyes, imagining just how smooth he will feel in your bare hands.
Rafayel whines, still obediently pumping his cock in his hands, "Yes please, I need you to touch me.” At his plea, you let your hands find their way to his hands, still diligently pumping up and down. You wrap your smaller hand over his and mimic his motions. You gasp at the sheer size of him, your fingers just barely able to wrap around his girth. You can feel his veins throbbing against your fingers, begging you to continue further. The sheer amount of pre cum that already coats his fingers, and now yours, makes you wonder how delicious his spend would feel inside you instead.
"You’re so dam beautiful when you – fuck – use me like this. Dreamed about this for s’long,” he bites out, his hands finding your nipples once more. His long artist fingers tease you expertly, taking the peaks and rolling them gently.
His skilled hands and filthy words accelerate the intensity of your body’s peak quickly approaching you. His entire body is flushed and burns under the pumps of your fist, likely exacerbated by the effects of your scent. You respond to his endless stream of gasps and swears with breathless mewls of your own, whispering sweet words into his ear.
"Let me cum Rafayel, please. Want to cum for you s’bad,” you beg against him, despite him having given you all the power already, knowing the begging will drive him insane.
Rafayel drives his knee further into you as your core grinds into him like second nature. Your wrists vigorously pump his leaking cock, the thick heat of it feeling absolutely unreal against your palm. With your free hand you thread your fingers through his long soft hair, gripping gently. With a strangled groan Rafayel sinks his teeth into your neck, sucking at your pulse point as if he’s trying to devour your scent. Reluctantly he pulls away, throwing his head back in pure pleasure once more.
"F-fuck you drive me fucking crazy Y/N,” he pants, his thick length throbbing at your vigorous pumps along his shaft, almost as if his heart was beating inside it. The endless precum that falls from the tip coats your fingers, making a wet mess in Rafayel’s pants and your palm.
He groans in disappointment when you release his erection, but his eyes are trained on your every movement. Overcome with your aching need for the gorgeous purple haired man before you, you bring your soaked fingers to your lips and slowly insert your index and middle finger into your parted mouth. You make a show of letting your tongue lap up his essence from your digits, never letting your eyes break contact with his as you devour him off your fingers. You can’t help but let out a muffled moan at the taste of him, sweeter than you could have ever fathomed, so deliciously Rafayel.
He nearly hyperventilates as you peer at him through the tears of pleasure that had beaded onto your eyelashes. "Look at you, hah, like a fucking masterpiece,” his thumb caresses your lip as his breathless praises make you squirm against his knee. The pre cum on his thumb swipes onto your tongue, and you itch to taste him again. You shift yourself so that you can take his thumb into your mouth, using your tongue to swipe all the slick off his slender fingers.
Rafayel shivers at your touch, his mind a mush of lust and adoration as he watches your eyes roll back at the taste of his cum on your lips.
"You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, drunk off your pheromones invading his senses. You only smile at him and tip toe up to press your lips against his, wanting him to be able to taste himself on your tongue. He groans into your mouth at the odd sensation of being able to taste both himself and you all at once. Both his hands come up to thread in your hair, pulling you as deeply into him as he possibly can. You can feel his exposed chest against your own, his heart pounding rapidly against the swell of your dress covered breasts. The proximity lets him control every twitch of his quads against your cunt and you cry into his mouth at the stimulation.
As you continue to fuck yourself onto his knee, you find yourself on the cusp of your orgasm, nearly blinded by the ecstasy of his leg wedged between your thighs and the salty taste of his slick on your tongue, "Raf-Rafayel, m’gonna cum.”
Despite his furious blush, he smirks at you, as devilishly handsome as ever, "You gonna cum on my knee baby?”
If it weren’t for the cloud of pleasure fogging your every nerve you’d surely have a snarky retort to throw back at him, but the need to have him is so great you can’t think of a single thing. Without even needing to enter you, Rafayel has rendered you utterly fucked out.
So instead, you nod eagerly as your grinding against his knee becomes increasingly sloppy and erratic. Rafayel, entranced by the utterly fucked bliss in your eyes can’t stop himself from falling deeper into the abyss that is you: your voice, your eyes, your smell, your soul. He finds himself realizing that, though he’s seen millions of dollars in once in a lifetime artworks, even creating some of his own to add to this infinite world, the entire universe pales in comparison to you. The thick haze of emotions overwhelms him and he finds himself begging, once again.
"P-please cum for me, my love. I need to see it,” Rafayel begs into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. The sensation makes your entire body shiver, causing your cunt to quiver further into his soaked knee. You’re not used to his voice, normally teasing and bratty voice, being this needy and adoring. It’s all enough to shove you viciously into your orgasm. You cling onto Rafayel as you release all over your panties and his leg, still languidly grinding into you.
You can’t stop the screams that rip out of your mouth, pure ecstasy and satisfaction laced into your very breath. Rafayel holds you tightly against him, cooing into your ear, talking you through the waves of pleasure, as the excruciating ecstasy makes tears spill out of your eyes and onto your cheeks.
Rafayel eyes widen in pure awe as he watches every shiver and twitch of your orgasm against his leg. He throws his head back, swearing as your scent becomes exponentially more potent. The smell of your spend is thick in the air, mixing with your pheromones and the perfume until it overloads every nerve in his body. The throbbing in his cock grows unbearable even with nothing touching it, physically twitching uncontrollably as he explodes inside his slacks.
You cry out one last time when your thighs collapse from the intense climax, and Rafayel catches you by your waist, holding you steady against him and the wall behind you. The movements against your cunt slow as you ride out the final waves of your orgasm. With nothing separating his thigh from your cunt but your soaked panties, Rafayel can swear he feels your clit throb against him, the aftershocks of your climax wracking your body, just as the effects of his own orgasm sear through his.
You’re a panting and sobbing mess against his flushed chest. Your legs are completely useless, supported solely by Rafayel’s strong and safe arms around your waist and his knee still wedged between you. He rests his face in the mess of your hair, breathing you into him. Unbeknownst to you, Rafayel is reeling from his own climax as he holds you protectively against him, almost for dear life.
Through the comfortable silence that has blanketed the bathroom, Rafayel’s voice vibrates on the top of your head, "You smell so fucking good baby.”
You smile contentedly against Rafayel’s chest, your hands reaching up to smooth his curly hair away from his sweaty forehead, "Do you feel better?”
He smiles against your head, taking another deep breath of you into him. His voice is thick with satisfaction, but also unrelenting hunger, "Yes, but…” you wait for him to finish his thought, but there’s only silence.
"Rafayel?”
His reply comes out strangled and heavy against the top of your head, "I-I need more. I need you.”
You shift so you can look up at him. He doesn’t speak, but his hooded eyes tell you everything he’s thinking. Maybe it’s the post orgasm haze, but you find yourself being unable to deny Rafayel, wanting nothing more than to please him.
Getting on your toes so you can reach him, you let your bottom lip brush against his, relishing in the way his breath catches in his throat, and whisper, "Take me Rafayel.”
"Sh-shit,” he mumbles and presses his lips the rest of the short distance into yours. He tears into you with such torrid intensity that your knees buckle. As his palms hold your face in place, you cling onto his shoulders for support, the feeling of him enveloping you so overwhelmingly addicting. As your legs give out under the excruciating anticipation of what’s to come, you hook your knee into Rafayel’s waist. He grips your thigh, lifting it to hook around his back. His hand kneads into your bare skin as he reluctantly tears his lips from yours.
"You can’t stand anymore?” His cocky grin contrasts the deep blush on his cheeks. Before you can snap back at him, he hoists you up against the wall. Instinctively you yelp, wrapping your other leg against his waist as he holds you securely against the cool tiles behind you and his solid abdomen.
His lips simultaneously find yours again, locking deeply with an unrelenting passion that quite literally takes your breath away. As your breath becomes his, your thighs clench at the crushing intensity of his lips, wanting him deeper, harder. His tongue explores every inch of you, and you whimper into him at the pure need that was manifesting in your gut once more.
Feverishly, Rafayel breaks away, like he cannot possibly wait another second. He doesn’t even break a sweat as he balances your squirming body with one hand, his other hand reaching down to pull off his belt that he’d undone earlier.
You want to ask Rafayel if it’d be more comfortable to go to his bed or even the studio sofa, but you’re rendered speechless as he pulls his cock out of his slacks. You’d felt it in your hands earlier, but seeing it in all its glory under the light was a whole different story.
Rafayel definitely took pride in how he presented himself, his hair, his clothes; everything about him was pristine and curated just how he wanted others to see him. And his manhood was no different. He stood absolutely proud against his naval, his impressive length erect enough to touch just below his belly button, curving straight up. He’s unsurprisinglt well groomed, but with a dusting of pubic hair along his happy trail to his glorious cock. Like Rafayel himself, it was nothing short of art.
But then you noticed that he has trails of white cream smeared all over his delicious length, matted into the hair along his pelvis. Far too much to be just pre cum.
"D-did you cum earlier?” You can’t stop the grin that forms on your face as you realize Rafayel had finished earlier just watching you pleasure yourself against him. Literally came undone at the mere thought and sight of your pleasure.
Rafayel averts his eyes, hiding under his tousled bangs, his face tomato red, "Sh-shut up!” His reaction only makes you laugh and want to provoke him more.
"You’re such a bad boy Rafayel, cumming without me touching you,” you coo, using one hand to scratch his hair soothingly, "Just an eager little kitty for me.”
Rafayel’s eyes narrow as his lips form his signature pouty grimace, "I am not a cat.”
You open your mouth to tease him more, but Rafayel pushes you harder into the wall so he can free one hand to rub his thumb against your lips. You yelp at the feel of the stone cold wall being pressed further into your burning skin. With his finger on your mouth, his eyebrow raise at you pointedly. His eyes light up with an intense and burning warning, "I’m about to fucking ravage you. Are you sure you want to keep teasing me?”
His words shut you up instantly. You shake your head vehemently and obediently, your cunt aching at his promises, needing nothing more than to be filled with him.
"Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand moving off your lips to reach under your dress, hooking his finger into the waistband of your panties. You shiver at the feel of his palm on your waist, as he attempts to pull them off of you. But he quickly grows impatiently frustrated at the tangle of your bodies.
"I'll buy you another pair, ‘kay?” You’re about to protest but Rafayel wastes absolutely no time, bunching the delicate material in his fist and tearing it off you. You gape as the sound of fabric ripping sounds in the air and watch the lace material fall to the ground.
"R-Rafayel! I liked that pair!” You scold, hitting his shoulder in a mixture of disbelief but also arousal at his primal urge. You know you should be more upset but you find yourself just melting into a puddle at his unabashed behavior. I mean honestly you wore those in hopes that he might see them anyways.
"I'll buy you as many as you want, if you let me rip them off of you,” he grins in feigned apologeticness. At your expression he continues, this time earnestly, "M’sorry, just can’t wait anymore.” And with those words, Rafayel sheaths himself into you. You yelp at the alarming stretch, his girth much more than you’re used to. Even with the thick slick of your combined orgasms, it’s slightly painful to accommodate him.
Simultaneously, Rafayel cries out huskily as he enters you, your grip down there absolutely strangling his erection. The finish of your first climax thickly coats his cock, but it’s just barely enough to offset the stretch from how thick he is. His strong arms hold you securely in place as his pelvis slowly begins thrusting up into you, pushing you up the wall at every stroke.
The angle he has you in meant every single thrust hits your cervix, his cock unbelievably lengthy. The curvature causes every stroke to drag deliciously against your g spot which makes you cream uncontrollably at each thrust, a ring of white forming at the base of his cock that splashes into you with every vigorous stroke. Your clit rubs roughly against his pelvis, his coarse happy trail rubbing against it with every movement, stimulating your body beyond belief.
"Fuck you’re taking me so well baby,” Rafayel moans into your ear, swallowing another mouthful of your aroma. You whimper as you feel him getting unbelievably harder at your scent alone, his solid flesh brushing against every single corner of your gummy walls. His veins throb inside of you as he twitches in pleasure. "So fucking tight, all for me yeah?”
"Raf, s’big. Feel s’good,” you slur, the haze of ecstasy starting to cloud your consciousness. His thrusts go harder, deeper, at your praises, and you cry out, unable to stop your thighs, and simultaneously your cunt, from tightening around him.
A strangled moan leaves his lips at your movements, his damp forehead pressing against yours as one of his hands leave your thighs to grip the wall next to you. "Sh-shit are you always this tight or is this jus’ for me?”
Before you can respond, Rafayel is babbling huskily into your ear again, "Wish you could see yourself right now. You look so beautiful, so fucked out, all for me huh?”
Your eyes squeeze shut at his filthy words, and you can’t help but clench down on him again. Your profuse arousal coats the hair along his pelvis, creating the most filthy and lewd noises as Rafayel continues to bounce you onto his cock, his stamina absolutely unreal. Your lips chant his name, over and over, your brain only filled with him.
"Look at me Y/N, need to see you,” Rafayel begs into your neck, still absolutely inhaling your pheromones, getting harder at every intake, "Jesus you smell so fucking good.”
You force your eyes open, fighting the ecstasy from taking over completely. As he shifts to stare into your eyes, he gives you the most gorgeous Rafayel smile that threatens to short circuit your brain and stop your heart. There’s an overwhelming swirl of emotions in his purple-blue eyes: lust, mischief, adoration, respect, longing, and…so much love.
It’s all enough to make you want to confess the feelings you yourself had forced deep down, trying desperately to forget them for the sake of your friendship and working relationship. Rafayel keeps staring into your eyes, straight into your soul, and you finally open your mouth to try and find the words, "I–”
But instead, he cuts you off, bending down so your lips brush against each other again, "I know.” With those words, he presses himself needily into your waiting mouth
Grateful that he doesn’t need you to say the words, you return his kiss with equal fervor, doing your best to convey all the things you had wanted to say.
The bruisingly passionate kiss pushes you towards the edge as Rafayel continues to bounce you ruthlessly onto his cock. You’re forced to pull away from his lips to let out a strangled cry of pleasure. Through the overwhelming ecstasy, Rafayel takes the opportunity to shove his hand in between your bodies, easily finding your clit. The stimulation forces you to scream out uncontrollably, your eyes and head rolling back into the wall.
"Jesus look at how soaked you are Y/N,” he mumbles in awe, eyes glued to where your bodies connected, "Look, baby.”
At his urging, you force yourself to lift your head off the wall and glance down at his fervent ministrations. The sight you’re met is enough to make you finish all over him right then and there.
The veins in Rafayel’s thick forearm bulge as he paws at your clit furiously, the slick glistening on his thick length and splatters as the force of his thrusts rattle you deliciously against the cold wall. As he pulls out of you entirely with each thrust, you can see the throb of each vein of his cock, aching to be thrust back inside you.
"Raf-Rafayel,” you gasp out, "I–”
"I-I know baby, I can feel it. Squeezing the life out of me,” he groans, shifting your entire weight onto his right arm while his left forearm slams into the wall above your head, anchoring him and allowing him to fuck into you with a new mind numbing intensity.
His chin digs into your shoulder as he hammers into you relentlessly, "Ffuuck baby, gonna make me cum all – shit – over you huh?”
The force of the orgasm that chases you is utterly blinding, and against your better judgment you plead with him, "P-please cum inside Raf, I want to feel you.”
You can feel his panting breath hitch by your ear, and he whispers, "Are you sure? Don’t tease me Y/N. Y-you can’t take it back. Please.”
"Won’t take it b-back,” you wail as his thrusts bruise your walls, the painful pleasure edging you closer and closer to your undoing. "Please Rafayel, need you inside me s’badly.”
At your begging, Rafayel goes absolutely insane. He slams you so vigorously against the wall that you can practically feel the entire house shake. Every throbbing thrust pushes against your more sensitive spots, bullying right into your cervix. His breath becomes increasingly erratic and he sinks his teeth into your neck to contain his throaty moans.
The sudden sensation of his teeth against your pulse, so dangerously aggressive yet gently teasing, sends you barreling into your orgasm. "Cumming, cumming, m’cumming Raf,” you wail repeatedly, unable to form any other words as tears stream down your face and onto his ruined dress shirt.
Your hand roughly tears at Rafayel’s hair as he continues to ravage both your clit and your aching hole, finally sending your body into the mind numbing explosion of your climax. Your cunt grips onto him for dear life, throbbing uncontrollably to the sloppy rhythm of his thrusts. You ride the endless waves of your orgasm, vision blurring as tears continue to spill from your eyes.
"Raf, s’too much,” you whimper, fingers releasing his hair and reaching down to scratch at his back, trying to relieve any of the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to make you lose consciousness. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about how you were destroying Rafayel’s expensive shirt under your nails. Your legs tighten around his waist as he continues to pound you into the wall. You’re almost sure your body will be battered and bruise tomorrow, not that you’d complain.
"M’sorry,” he pants, but only thrusts harder and faster, "Jus’ hold onto me love. M’so – ffuuck – so fucking close.” You nod obediently, still riding the last receeding waves of your own orgasm, pussy quivering around every ridge and vein on his shaft.
"Jesus if you could feel how tight you’re squeezing me right now,” Rafayel grits through clenched teeth, "You want me to cum inside you that bad? That you’re gonna force it out of me?”
Your lids feel so heavy as the pleasure of your orgasm ebbs into exhausted satisfaction, and you murmur, "M’not doing anything Raf, you jus’ feel so good. So deep.”
At your praises, Rafayel lets out a strangled groan and comes undone inside of you. You cry out as the warmth of his spend fills you, soothing the ache from the ravaging your poor cunt just took. He shoots rope after rope of it into you, a never ending stream of him emptying inside of you.
Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his forearm still using the wall above your head to support him. You both pant into each other as the quivering of your cunt squeezes every last drop of him inside you. He shivers at the feeling of your womanhood throbbing around his softening member, completely spent.
Rafayel does his best to keep himself, and you, upright. His arms shake slightly, the aftershocks of his own orgasm devastating every muscle in his body. You can feel his biceps trembling, you fight to keep your eyes open, "S’okay Raf I can stand.”
"Okay love,” he murmurs into your hair, taking in one last whiff of your scent, before pressing a gentle kiss onto your forehead. You whimper as he slips out of you, your sore hole still wanting nothing more to be filled by Rafayel. You do your best to ignore the thick streaks of your collective spend dripping down your legs. As you unhook your thighs and let your feet touch the floor, your body gives out.
Rafayel catches you before your knees can crash into the tiled bathroom floor. You don’t have to look at his face to know he’s smirking at you.
"Need me to carry you baby?”
As you hold yourself up clutching his arm, you narrow your eyes at him, "No. Shut up.”
Rafayel chuckles, the smile in his eyes glowing brightly at you, "Come on Y/N, let me take care of you.”
Your snappy refusal is cut off by your squeal as Rafayel scoops you into his arms, like a princess. You wince at the feeling of the smearing of dampness between your thighs as Rafayel hooks his arms under your thighs. You hadn't even noticed that he’d put his belt back on.
"Always with the theatrics Rafayel,” you grin, unable to stop yourself from burying your face into his chest. He smiles in response as he carries you through his home. You breathe in Rafayel’s scent, an intoxicating blend of sea salt, cardamom, and arousal.
"You love me.”
You sigh to yourself, love him you absolutely did. But that was a conversation you two would need to have another day.
Looking up, you find yourself in Rafayel’s room, his white curtains billowing as the night time breeze cascades through them. As Rafayel sets you down on his plush king sized bed, your phone rings from the inside of his pocket. You’d almost forgotten you’d given him your phone when Thomas had called earlier.
The phone keeps ringing as Rafayel sits besides where you lay, attention focused solely on you. You pat his thigh, "Raf? Can you pick up my phone?”
Rafayel grimaces as he grabs your cell phone from his slack pockets. "It’s just Thomas,” he grumbles like a child, "I told him not to call again.”
He takes one look at your unamused expression and sighs in defeat, "Fine fine.”
Rafayel picks up the phone, snapping, "What Thomas?”
"Speaker phone,” you mouth at him, only able to hear Thomas’s erratic mumbles through the phone. He rolls his eyes, but puts the call on speaker, holding it up between you two.
"You guys better be half dead in a ditch or actually dead,” he threatens sulkily, "How could you guys not show up?”
"Didn’t I say not to call again?” Rafayel fires back, but his tone is teasing. You know Rafayel cares about Thomas a lot, even if he makes the agent’s life hell.
"Thomas, I'm so sorry! I’ll make it up to you I swear,” you apologize, feeling horribly guilty. You could only imagine how many angry sponsors and reporters he had to deal with.
As Rafayel holds the phone with one hand for you to speak into, he notices your black dress had ridden up to reveal glistening streaks pooling down your legs. He uses the index finger of his free hand to scoop up the spend that continues to drip down your thighs. Your breath hitches as he smirks at you, his hand creeping up further, into your inner thigh.
"You owe me so many dinners,” Thomas grumbles, but you have a difficult time paying attention to the rest of his words as Rafayel’s hands venture further up, dangerously. You give him a warning look, but his fingers only trail up further to tease you, grazing against your bare slit.
"Are you guys even listening to me?” Thomas demands through the phone, his tone is as pouty as Rafayel normally is.
"Y-yes, I'm sorry,” you try to keep your voice as steady as possible, "I'll uh, I'll get you take out tomorrow!” You swat at Rafayel’s lingering hands but he doesn’t budge. His ears are pink and you notice his breaths are coming out in short pants as he quietly climbs onto the bed at your feet. You do your best to keep your own moans from bursting uncontrollably out of your lips as his fingers relentlessly tease you.
"Yes, and I want boba too. With extra – wait. What are you guys doing?” Rafayel and your eyes snap to each other and then to the phone. You’re about to speak when Thomas’s shrill voice cuts in again.
"You guys better not be doing what I think you’re doing! I swear to g–”
“‘Kay gotta go bye bye Thomas love you!” Rafayel interrupts sheepishly, ending the call with his thumb. There’s a brief moment of disbelief and silence before you both burst out into laughter.
You clutch your stomach, trying to catch your breath as the uncontrollable giggles keep coming. But the thought of Thomas makes you feel guilty again, "Rafayel maybe we can still make it to the party if we hurry. We can’t just leave Thomas –”
Rafayel shushes you with his finger, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans over you, "I just got an idea for a painting and I have to start right now.”
You’re no stranger to Rafayel’s spontaneous bouts of inspiration. In the past, he’d literally drag you to the oceanside and not ten minutes into the excursion, he’d race home needing to get started on an idea he had right then and there. And sometimes he’d forget you at the beach.
"Right now? But we’re not in the studio,” you squirm as Rafayel leans closer to your face, shifting his body so that he’s kneeling at your feet, in between your legs.
"Oh. I meant a different kind of painting. Maybe on your stomach,” your brows furrow in confusion at his words as he smirks mischievously at you. You squeak as he climbs to hover over you, his body pressed against your still sensitive areas. Your body heats up again as the feel of his hardening cock against you.
His thumb presses against your bottom lip, the salty taste of him invading your senses once more, "Or maybe…on your beautiful face.”
The implications of his words finally hits you all at once, and your face burns like a wildfire. You hit his shoulder weakly and unconvincingly, already succumbing to the arousal pooling back in your thighs as you watch the desperate need return to his eyes.
"R-Rafayel!”
"Then again you’re already a piece of art,” he murmurs, his voice groggy with desire. He presses a kiss to your parted lips, then to your exposed collarbone, and then to your covered breasts, "But you know me. I like to take my time with my art.” Oh you were utterly fucked.
.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.
✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.
i won’t let you down, i’ll give you everything i got.
timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader
husband!wakatoshi who’ll do absolutely anything just for your smile.
the floor of the ushijima household is polished to such a high shine that a person could probably perform surgery on it, but that isn’t what has ushijima currently vibrating at a frequency high enough to shatter glass.
no, it’s the fact that you, his wife—the literal center of his gravity, the person who makes his heart do backflips like an over-caffeinated gymnast—simply mentioned that you had a ‘minor craving’ for a specific brand of limited-edition strawberry shortcake.
ushijima launched himself from the sofa like a surface-to-air missile. if there were a leaderboard for ‘fastest human to put on shoes,’ he would be the undisputed world champion, holding a record that would remain unbroken for a millennium.
“i’ll return shortly,” he declared, his voice carrying the solemnity of a king going off to reclaim his stolen kingdom. he looked at you with an intensity that could melt lead. “don’t move. conserve your energy. i shall secure the cake.”
to anyone else, ushijima is a pillar of stoicism, a man of few words and immovable resolve. but to you? he‘s a giant, muscular puddle of golden retriever energy masquerading as an elite athlete. he isn’t merely ‘in love’ with you; he’s legally and spiritually bound to your existence. he treats your happiness like a top-priority national security issue.
𓏵
when he reached the grocery store, he hunted. his eyes scanned the aisles with the precision of a high-tech laser, terrifying three elderly ladies and a stock boy in the process. when he found the last box of the shortcake, he shielded it with his massive frame, looking around as if a rival volleyball team might swoop in and attempt a block.
he sprinted to the checkout line. he didn’t care that he was breathing like he’d just finished a five-set match against schweiden adlers’ rivals. he had the goods. he had the nectar of the gods. he had the one thing that would make your eyes crinkle at the corners in that specific way that makes his soul leave his body for a few seconds.
𓏵
he burst through the front door, slightly winded but triumphant. he looked like he’d just survived a trek across the sahara rather than a ten-minute trip to the convenience store.
“i have it,” he panted, presenting the box to you as if it were a holy relic.
you laughed, reaching out to take it, but he hesitated, pulling it back for a split second. “wait. let me plate it. the presentation must be adequate for you.”
you watched from the doorway as this absolute unit of a man—a man who could probably crush a coconut with his bare hands—carefully arranged the cake on your favorite ceramic plate. he spent three whole minutes ensuring the strawberry was perfectly centered. his brow was furrowed in deeper concentration than he ever used during a national tournament.
“wakatoshi, honey, it’s just cake,” you teased, leaning against the counter.
he froze, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. “it’s not ‘just’ cake. it’s something you desired. therefore, it’s the most important object in this prefecture.”
he walked over to you, placing the plate on the table before folding his large hands into yours. he looked down at you, and the sheer volume of affection in his gaze was enough to make your knees feel like they were made of lukewarm pudding.
“i told you before we married,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant tone that vibrates in your chest. “i’ll give you everything i got.”
and he meant it. if you asked for the moon, he wouldn’t ask why; he’d simply start calculating the trajectory needed to jump high enough to snag it for you.
𓏵
later that evening, as you were tucked under his arm on the sofa, he was staring at you again. he wasn’t watching the movie. he was just… observing. like you were a rare celestial event that only happened once every ten thousand years.
“is there something on my face?” you asked, tilting your head.
“no,” he replied instantly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that felt illegal for someone with his grip strength. “i’m simply recalibrating my appreciation for your presence. it appears i find you more captivating than i did at 4:00 PM. the rate of growth is exponential.”
you buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady, thumping drum of his heart. it was fast. it was always fast when you were this close. for all his strength and power, he was completely and utterly defenseless against you.
he leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you as if he were trying to merge your atoms together.
“you’re my entire world,” he whispered into your hair, sounding breathless, like he still couldn’t believe his luck. “i’m quite literally your shadow. wherever you go, i’m already there, waiting to make sure the path is smooth for you.”
you looked up and saw the raw, unfiltered devotion in his eyes—a look that promised a lifetime of strawberry cakes, defended honor, and a love so heavy and solid it could hold up the entire sky if the clouds ever decided to fall.
you pulled him down by his collar, and as his lips met yours, he sighed into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. he was a titan, a champion, a force of nature—but in your arms, he was simply a man who had found his home and intended to guard it with every single fiber of his being.
𓏵
the kiss ended, but he didn’t pull away; he just rested his forehead against yours, breathing your air like it was the only oxygen supply left on the planet. his hands, large enough to palm a basketball with insulting ease, were cupping your face with the fragility one might use to hold a literal soap bubble.
“you liked the cake,” he stated, though it sounded more like he was recording a divine decree into the annals of history. “but the store-bought quality was... statistically average. i’ve determined that you deserve a higher tier of craftsmanship.”
you blinked, a small smile tugging at your lips. “toshi, you don’t have to—”
“i must,” he interrupted, his eyes igniting with a fire usually reserved for crushing oikawa’s spirit at the net. “if it can be improved for your sake, then it’s my duty to improve it. i shall construct a confection from the primal elements. flour. sugar. eggs.”
before you could even process the mental image of him in an apron, he was already in the kitchen. he marched. it was the stride of a man going to war with a bag of all-purpose flour.
𓏵
you leaned against the doorframe, watching the spectacle. ushijima did not ‘dabble’ in hobbies. he conquered them. he had three different tabs open on his tablet, each one a different scientific breakdown of the maillard reaction.
“wakatoshi, do you even know where the whisk is?”
he paused, a measuring cup held aloft like a chalice. “i’ve located the rotational blending tool, yes. it’s positioned behind the salad spinner. an inefficient storage choice, but i’ve rectified it.”
he began to measure the flour. he leveled it off with a ruler. a literal, plastic school ruler. if it was even a microgram off, he dumped it back and started over, his jaw set in a line so hard it could probably deflect bullets. he was sweating. actual beads of perspiration were rolling down his neck because the stakes of making you a snack were higher than the olympic finals.
“the recipe calls for ‘softened’ butter,” he muttered, staring at the golden stick on the counter with a look of profound betrayal. “it’s currently at 18°C. the optimal spreadability occurs at 21°C. i’ll wait.”
he stood there. he actually stood there, arms crossed, staring at a stick of butter for three minutes, willing it to warm up through the sheer power of his monumental ego and love for you.
𓏵
thirty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a snow globe had exploded. there was flour on the ceiling. there was a dusting of cocoa powder on his nose. he looked like a very handsome, very muscular baker who had just survived a landslide.
“are you okay in here?” you asked, stifling a giggle as he tried to crack an egg with one hand.
he succeeded, but the force was so calculated and intense that the yolk landed in the bowl with a sound like a wet slap. he looked at the bowl, then at you, his expression one of pure, unbridled desperation.
“the consistency is... thicker than anticipated,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “i fear i have over-kneaded my emotions into the dough.”
you walked over, slipping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek into his broad, flour-dusted back. he immediately melted, his rigid posture softening as he leaned back into your touch.
“it looks perfect, toshi. i’m sure it’ll taste like heaven because you made it.”
he turned in your arms, ignoring the mess, and looked down at you with a gaze so heavy with adoration it felt like a physical weight. “i would burn down the entire culinary world if it meant providing you with a single moment of genuine satisfaction. i’m not a baker, but for you, i’ll become a master of the hearth.”
he leaned down, kissing the tip of your nose, leaving a little smudge of white flour behind. he looked at it and actually smiled—that rare, earth-shattering ushijima smile that makes your heart do a triple-axel.
“you have flour on your face,” he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness that made your soul ache. “i’ll clean it. but first, i must ensure this cake survives the oven. i will not let the heat defeat my promise to you.”
he turned back to the oven with the intensity of a commander watching a missile launch, guarding the glass door as if he were protecting a sacred flame. he was completely, hopelessly, and hilariously under your spell, and honestly? the cake was probably going to be as dense as a brick, but you knew you’d eat every single crumb because it tasted like a man who loved you more than he loved winning.
n: why do i keep getting asks with people telling me to peg them.. i mean, speak your truth but
when you leave it got me feeling like so depressed.
timeskip!MSBY!bokuto kōtarō x f!reader
being MSBY’s and bokuto’s beloved manager is easy until you get sick, and bokuto loses the light of his life.
entropy is a scientific concept, but in the msby black jackals’ gym, it looked exactly like a six-foot-two man slumped in the corner behind a stray ball cart.
the atmosphere was practically tectonic. usually, the gym vibrated with the sound of ‘HEY HEY HEY!’ and the thunderous percussion of spikes hitting the floor. today? it sounded like a funeral for a very loud bird.
bokuto was currently experiencing the psychological equivalent of a total solar eclipse. you weren’t there. for the first time in the history of his professional career, the spot three feet to the left of the bench—the spot where you usually stood with a clipboard and that specific, grounding smile—was vacant. empty. a void.
“he’s been there for twenty minutes,” atsumu whispered, gesturing toward the ball cart where bokuto was currently trying to make himself small, which is physically impossible for a man built like a greek god made of boulders. “he’s sulking.”
“it’s pathetic,” sakusa muttered, eyeing bokuto from a safe, ten-foot distance. “he thinks she’s dead. or worse, that she moved to brazil without telling him.”
bokuto was convinced the universe had finally decided to punish him for his ‘emo modes’ by taking away his north star. by the second day of your absence, the ‘thick cloud of sadness’ had evolved into a localized weather system. he hadn’t spiked a single ball into the court. he’d missed every serve. he spent most of the morning staring at his phone, waiting for a text that never came because your migraine was so aggressive that even the thought of a blue-light screen felt like an ice pick to the brain.
it wasn’t until sakusa—driven to the brink of insanity by the lack of structural integrity in the team—snapped and texted the coach.
sakusa: where is the manager? bokuto is currently trying to merge with the floor tiles.
coach foster: oh! right. she’s got a nasty flu. told her to take the week. forgot to mention it. my bad.
when sakusa relayed the news, the transformation was instantaneous. bokuto detonated.
“she’s sick?!” the roar echoed off the rafters. “she’s dying?! i have to go. omi-omi, i have to go right now.”
he didn’t wait for permission. he was a white-and-black blur, bolting out of the gym with the frantic energy of a man who had just realized he left the stove on—if the stove was the love of his life and currently suffering from a 40°C fever.
𓏵
the convenience store clerk had never seen a man move with such desperate, feral intent. bokuto was tossing things into a basket with the precision of a hawk: expensive honey-lemon tea, every flavor of jelly drink available, the softest tissues in the prefecture, and three different types of high-end porridge.
then came the pharmacy. he stood in the aisle, looking like a deer in headlights, staring at a wall of cold medicine as if it were a complex offensive formation. naturally, he called the only person who could tether him to reality.
“agaashiiii! if she has a headache but also a cough, do i get the blue box or the red box? does the red one taste bad? she likes peaches! is there a peach-flavored medicine for adults?!”
“bokuto, please breathe,” came the weary, yet fond voice over the speaker. “get the standard tablets. and don’t give her caffeine. also, did you buy flowers?”
“flowers. yes. strawberries too. she needs vitamins. i’m a genius, akaashi.”
𓏵
when the doorbell rang at 2:00 pm, you were currently a cocoon of blankets, feeling like your brain had been replaced by wet cement. your eyes were puffy, your nose was a shade of pink that would rival a sunset, and your hair looked like a bird’s nest that had survived a hurricane.
you shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole. all you saw was a giant bouquet of sunflowers and a mop of silver-and-black hair.
the moment you turned the deadbolt, the door flew open—not with force, but with a desperate kind of urgency.
“my favorite human!”
bokuto lunged. for a split second, you braced for the impact of a 190-pound professional athlete, but he slowed down at the last centimeter. he caught you in a hug that was as light as a feather, his large hands hovering over your back as if you were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain.
he pulled back, his golden eyes scanning your face with enough intensity to melt lead. “you look... you look...”
you winced, expecting him to say ‘terrible.’
“…absolutely stunning,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “even when you’re melting, you’re the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen. i thought you quit! i thought you hated me! i thought i did a spike so bad you decided to never look at me again!”
his knees actually buckled a little. he looked like a kicked puppy who had just been offered a steak. before you could even protest that you were contagious, his arms were under your knees and behind your back. he swept you up in a bridal carry so smooth it felt like you were floating.
𓏵
“bokuto, you’ll get sick,” you croaked, your voice sounding like a rusted gate.
“i have the immune system of a mountain lion!” he declared, marching toward your bedroom. “and even if i catch it, then we can be sick together. it’ll be a team bonding exercise!”
he settled you into bed with more care than he’d ever given a volleyball. then, the babbling started. it was as if two days of silenced thoughts were bursting out of him.
“the gym was so quiet,” he whispered, tucking the duvet around your chin. “i kept looking at the spot where you stand. i even sat there for a while, just hoping i’d catch your scent or something. everyone told me to stop being weird, but they don’t understand. i can’t function without hearing your voice telling me my form is slightly off. i missed your voice so much it felt like my ears were broken.”
he was peeling an orange for you, his large, calloused fingers working with surprising delicacy.
“i even tried to hide in that little gap between the equipment shed and the wall,” he admitted, looking genuinely ashamed. “like a lost dog. hinata tried to lure me out with buns, but i wasn’t hungry. how can i eat when my manager—my favorite person in the whole wide world—is suffering alone?”
he fed you the orange slices one by one. you were too tired to argue, and honestly, the way he was looking at you—like you were the center of his entire solar system—was doing more for your recovery than any pill could.
when you mentioned you needed to freshen up, he went into full bodyguard mode. he prepped the bathroom, steamed it up just right, and then insisted on waiting right outside the door.
“if you slip, just yell! i’m right here!”
when you emerged, damp and shaky, he was sitting on the floor with a literal blindfold tied over his eyes.
“bokuto... what are you doing?”
“akaashi said i have to be a gentleman! i’m not looking! but i’m here if you need balance!”
you laughed and he visibly brightened, his head whipping toward the sound of your voice. “that! i missed that! that’s the best sound in the league! forget the roar of the crowd, i want that on a loop!”
he spent the next twenty minutes drying your hair. he used the lowest heat setting, his fingers combing through your strands with a gentleness that made your heart do backflips. he was so focused, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, ensuring he didn’t pull a single hair.
“there,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head once it was dry. “now, medicine time.”
he watched you swallow the tablets with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. it was the look of a man who was completely and utterly gone for you. he was at the bottom of the ocean, and he didn’t want air.
𓏵
by evening, the exhaustion of being a full-time nurse-slash-fanboy caught up to him. you were drifting off, the medicine finally kicking in, when you felt a weight settle on the side of your mattress.
bokuto was sitting on the floor, his head resting on the edge of the bed, his hand firmly but carefully clutching yours. he looked so small in the dim light, the usual bravado replaced by a quiet, desperate need for proximity.
you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly from the fever, and brushed a stray lock of silver hair away from his forehead.
“i like you too, kōtarō,” you whispered into the quiet room, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his brow. “so much.”
you fell asleep shortly after, missing the way his eyelashes fluttered and the way his entire body went rigid the moment your lips touched his skin.
𓏵
the next morning, the fever had broken. you woke up feeling lighter, the cement in your head having turned back into actual thoughts. however, there was a new weight—a very warm, very solid weight.
bokuto was in the bed. he wasn’t technically under the covers, but he was on top of them, his arms wrapped around you in a protective, suffocatingly sweet embrace. he was staring at you with wide, awake eyes. he looked like he hadn’t slept a wink, but he also looked like he’d just won the olympic gold.
“you’re awake!” he chirped, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft.
“i feel much better,” you smiled, trying to shift, but his grip only tightened.
“so...” he started, his lower lip trembling in a way that was almost tragically cute. “about last night. you said you liked me. and you kissed my head. and i’ve been thinking about it for six hours and twelve minutes.”
he sat up, pulling you with him so you were sitting in his lap, encased in his warmth. he looked at you with such yearning, such raw, pathetic hope, that your heart felt like it was going to burst.
“i already decided in my head that we’re dating,” he whispered, his face inches from yours. “i already told the group chat we’re ‘engaged in spirit.’ but... i should probably ask the official way, right?”
he took a deep breath, his golden eyes shimmering with a mixture of devotion and sheer desperation. “would you let me be your boyfriend? i’ll take care of you every day. i’ll spike every ball for you. i’ll even let you have the last bite of my meat buns. please?”
you didn’t even have time to get the ‘yes’ out before his face transformed. when you nodded, he looked completely discombobulated, his brain short-circuiting at the sheer joy of it.
“really?! yes?! hey hey hey!”
he peppered every single inch of your face with tiny, frantic kisses. your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin—he was like a heat-seeking missile of affection.
“i’m gonna be the best boyfriend ever,” he promised, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his tail-wagging energy practically shaking the bed. “i’m never letting you get sick again. i’m banning germs. i’m fighting the flu with my bare hands!”
as he pulled you back down into the pillows, refusing to let go for even a second, you realized that being managed by bokuto was going to be a lot more intense than managing him—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
n: i love it when men are pathetically in love. yk? y’all get me? right? RIGHT??
timeskip!kuroo tetsurō x f!reader
you surprise your long distance bf!kuroo and instantaneously give him a cardiac arrest.
the thing about kuroo is that he has always been a little bit of a menace. not the ‘i’ll set your house on fire’ kind of menace, but the ‘i will stare at you across a gymnasium until you feel the heat of my gaze through your uniform’ kind.
when he first saw you at that away game, his brain basically short-circuited into a single, high-frequency hum. you were power-walking across the court with a clipboard, looking like the most beautiful, stressed-out person in miyagi, and he was a goner. he didn’t even try to be cool. well, he tried, but he mostly just ended up leaning against walls in your peripheral vision, looking like a tall, lanky gargoyle who had been struck by lightning.
he spent the next few months yearning with the intensity of a victorian widow waiting for a ship to return from sea. it was pathetic, really. kenma would be trying to play a boss fight and kuroo would be sighing into his palms, wondering if you liked apple juice or orange juice better. he was gentle about it, though. he never wanted to crowd you. he just wanted to be near you, like a moth circling a very pretty, very confused lamp.
then came the fukurodani summer camp. the heat was melting everyone’s brains, but kuroo was on a mission. on the final night, under the cicada-heavy air, he cornered you, not in a scary way, but in a ‘my knees are actually shaking’ way.
“look,” he had started, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. “i know we live hundreds of kilometers apart. i know i’m just a guy from tokyo with hair that defies the laws of physics—but a very handsome one—and a laugh that sounds like a hyena having a mid-life crisis. but if you don’t let me be your boyfriend, i think i might actually wither away like a neglected houseplant. i’ve got it bad. i’ve got it so bad that i’ve started liking karasuno’s black and orange team uniforms just because i saw that they also got you a custom one. please. give me a chance. i’ll be the best. i’ll be so good you can boss me around anytime, and i’d say thank you.”
it was the longest, most desperate, most strangely poetic ramble you’d ever heard. you melted faster than an ice cube on the pavement, pulled him down by his collar, and kissed the rambling right out of him.
𓏵
fast forward to the present, and the long-distance thing? kuroo handled it like a man that has the spirit of a thousand devoted golden retrievers.
three hundred kilometers is a lot for some people, but for kuroo, it was just a distance he could bridge with excessive delivery orders. you’d mention a craving for strawberry shortcake at 2:00 pm, and by 4:00 pm, a delivery driver would be at your door in miyagi with a box from the best bakery in town and a note that said: ‘eat up, my beautiful treasure. i’m currently hugging my pillow and pretending it’s you.’
he sent you flowers for no reason. he sent you ‘thinking of you’ care packages that were 90% snacks and 20% hoodies he’d worn for three days straight so they smelled like him. his letters were the worst, long, sappy, ink-smudged manifestos of his devotion.
but lately, the ‘jokes’ had started.
“you know,” he’d say over facetime, lounging on his couch in a tank top that showed off way too much shoulder, “the guest room in my apartment is looking really lonely. it’s actually crying. i heard it sob today. it said, ‘tetsu, why isn’t she living here yet?’ and i didn’t have an answer.”
then he’d show you the room. he’d turned it into a sanctuary. your favorite candles were on the nightstand. the bookshelves were stocked with your favorite series. the bedding was the exact shade of the color you once mentioned you liked. he was actively luring you. he was baiting the trap with high-thread-count sheets and domestic stability.
and god, you were hungry for the bait.
saturday night. tokyo.
kenma, the unsung hero of your romantic life, had been your inside man. he’d driven you from the station, mocking kuroo’s ‘pining puppy’ energy the entire way.
“he’s going to lose his mind,” kenma muttered as he pulled up to the lavish apartment complex. “he’s been moping all day because you didn’t text him back. he thinks you’re mad. he’s probably currently staring at a wall in silence.”
kenma helped you get your bags to the door, rang the bell, and then evaporated into thin air like a ninja. he didn’t want to be there for the sheer amount of sap that was about to occur.
you stood there, heart hammering against your ribs. you heard footsteps. heavy ones. the door swung open and there he was, kuroo, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that said science is cool, looking absolutely dejected.
“kenma, if you’re here to tell me i’m being dramatic about the lack of texts, i—”
he stopped. his jaw practically hit the floorboards. his eyes darted from your face to the suitcases at your feet, then back to your face. for a solid ten seconds, he looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
he didn’t scream. he didn’t cheer. instead, he moved with a surreal, robotic sort of calm. he reached out, took your bags with hands that were visibly trembling, and stepped aside to let you in. he was so quiet it was actually terrifying.
“tetsu?” you whispered, your nerves finally bubbling over. “are you… okay?”
he set the bags down in the middle of the living room and turned to face you. the ‘calm’ facade shattered instantly. his hands were shaking so hard he had to shove them into his pockets, but then he took them out because he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for you.
he lunged, not to tackle you, but to fold himself around you like you were the last source of oxygen on the planet. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hitching in ragged, heavy bursts.
“you didn’t text me,” he choked out, his voice thick and wobbly. “i thought… i thought you were tired of me. i was sitting here planning how to drive to miyagi at midnight just to check if you still liked my face. and then i open the door and you’re here. with bags. tell me those bags mean what i think they mean.”
“i’m moving in, tetsu,” you murmured, rubbing his back. “i’m staying.”
a sound escaped him, a jagged, pathetic little sob-laugh. he pulled back just enough to frame your face in his large, warm palms. his eyes were wet, sparkling with a level of adoration that felt almost heavy.
“i love you so much it’s actually embarrassing,” he rambled, his words tripping over each other. “i was so scared. i was genuinely terrified that i’d finally annoyed you into silence. but you’re here. in my house. you’re going to be in that room i decorated. you’re going to be in my kitchen. i’m going to see you every morning? i’m going to wake up and you’ll just… be there? i don’t think you understand. i’m going to be the most annoying roommate in history. i’m never letting you leave this apartment. i’ll lock the door and throw the key into the sumida river. i’ll be your personal chef, your foot massager, your bodyguard, anything.”
he kissed you then, and it wasn’t a ‘welcome home’ kiss. it was a ‘i have been starving for you and finally, i am full’ kiss. it tasted like relief and far too much caffeine.
he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, his chest still heaving. “i have the guest room ready, but just so you know, my bed is much bigger and i have a heated blanket. just a suggestion. a humble proposal from your very desperate, very relieved boyfriend.”
you laughed, feeling the vibration of his own chuckles against your lips. kuroo was a lot of things, a dork, a former captain, but standing there in his living room, he was mostly just a man who had successfully trapped his favorite person in the world, and he looked like he’d just won the olympics, the lottery, and a lifetime supply of your attention all at once.
ps. you didn’t sleep in the guest room that night, or any other night for that matter.
n: all i could think about while writing this is his back, like mmm back muscles..
timeskip!MSBY!miya atsumu x f!reader
bf!atsumu being utterly obsessed with your existence.
the speedometer of the black suv was currently doing a very suggestive dance toward numbers that would make a highway patrolman weep, all because at 11:47 pm, a certain text bubble had appeared on atsumu’s lock screen.
it wasn’t a summon. it wasn’t an emergency. it was a casual, sleepy, “kinda miss ya, tsumu,” followed by a sad emoji.
most professional athletes would have smiled, sent a heart back, and gone to sleep to preserve their precious fast-twitch muscle fibers for morning practice. atsumu, however, possessed the impulse control of a golden retriever in a tennis ball factory. he was out of his silk sheets and into his keys before the phone screen had even dimmed.
he drove like his car had unresolved childhood issues, taking corners with the kind of audacity that suggested he viewed traffic laws as mere suggestions for people who weren’t deeply, pathologically in love. his heart was doing a drum solo against his ribs, a rhythmic chant of she-misses-me-she-misses-me-she-misses-me.
when he finally pulled up to your apartment, tires practically steaming, he didn’t even wait for the elevator. he took the stairs two at a time, lungs burning with a fire that had nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with the fact that he was about to see the only person who made his brain chemistry resemble a glitter bomb.
you opened the door in your oversized pajamas, blinking at him with sleep-heavy eyes. “tsumu? what are you—it’s midnight.”
he didn’t say a word. he just stepped into your space, smelling like cool night air and expensive cologne, and wrapped his arms around your waist so tightly it felt like he was trying to merge your molecular structures. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
“ya said ya missed me,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. “did ya think i was gonna just sit at home after that? i’m not made of stone, darlin’.”
you laughed, the sound warm and melodic, as your hands found the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “i said kinda miss you. i didn’t realize that was a signal for a high-speed pursuit.”
atsumu pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and shimmering with a devotion so intense it was bordering on a medical concern. he looked at you the way an ancient civilization might look at a solar eclipse—with a mixture of terror and absolute awe.
“well, i’m a sucker for you so you don’t have a choice now,” he chirped, his trademark smirk tilting his lips, though his eyes remained terrifyingly sincere.
he said it with a wink, draped in the casual armor of a joke, but as he hoisted you up so your legs wrapped around his waist, he knew it wasn't a joke at all. he was a goner. he was a puddle. he was a man who would happily jump into a volcano if you mentioned you liked the aesthetic of lava.
“you really drove all the way across town for a text?” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his.
“i’d walk across the ocean on my hands if ya told me ya were lonely,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful edge for something raw and hungry. “yer my entire world. yer the sun, the moon, and every single star in the sky, and i’m just a little satellite loopin’ around ya forever. i’m yours. lock, stock, and barrel.”
he peppered your face with kisses—tiny, frantic, reverent touches on your temples, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. he treated your skin like it was made of thin glass and ancient magic.
atsumu thrived on this. he lived for the dramatic late-night arrivals, the over-the-top declarations, the way his chest felt like it was going to burst whenever you smiled at him. he didn’t want a quiet, sensible love. he wanted the kind of love that required a warning label.
he carried you to the sofa, refusing to let go for even a second, as if the moment he lost physical contact, he might simply cease to exist. he tucked your head under his chin, his large hand splayed across your back, grounding you both.
“stay the night?” you asked, already feeling your eyes drift shut against the steady, frantic thrum of his pulse.
“try and kick me out,” he challenged, his grip tightening. “i’m stayin’ right here. i’m gonna watch ya sleep like a beautiful, golden-haired gargoyle. i’m the luckiest man in history. call the museums, tell ‘em they can stop lookin’ for the eighth wonder of the world, ‘cause she’s currently usin’ my arm as a pillow.”
you drifted off to the sound of his voice—a soft, rambling stream of consciousness about how your eyelashes were ‘unfairly long’ and how he was going to buy you a literal castle one day just to see if it matched your eyes.
atsumu stayed awake for hours, staring at you with a look of such profound, unadulterated worship that it would have been alarming to anyone else. but to him, it was the only way to breathe. he was sinking into the depths of you, and he had no intention of ever coming up for air.
𓏵
the next morning, atsumu was already vibrating at a frequency that could probably shatter fine china. he hadn’t slept—not because he couldn’t, but because watching you breathe felt like a more productive use of his limited time on earth. he’d spent four hours memorizing the exact cadence of your heart against his chest, convinced that if he listened hard enough, he’d learn the secrets of the universe.
“mornin’, sunshine,” he chirped the second your eyelids fluttered. he was already propped up on one elbow, looking like he’d been hit by a bolt of divine lightning. “i made coffee. well, i found the coffee. i didn’t wanna leave the bed ’cause i thought ya might float away if i wasn’t holdin’ onto ya, so i just… stared at the machine until it felt intimidated enough to start brewin’.”
he hadn’t actually intimidated the machine; he’d just lunged out of bed at 6:00 am, sprinting to the kitchen to ensure everything was perfect before sprinting back to resume his position as your personal space-heater.
you groaned softly, burrowing deeper into his side. “tsumu, you’re hovering.”
“i ain’t hoverin’, i’m protectin’ the love of my life,” he corrected, his hand tracing the curve of your shoulder with a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “do ya have any idea how much i adore ya? it’s actually physically painful. like, my ribs are too small for my heart right now. i think i need a medical professional, or maybe just another kiss. yeah, definitely a kiss.”
he didn’t wait for a response before smothering your face in soft, lingering affection. he tasted like mint and desperation. it was the kind of devotion that felt like being wrapped in a heavy, heated blanket—suffocating in the best way possible.
𓏵
later that evening, the msby black jackals were gathered at a noisy izakaya for a team dinner. atsumu was sitting between bokuto and hinata, looking uncharacteristically focused on his phone. his thumb was blurring across the screen, sending a barrage of stickers that ranged from ‘miss u’ to a cartoon fox weeping violently.
“atsumu, you’ve been staring at that screen for twenty minutes,” hinata noted, leaning over. “is something wrong with the wifi?”
“the wifi is fine, sho, but my soul is currently empty,” atsumu sighed dramatically, leaning back so far he nearly tipped his chair. “i haven’t seen my girl in six hours. six. hours. do ya know what happens to a plant without water? it withers. i’m witherin’, guys. look at my skin. am i turnin’ grey?”
sakusa, sitting across from him, looked genuinely pained. “you saw her this morning. you’re being a nuisance.”
“you wouldn’t understand, omi! you don’t have a muse! you don’t have a reason to wake up in the mornin’ other than spite and hand sanitizer!” atsumu clutched his chest, his voice rising to a theatrical pitch. “when she looks at me, i feel like i’ve won the lottery, the olympics, and a lifetime supply of fatty tuna all at once. i’m a changed man. i’m a soft, gooey mess and i don’t even care who knows it.”
“we all know it,” meian muttered, nursing his drink. “you spent the entire practice today trying to serve the ball in the shape of a heart.”
“and i almost pulled it off!” atsumu defended, his eyes lighting up as the door to the izakaya opened.
the second you walked in, the transformation was instantaneous. atsumu practically launched himself across the room like a heat-seeking missile. he reached you in three strides, nearly tripping over a stray shoe in his haste to occupy your immediate vicinity.
“ya came! ya actually came!” he beamed, his hands hovering over your waist as if he needed permission to touch the sun. “i was worried the sidewalk might’ve swallowed ya whole or maybe a talent scout saw ya walkin’ and realized ya were too beautiful for this mundane world and whisked ya away to be a movie star.”
you laughed, patting his cheek. “i was just stuck in traffic, tsumu. it’s only been a few hours.”
“a few hours is a lifetime in miya-time,” he declared, ushering you toward the table with the frantic energy of a shepherd guarding a prize lamb.
he spent the rest of the dinner practically vibrating. he didn’t eat his own food; he spent his time peeling shrimp for you, topping off your drink before it was even half-empty, and leaning in so close that your shoulders were permanently fused. every time you spoke, he watched you with such intense, starry-eyed focus that the rest of the team felt like they were intruding on an intimate ritual.
“is he always like this?” inunaki whispered to you, gesturing to atsumu, who was currently trying to explain to bokuto why your hair smelled better than a summer meadow.
“pretty much,” you smiled, leaning back against atsumu’s chest.
he immediately curled his arms around you, tucking his chin onto your shoulder. he looked like a cat that had successfully claimed the only sunbeam in the house.
“i’m a goner,” he murmured into your ear, loud enough for the whole table to hear, his voice thick with a terrifyingly sweet sincerity. “i’d let ya drive a tractor over my foot if it meant ya’d hold my hand while i was in the hospital. i’m absolutely pathetic for ya, darlin’. i’m the president, secretary, and sole member of the ‘i love you, y/n’ fan club, and i’m never resignin’.”
he looked at his teammates, a defiant, giddy glint in his eyes. “laugh all ya want, ya losers. i’ve got the prettiest girl in the world in my arms and i’m never lettin’ go. i’m gonna cling to her like a barnacle on a luxury cruise ship. i’m the king of the world!”
the rest of the night was a blur of atsumu being utterly, shamelessly whipped. he carried your bag, he opened every door with a flourish, and when he finally walked you back to your car, he looked like he was about to burst into actual tears at the prospect of a fifteen-minute drive apart.
“call me when ya get home?” he pleaded, holding your hand through the open window. “even if it’s just to tell me ya saw a cool rock? i just need to know yer okay. i’m a psycho, remember? a total, complete, uncurable nutcase for ya.”
he leaned in for one last kiss—one that tasted like a promise and felt like a permanent home.
n: it might take long for the next fics since the taglist is ENORMOUS 😮💨 not complaining much, i bought this upon myself thinking that i’ll be ignored, torched, tortured, and beheaded.
your electric touch, got me feeling like i might fold.
oikawa tōru x f!reader
basically just tōru being hopelessly in love with you.
the grand king of aoba johsai is a liar.
it’s a well-documented fact, really. he lies about how much milk bread he’s eaten, he lies about how much his knee hurts, and he most certainly lies about the state of his nervous system whenever you are within a five-mile radius. oikawa operates on a level of theatricality that would make a broadway lead look humble, strutting across the court with a smirk so sharp it could probably slice through the volleyball net.
but here’s the secret: his confidence is a house of cards, and you are a category 5 hurricane.
“i’m simply saying,” oikawa chirps, leaning against the gymnasium wall with a practiced, casual grace that he definitely rehearsed in his bedroom mirror for twenty minutes this morning. “that if you were to witness my jump serve from the front row today, you might actually experience a spiritual awakening. i’m in top form. i’m lethal. i’m basically a biological weapon of mass destruction.”
he’s doing the thing. the thing where he tosses his hair—which is suspiciously soft-looking—and looks at you through his lashes like he’s trying to sell you a luxury perfume you can’t afford. he’s a flirt by trade, a heartbreaker by reputation, and a complete disaster by nature.
you aren't really listening to his lecture on his own greatness. instead, you’re looking at the way his pulse is thrumming at the base of his throat. you reach out, your movements slow and nonchalant, and let your fingertips graze the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, right where his pulse point is jumping like a frantic grasshopper.
the effect is instantaneous.
the sentence ‘i am the pinnacle of athletic evolution’ dies a gruesome death in his throat. oikawa’s entire skeletal structure seems to liquefy. if he were a computer, this is the exact moment the blue screen of death would appear, accompanied by a very loud, high-pitched mechanical whirring sound.
his fingers twitch. the volleyball he was spinning on his other hand hits the floor with a pathetic thud and rolls away, forgotten.
“tōru?” you hum, your voice tilted with genuine curiosity as you trace a small, slow circle over the bone of his wrist. “you stopped talking. did the ‘biological weapon’ run out of batteries?”
oikawa’s brain is currently a soup of static and screaming. he is staring at your hand like it’s a holy relic and a live grenade at the same time. his heart is performing a drum solo against his ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that says ‘oh god, she touched us, abort mission, evacuate the building, tell my mother i love her.’
he swallows hard. his throat feels like he’s trying to gulp down a whole cactus.
“i—uh,” he starts. his voice cracks. not a cool, edgy crack. a ‘thirteen-year-old boy going through puberty’ crack. he clears his throat, desperately trying to grab the tattered remains of his dignity from the floor. “i was just… pausing for dramatic effect. to let the weight of my brilliance sink in.”
“you’re shaking,” you point out, your eyes dancing with warmth. you aren't trying to be mean; you just find it genuinely endearing that the boy who gets confessed to ten times a week is currently vibrating like a smartphone.
“shaking with power,” oikawa lies through his teeth. he is actively folding into himself. his knees feel like they’ve been replaced by overcooked udon noodles. he wants to pull his hand away to save face, but the lizard brain responsible for his survival is screaming ‘NO, STAY, LET HER TOUCH YOU MORE, PERHAPS IF YOU’RE LUCKY SHE’LL PAT YOUR HEAD AND YOU CAN DIE HAPPY.’
he is so deeply, pathologically gone for you that it’s actually a safety hazard. iwaizumi often tells him he looks like a kicked puppy when you leave the room, but oikawa prefers the term ‘pining aristocrat.’
in reality, he’s just a boy who has built his entire personality around being untouchable, only to find out that your touch is the only thing that makes him feel like he’s actually standing on solid ground.
“you have a smudge on your face,” you lie, stepping a fraction closer.
the proximity is the final nail in his coffin. oikawa can smell your shampoo—something sweet and soft that makes him want to bury his face in your neck and never emerge back into society. he is a man of many words, most of them annoying, but as you lean in, he becomes a man of zero words. he is a man of zero thoughts. he is a man of white noise.
you reach up, your thumb brushing his cheekbone.
oikawa’s eyes flutter shut. he’s supposed to say something witty. he’s supposed to wink. he’s supposed to tell you that he’s the one who does the flirting around here. instead, he leans into your hand with a tiny, involuntary whimper that he will later deny ever happened, even under threat of torture.
“there,” you whisper, your fingers lingering. “all gone.”
when he opens his eyes, he looks absolutely dazed, like he’s just been hit by a freight train made of marshmallows. he’s staring at you with a level of raw, unadulterated devotion that is honestly borderline embarrassing. he wants to melt into a puddle at your feet. he wants to write your name on every volleyball in the equipment shed. he wants to follow you home and sit on your porch like a gargoyle just to make sure you’re safe.
“you’re… so mean,” he breathes out, though his expression says please do that again or i will perish. “i’m mean? for helping you?”
“it’s a distraction!” he suddenly shouts, waving his arms around with the frantic energy of a man trying to put out a fire with a toothpick. “i have a practice match! i have to be a cold-blooded killer on the court! how am i supposed to serve a ball when my entire body feels like it’s been put through a blender? you’re sabotaging aoba johsai! you’re a spy! a beautiful, terrifying spy sent to ruin my life!”
you laugh, a bright, melodic sound that makes oikawa’s heart do a backflip and land in his stomach. “i think you’ll manage, tōru. you’re the grand king, remember?”
he huffs, crossing his arms and pouting in a way that is far too cute for a six-foot-tall athlete. he’s trying to look annoyed, but the faint pink dusting his ears gives him away. he is so hopelessly whipped that it’s a wonder he hasn't started barking yet.
“yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, though his eyes are soft and melting as they trace your features. “just don’t complain when i lose my focus because i’m too busy thinking about your hands. that’s on you. that’s your burden to bear.”
“i’ll take the blame,” you promise, patting his chest.
his breath hitches. his heart does a little dance. he watches you walk away toward the bleachers, and for a solid thirty seconds, he forgets how to use his legs. he just stands there, a premier setter and the pride of his school, looking like he’s just seen a vision of the afterlife.
iwaizumi walks up behind him and smacks him on the back of the head. “get a grip, loserkawa. the ball is over there.”
oikawa doesn't even complain about the physical assault. he just sighs, a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.
“iwa,” he whispers, clutching his wrist where you touched him like it’s been plated in gold. “i think i’m going to marry that girl. i don't think i have a choice. my soul has left my body. i am an empty vessel now.”
“you’re an idiot,” iwaizumi mutters, but oikawa doesn't hear him.
he’s too busy trying to figure out how to get you to touch his other wrist.
the match starts ten minutes later, and oikawa is, predictably, a disaster for the first three points. he steps up to the service line, spins the ball, and looks at you in the stands.
you wave.
oikawa’s brain immediately short-circuits. he tosses the ball, swings, and sends it flying directly into the back of kindaichi’s head with the force of a thousand suns.
“oikawa!” the coach screams.
oikawa stands there, frozen, his face burning a shade of red that shouldn't be biologically possible. he looks at his hand, then at you, then at the floor. he’s folding. he’s folded. he is a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom of a trash can.
he flashes you a shaky, desperate thumbs-up, his smile trembling at the edges.
“all part of the plan!” he yells, his voice an octave too high. “tactical error! i’m in control!”
he is not in control. he is a man possessed by the memory of your thumb on his cheek, and as he prepares for the next serve, he knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to earn that look you gave him—the one that makes him feel like the only person in the world who matters.
he’s desperate, he’s a mess, and he’s never been happier to be completely and utterly defeated.
oikawa tōru is a liar, but as he catches your eye again, the way he leans toward your presence like a flower to the sun is the most honest thing he’s ever done.
he’s going to buy you so much milk bread after this.
𓏵
the “tactical error” of hitting his own teammate in the skull is a brand new low, even for him. as the whistle blows for a timeout, oikawa practically evaporates toward it. iwaizumi is looking at him with the kind of expression usually reserved for a dog that’s just tracked mud all over a white carpet, but oikawa is too busy vibrating to care.
he reaches for his water bottle, but his fingers are still buzzing from that brief contact earlier. his hand shakes so violently that he nearly splashes water into his own eye.
“oikawa, if you don’t stop acting like a victorian maiden with the vapors, i’m going to kick you into the equipment room and lock the door,” iwaizumi hisses, looming over him.
“iwa, you don’t understand,” oikawa whispers, his voice sounding like it’s being squeezed through a straw. he looks over his shoulder, squinting toward your spot in the bleachers. “she’s looking at me. she’s doing that thing where her eyes get all crinkly at the corners and i think my soul is actually leaking out of my ears. i’m losing my structural integrity. i’m becoming a gas.” states of matter who?
“you’re becoming a nuisance. play the game.”
oikawa tries. he really, truly tries. he stands back up, rolls his shoulders, and attempts to summon the ‘grand king’ persona. he adjusts his knee supporter. he narrows his eyes. he looks like a lethal, focused predator. then, he catches a glimpse of you leaning over the railing to cheer, and he immediately trips over his own feet while walking onto the court.
he performs a graceful, slow-motion slide that ends with him face-down on the polished wood.
the gym goes silent.
oikawa stays there for a second, cheek pressed against the floor, contemplating if he can simply melt into the floorboards and live the rest of his life as a piece of gym equipment. it would be easier. floors don’t have heart palpitations.
“i’m okay!” he chirps from the ground, muffled and miserable. “just checking the wax quality! it’s superb! ten out of ten!”
he scrambles up, his face a shade of magenta. he manages to survive the rest of the set by sheer muscle memory, though every time he hears your voice call his name, his sets go about three inches higher than they’re supposed to. he’s overcompensating. he’s performing like a circus animal hoping for a treat. he is, in every sense of the word, a goner.
the moment the match ends—a victory, miraculously, mostly because iwaizumi started threatening to bury oikawa in the sand pit if he missed one more serve—oikawa is a blur of motion. he doesn’t even wait to change. he grabs his bag, splashes some water on his face to stop the literal steam from rising off his skin, and sprints toward the exit where you’re waiting.
he stops three feet away from you, chest heaving. he tries to lean coolly against a pillar, but he misjudges the distance and his elbow slips, causing him to do a little awkward jig to stay upright.
“so,” he pants, flashing a smile that is about 40% charisma and 60% pure, unadulterated panic. “did you see that? the way i strategically fell? it was a psychological tactic to make the opponents overconfident. very advanced stuff. you wouldn’t understand the complexities of my genius.”
“it was very graceful, tōru,” you say, reaching out to straighten his rumpled collar.
his heart rate hits a tempo that could rival a techno song. your knuckles graze the skin of his neck, and oikawa’s eyes go wide, his pupils dilating until his chocolate-brown irises are practically gone. he looks like a cat that’s just seen a ghost.
“you… you’re doing it again,” he squeaks.
“doing what?”
“being… like that!” he gestures vaguely at your entire existence. “existing! in my personal space! making me feel like i’m made of marshmallows!”
you laugh, and the sound is so sweet it makes his teeth ache. without thinking, you slide your hand down from his collar and take his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers.
oikawa tōru ceases to function.
his hand is large, calloused from thousands of repetitions at the net, but it feels like it’s made of lead the moment you squeeze it. he stares down at your joined hands. his brain is just playing a loop of high-pitched whistling. he’s hyper-aware of everything: the warmth of your palm, the way your thumb is idly stroking the back of his hand, the fact that he is definitely, 100%, about to pass out in front of the vending machines.
“your hand is really warm,” you comment, looking up at him with a soft, genuine smile.
oikawa makes a noise. it isn’t a word. it’s a tiny, strangled “mnh.”
he is currently undergoing a spiritual crisis. he wants to pull you into a hug and hide his face in your shoulder so nobody can see how much he’s blushing, but he’s also terrified that if he moves, he’ll break the spell. he is a man standing on the edge of a cliff, and you just gave him a gentle nudge.
“walk me to the station?” you ask.
“i—yes. station. trains. transportation. i am familiar with these concepts,” he babbles.
as you walk, he’s basically walking on air, except ‘walking on air’ involves him occasionally bumping into trash cans because he can’t stop looking at you. he’s holding your hand like it’s the most fragile, precious diamond in the world. his palm is a little sweaty—he’s mortified about it, truly, he’s screaming internally about his ‘hygiene’—but you don’t seem to care, which only makes him fall deeper into the abyss of his own devotion.
he’s thinking about the future. he’s thinking about how he’s going to have to win the nationals just so he can dedicate the trophy to you. he’s thinking about how he wants to buy you a giant stuffed bear, but then he realizes he’d be jealous of the bear because it gets to sit on your bed.
he is a terrifyingly competitive athlete, but right now, the only ‘win’ he cares about is the fact that you haven’t let go of his hand yet.
“tōru, you’re staring again,” you tease, swinging your joined hands back and forth.
“i’m not staring,” he lies, his voice full of a tenderness that betrays him completely. “i’m observing. i’m a setter, remember? it’s my job to analyze beautiful… i mean, important… things. i’m analyzing your face. for science.”
“and what does the science say?”
oikawa stops walking. the sun is setting, casting a golden-orange glow over the street, and it catches in your eyes in a way that makes his heart do a painful, soaring leap. he looks at you, and for a split second, the flirting stops. the big talk vanishes. the grand king retreats, leaving behind just a boy who is so profoundly, ridiculously in love that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
he leans down, his face inches from yours. his breath is shaky. he smells like sports drink and adrenaline and something uniquely tōru.
“the science says,” he whispers, his voice dropping into a low, velvety register that makes your own heart skip a beat. “that i’m completely at your mercy. and it’s actually really embarrassing, so you’re not allowed to tell anyone, okay?”
you giggle and stand on your tiptoes, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
oikawa doesn’t move. he stays frozen in that bent-over position for a full ten seconds after you pull away. his brain has finally, mercifully, completely short-circuited. there is no more oikawa. there is only a shell of a man who has been kissed by a goddess.
“tōru?”
he slowly stands up straight, his face a ghostly pale before turning a violent, neon red. he looks like he’s about to burst into tears or song, possibly both.
“i’m buying you a house,” he blurts out. “right now. i don’t have the money, but i’ll figure it out. i’ll sell my soul. i’ll sell iwa’s soul. he wasn’t using it anyway.”
“a house? we’re just going to the station, tōru.”
“it starts with a station! then a house! then a golden retriever! then a small army of children who all have your face!” he’s rambling now, his hands flying everywhere as he walks twice as fast as before, his legs suddenly working on high-octane fuel. “you can’t just do that! you can’t just kiss a man’s cheek and expect him to remain a functioning member of society! i’m a delicate flower! i’m a treasure!”
you catch up to him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. he’s still talking, listing off all the ways you’ve ‘ruined’ him, but he hasn’t let go of your hand for even a second. in fact, he’s holding it tighter now, his thumb tracing over your knuckles with a frantic, devoted rhythm.
he’s big, he’s loud, and he talks a game that could move mountains. but as he pulls you closer to his side, shielding you from a passing cyclist with a protective arm, it’s clear that the grand king has finally found his queen—and he’s more than happy to spend the rest of his life surrendering.
n: an 8th grade classmate hits me up and tries to make conversation with me, but apparently i’m too stupid to catch on hints so i just kept shutting him down. he’s still trying though.
oikawa has a fat crush on you, a human brick wall.
wc: 3.2k, request
the floor of the aoba johsai gymnasium was cold, hard, and unforgiving, which was fitting because it perfectly matched the emotional vibe you had been radiating for the last forty-five minutes.
oikawa was currently defying several laws of physics and human dignity by sprawling himself across the polished wood, his chin resting on his crossed forearms as he tracked your every move. to the untrained eye, he looked like a golden retriever that had been left out in the rain and was now begging for scraps. to iwaizumi, he looked like a pathetic biohazard that needed to be swept into a dustpan and thrown into the nearest incinerator.
but to you? you were just putting your water bottle into your duffel bag.
“y/n-chan,” oikawa crooned, his voice hitting a pitch that only dogs and desperately lonely teenagers could hear. “did you see my serve today? the one where i absolutely obliterated the water bottle on the other side? it was like a meteor strike. a beautiful, majestic, athletic marvel.”
you pulled the zipper of your bag shut. the noise it made was significantly louder than your actual response.
“yeah,” you said.
oikawa’s soul practically left his body and did a little victory dance before slamming back into his ribcage. ‘yeah. she said yeah!’ that was an affirmative! that was a confirmation of his existence! she had perceived him!
“wasn’t it amazing? didn’t it make your heart do a little flip-flop? like a pancake?” he scrambled to his knees, ignoring the protesting creak of his joints. his brown eyes were wide, glittering with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, and if he had a tail, it would have been clearing the equipment off the nearby benches. “i practice that just for you, you know. to dazzle you. to sweep you off your feet so violently that you require medical attention.”
“cool,” you replied.
you slung the bag over your shoulder and stood up. you didn’t look at him with disdain, which was the tragedy of it. you didn’t look at him with annoyance. you looked at him with the calm, neutral serenity of a person observing a moderately interesting boulder.
oikawa clutched his chest, gasping for air as if you had just physically reached in and squeezed his lungs. he was so violently down bad for you that it was actively lowering his blood pressure. he was a puddle. a heap of absolute mush. if you told him to go bark at a passing car, he would ask which brand of sedan you preferred him to target.
iwaizumi walked past, dribbling a volleyball, and used his free hand to shove the back of oikawa’s head. “stop acting like a dying victorian maiden, shittykawa. she’s trying to go home.”
“iwa-chan, you brute! you’re interrupting a monumental romantic breakthrough!” oikawa shrieked, popping up to his feet like a jack-in-the-box powered by pure desperation. he smoothed down his alien-themed t-shirt and bounced over to your side, refusing to let the heavy atmosphere of your nonchalance crush his spirits. “y/n-chan, let me carry your bag. it looks heavy. it looks like it’s weighing down your delicate, beautiful shoulders, and as your future husband, it’s my sworn duty to protect your posture.”
“it’s just towel and a water bottle,” you noted, handing it to him anyway because, hey, free labor is free labor.
the way he seized that bag was nothing short of feral. he held it against his chest like it was a sacred relic containing the secrets of the universe, inhaling deeply as if your fabric softener was the finest french perfume. it was terrifying, really. if anyone else did it, you’d probably call the police. but oikawa carried an aura of chaotic, puppy-like sincerity that made his borderline deranged behavior feel strangely domestic.
you started walking toward the exit, and he fell into step beside you instantly, his stride matching yours with a precision that hinted at hours of subconscious practice.
“so,” oikawa started, his voice dripping with hopeful honey. “since we’re both done and the sun is setting in a highly cinematic fashion, would you care to accompany me to get milk bread? my treat. i’ll buy you anything you want. i’ll buy you the whole bakery. i’ll buy you the plot of land the bakery stands on.”
“sure,” you said, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets.
oikawa stopped dead in his tracks. his brain short-circuited. the internal gears jammed, sparks flew, and a tiny windows error sound echoed in the depths of his mind. sure. you didn’t say no. you didn’t give a vague excuse about having to wash your goldfish. you said sure. he covered his face with his free hand, letting out a high-pitched, muffled whine of pure, unadulterated adoration. you were destroying him. you were picking him apart atom by atom with single-syllable words. he was a grandmaster at volleyball, the great king of the court, a heartthrob with a fan club that required crowd control, and here he was, reduced to a quivering mess of jelly because a girl who talked like an automated text-to-speech program agreed to walk to a convenience store with him.
“y/n-chan,” he whined, jogging to catch up again, his face flushed a furious shade of pink. “you can’t just do that to a man’s heart. it’s fragile. it’s a delicate ecosystem. you are global warming and i am a helpless polar bear.”
“it’s just bread, tōru,” you said mildly.
hearing your voice utter his first name caused his knees to buckle. he actually stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe of the gym. “say it again.”
“what?”
“my name. say it again. put me in a coffin, y/n-chan. bury me six feet under with the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.”
you blinked at him. your face remained a masterpiece of blankness, though the corner of your mouth twitched by approximately half a millimeter. “tōru. let’s go.”
he let out a sound that could only be described as a tea kettle reaching maximum boiling capacity. he followed you out of the school gates, clutching your gym bag to his chest with enough force to fuse the fibers together, grinning like a complete and utter madman.
the walk to the convenience store was a masterclass in contrasting energies.
on the left, there was you: walking in a straight line, hands in pockets, looking like you were contemplating the existential dread of a monday morning. on the right, there was oikawa: vibrating at a frequency that was probably disruptive to local radar systems, talking at a rate of two hundred words per minute, and aggressively gesticulating with his free hand.
“and then i told matsukawa that there was no way his block was better than mine, because my blocks are fueled by the power of love and aesthetics, whereas his blocks are fueled by spite and bad memes. don’t you agree, y/n-chan? don’t you think my presence at the net is like a gorgeous, impassable brick wall made of marble and gold?”
“hmm.. well, you’re tall,” you offered.
oikawa pressed a hand to his forehead, reeling back as if you had struck him with a physical blow of overwhelming affection. “tall! she thinks i’m tall! i’m a giant in her eyes! a colossus! a titan of romance!”
“i mean, objectively. the door frames are a struggle for you.”
“it is a struggle i gladly bear for you! i will duck under every doorway in the world if it means i can stand by your side!” he leaned in closer, invading your personal space with zero shame and one hundred percent intent. his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn’t pull away. instead, he leaned into the contact, walking with a slight tilt just to maintain that friction. “you’re a little smaller compared to me. it’s adorable. i want to put you in my pocket and carry you around like a little hamster.”
“i would suffocate,” you noted, your voice monotone.
“worth it! the pure joy of being near me would sustain your oxygen levels!” he laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the quiet evening air.
it was a strange dynamic, and anyone watching from the outside would assume oikawa was harassing a very bored stranger. but the truth was, you weren’t bored at all. your heart was doing heavy metal drum solos against your ribs, and the warmth radiating from where his shoulder pressed against yours was making your ears burn. you just weren’t built for grand displays of emotion. your brain didn’t process feelings through your face or your vocal cords; it processed them by simply existing in the space someone carved out for you.
and oikawa was carving out a space the size of a small country.
you reached the convenience store, the little chime at the door announcing their arrival. oikawa immediately made a beeline for the bakery aisle, dragging you along by the sleeve of your jacket.
“okay, y/n-chan! the feast of champions! what do you want? chocolate? strawberry? this one that looks like a bear? i’ll buy them all. i’m a sugar daddy. i have pocket money and i’m not afraid to use it.”
“just the plain milk bread is fine,” you said, pointing to the shelf.
“classic! elegant! pure! just like your soul!” oikawa grabbed three packs of milk bread, a carton of strawberry milk for himself, and your favorite drink, which he had memorized three months ago after intense, covert observation that borderlined on espionage.
at the counter, he paid with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary for a transaction involving baked goods. he took the plastic bag from the cashier, hooked it over his finger, and beamed down at you.
“to the park! to consume our victory meal under the stars!”
the park was mostly empty, save for a few stray pigeons and the distant sound of traffic. you both sat down on a wooden bench under a streetlight that cast a warm, yellow glow around you. the air was crisp, carrying the scent of cut grass and the looming promise of spring.
oikawa tore open a pack of milk bread and held it out to you with both hands, looking like he was offering a sacrifice to an ancient, powerful deity. “the finest bread in the prefecture for the finest girl in the universe.”
“thanks,” you said. you took a bite. it was soft, sweet, and comforting.
oikawa ripped off a piece of his own bread and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing happily. for a few glorious seconds, there was silence. the boy who never stopped talking was actually quiet, his eyes fixed on the sky where the first few stars were starting to poke through the twilight.
you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. without the exaggerated expressions and the dramatic whining, oikawa was breathtakingly handsome. the soft yellow light of the street lamp hit the bridge of his nose and the sharp line of his jaw. his brown hair was messy from practice, a few strands falling over his forehead. he looked human. soft.
he caught you looking.
instead of teasing you or making a loud joke, his expression softened into something so tender it felt illegal to look at. his lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn’t reach for the cameras or the fan girls. it was just for you.
“y/n-chan,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing its performative edge. “you have a little bit of bread on your face.”
before you could lift your hand to wipe it away, he leaned in. his movements were slow, deliberate, giving you all the time in the world to pull back. you didn’t. you sat there, frozen, as his thumb gently brushed against the corner of your lips. his skin was warm, a little calloused from thousands of volleyball reps, but his touch was as light as a feather.
he didn’t pull his hand away immediately. his thumb lingered on your cheek, tracing a small, slow circle. his eyes were dark, focused entirely on your face, and the sheer gravity of his gaze made you feel like you were being pulled into orbit around him.
“you’re really pretty,” he murmured.
your heart skipped a beat. then it skipped another one. your face, usually a fortress of indifference, betrayed your face burning so hot it could rival the sun. “it’s dark. you can’t see.”
“i have 20/20 vision when it comes to you, my love,” he whispered, leaning in a fraction closer. his breath smelled faintly of sweetness. “i could see your beauty in a pitch-black cave during a power outage. i could feel it. you radiate it.”
you swallowed hard. your vocabulary, which was already limited to bare-minimum survival phrases, had completely evaporated. you were running on emergency backup systems.
“tōru,” you managed to say, your voice a little breathless.
“yes, darling? light of my life? center of my solar system?” he was smiling now, a blinding, beautiful thing that made you want to hide your face in his jacket.
“your face is very close.”
“is it? i hadn’t noticed. maybe i should get closer to investigate the phenomenon,” he teased, though his eyes weren’t joking at all. he looked at you with such intense, unbridled devotion that it made you feel like the most important person to ever walk the earth.
you gathered all the emotional energy you possessed, reached up, and placed your hand over his, which was still resting on your cheek. your hand was smaller, cooler, but as soon as you made contact, oikawa’s eyes widened.
you didn’t pull his hand away. you just held it there, leaning your face slightly into his palm.
“i like you too,” you said. it was simple. it was plain. it lacked the metaphors about polar bears and ancient gods. but it was yours.
oikawa ceased to function.
he didn’t scream. he didn’t faint. he just stared at you, his mouth falling open slightly, his eyes blowing wide. a single tear, dramatic and glistening, actually welled up in the corner of his left eye.
“y/n-chan,” he breathed, his voice cracking like a middle schooler going through puberty. “did you... did you just confess to me? is this real? am i dreaming? iwa-chan definitely hit me too hard with a volleyball and i’m currently in a coma in the nurse’s office.”
“you’re not in a coma,” you said, pulling your hand back, though the blush on your face hadn’t faded one bit. “don’t make me take it back.”
“no! absolutely not! no refunds! no returns! the transaction is complete!” oikawa surged forward, wrapping his long arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. he squeezed you so tightly you could hear the air leaving your lungs in a soft huff. “oh my god, you like me. you actually like me. i’m the luckiest man alive. i’m the king of the world. aliens are real and they are witnessing my triumph.”
you sat there, engulfed in the scent of sweat, expensive shampoo, and strawberry milk, feeling the violent thudding of his heart against your chest. you slowly raised your arms and wrapped them around his broad shoulders, patting his back awkwardly.
“tōru, you’re squishing me.”
“i’m fusing our atoms together so we never have to be apart!” he wailed into your shoulder, laughing and sniffing at the same time. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with a manic, overwhelming affection that made you dizzy. “this means we’re dating. i’m your boyfriend. i get to hold your hand in the hallways. i get to carry your books. i get to fight off all the unworthy peasants who dare to look in your general direction.”
“sure,” you said, the small, rare smile finally breaking through the ice of your expression.
oikawa let out another high-pitched noise of pure bliss and kissed your cheek. it was loud, sloppy, but it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to you.
𓏵
the next morning, the entire aoba johsai volleyball team was gathered in the gym for morning practice, but productivity was at an all-time low.
this was because oikawa was sitting on the bench, staring at a small, hair tie on his wrist with the expression of a man who had just been handed the keys to heaven.
“he’s been like that for twenty minutes,” matsukawa whispered, leaning on his broom. “it’s creepy. he looks like he’s trying to communicate with it telepathically.”
“it’s her hair tie,” hanamaki said, shaking his head in pity. “he stole it from her bag yesterday after she confessed. he told me he’s going to frame it and hang it over his bed.”
iwaizumi walked over to oikawa, holding a clipboard, and looked down at the captain with pure, unadulterated disgust. “shittykawa. if you don’t stand up and start stretching in the next five seconds, i’m going to serve a ball directly into your spine.”
oikawa didn’t even flinch. he just lifted his wrist, pointing to the hair tie. “iwa-chan, look at it. look at the craftsmanship. the elastic integrity. the subtle hue of emerald green. she gave it to me.”
“she didn’t give it to you, you kleptomaniac, you took it when she wasn’t looking,” iwaizumi snapped.
“she didn’t stop me! that is a non-verbal agreement of romantic entanglement!” oikawa stood up, clutching his chest dramatically, his eyes shining with tears of joy. “you cannot comprehend the depth of our connection, iwa-chan. we speak on a higher plane. she says ‘yeah’ and it means ‘i love you with the burning passion of a thousand supernovas’. she says ‘sure’ and it means ‘let us elope to a tropical island and build a dynasty of gorgeous, athletic children’.”
you chose that exact moment to walk into the gym, holding a stack of clipboards for the coach. you had your normal, unreadable expression on your face, your hands moving mechanically as you set the clipboards down on the table.
oikawa’s head whipped around so fast he probably gave himself whiplash. “y/n-chan! my beloved! the morning sun of my life!”
he bolted across the gym floor, sliding on his knees for the last three feet until he was bowing at your feet, resting his forehead against your sneakers.
“good morning,” you said, looking down at his brown hair.
“it is a glorious morning! the birds are singing, the sky is blue, and you are here to bless my eyes with your presence!” he looked up at you, his chin resting on your shoe, blinking with massive, watery puppy eyes. “give me a percentage, y/n-chan. how much do you love me today? on a scale from one to a billion?”
you looked at him for a long, quiet moment. the entire gym went dead silent, everyone holding their breath to see how the resident dry-humored manager would handle the absolute weapon of mass affection kneeling at her feet.
you reached down and patted the top of his head twice, like you were praising a particularly obedient golden retriever.
“hundred.” you said.
oikawa let out a noise that sounded like a deflating balloon, collapsing entirely onto the floor in a heap of pure, unadulterated bliss, fully convinced that he was the main character of the greatest romance novel ever written.
n: as you can see, i gave up on not using honorifics since it gives life whenever it’s oikawa. also there’s a little height comparison PLEASE PLEASE DON’T TORCH ME
jake makes you jealous on purpose, and you make him regret it in the best way.
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 2.1k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, power bottom!male reader, bratty!jake, jealousy as foreplay, punishment sex, riding, edging, orgasm denial / control, heavy begging, unprotected sex (p in a), veryyyy slight face slapping, dirty talk, crying during sex, creampie, pathetic!jake.
the tension had been a living, breathing thing between you since the very moment jake had thrown that lazy, charming arm around your ex’s shoulders at the bar.
just to 'catch up', he’d said, his brown eyes wide with feigned innocence. but you’d seen the way his hand had lingered, the way he’d leaned in to laugh at something stupid, the way he’d glanced over at you from across the room, a tiny, infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
your boyfriend knew exactly what he was doing, and the fire that had ignited in your gut had burned through the rest of the night, fueling a silence in the car that was louder than any screaming match.
now, the front door of your apartment was barely closed before the atmosphere shifted from simmering to a full-blown inferno. you didn’t speak, you simply turned, your back to the door, and watched him. jake stood in the middle of the living room, all six feet of him looking suddenly smaller under the weight of your stare. his earlier bravado was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that made him shift his weight from foot to foot.
“the fuck was that, jake?” you asked, your voice low and calm. way too calm.
your boyfriend swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“it was nothing. just messing around.”
“messing around,” you repeated, pushing off from the door. you closed the distance between you slowly, each step deliberate. “you think it’s funny to make me watch you flirt with someone else?”
“wasn’t flirting,” jake mumbled.
his brown eyes dropped to the floor, and his shoulders were hunched, that confident, cocky bastard from the bar was now completely gone. in his place was this — a boy who couldn’t even meet your gaze, whose breath was already starting to quicken.
“just wanted to see you… y’know.”
you stopped inches from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. “see me what?”
jake finally looked up at you, and the raw need in his eyes was honestly staggering; his irises were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the brown.
“see you get mad. see you… care.”
a slow, dangerous smile spread across your face, and you slowly, slowly reached out, your fingers tracing the line of jake’s jaw before gripping his chin, forcing his head up a fraction higher.
“oh, i care, baby. i care a lot,” you leaned in, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “bedroom. now. and you’re going to do exactly what i say.”
a shiver ran through your boyfriend, and it was so intense it was almost a tremor.
“yeah,” he breathed, his voice already strained. “okay.”
the walk to the bedroom was a foregone conclusion. by the time you pushed jake onto the bed, his shirt was already off, discarded somewhere in the hallway, his chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm. you took your time undressing him, making him lift his hips for you to pull off his jeans and boxers.
jake was already fully hard, his cock flushed and leaking against his stomach, an indication to how much this game of his had already affected him.
you settled yourself on jake’s thighs, pinning him down with just your weight. his hands immediately came up to your hips, fingers digging in.
“you want to act like a brat,” you murmured, leaning over him to grab the lube from the nightstand. “you get treated like one.”
jake breath hitched. “fuck—yes.”
you slicked your fingers, watching his eyes flutter shut as you reached behind yourself to prepare.
your boyfriend was a sight — golden skin flushed pink, dark curls plastered to his forehead, his plush lower lip caught prettily between his teeth. when you finally positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, stretched entrance, a desperate whine escaped his throat.
“please,” he gasped, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
you tutted, slapping a hand flat against his stomach.
“uh-uh. i’ll let you know when you can move.”
slowly, agonizingly, you began to sink down.
the stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that stole your breath for a little second. above you, jake was a masterpiece of restraint; his hands were fisted in the sheets, knuckles completely white, every muscle in his body taut as a bowstring. a guttural groan was ripped from his chest as you took him all the way to the base, your ass flush against his hips.
“fuck, baby,” he choked out, his accent thickening on the last word. “so tight. feel so fuckin’ good.”
you gave yourself a moment to adjust, savoring the way his thighs trembled beneath you. then, finally, you started to move.
it was a slow, deliberate roll of your hips at first, a rhythm designed to torment him. you’d lift yourself almost all the way off, letting just the tip stretch you, before sinking back down with a wet, obscene sound. and each time, jake would let out a punched-out little 'ah', his head thrashing against the pillows.
“look at me,” you commanded.
jake’s eyes snapped open, glazed and desperate. they were fixed on where your bodies connected, watching himself disappear inside you over and over again. a flush crept up his neck, spreading across his cheekbones. he looked wrecked, and you’d only just started.
you changed the angle, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest, and began to ride him in earnest. you set a brutal pace, slamming yourself down onto him, chasing your own pleasure.
the room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, your shared gasps, and the increasingly loud, broken moans falling from jake’s lips.
“oh my god—fuck, fuck, fuck,” jake babbled, his hands flying from the sheets to your hips, his grip bruising. “like that, yeah, just like that, don’t stop—”
his hips unconsciously started to piston up to meet your movements, his control shattering.
you let him for a moment, letting the friction drive you both higher; you could feel jake getting thicker, harder inside you, a telltale sign that he was close. his rhythm became erratic, his thrusts desperate and jerky.
and that’s exactly when you stopped.
you lifted yourself off him completely, completely ignoring jake’s broken cry of protest. he was left on the bed, his cock slick and glistening, twitching against his stomach, his chest heaving.
“did i say you could fuck up into me?” you asked, your voice hard despite your own ragged breathing.
jake’s eyes were wide, wet at the corners.
“no, but—i was so close, please, i need—“
“you need?” you cut him off, straddling him again.
you reached down and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, squeezing here just hard enough to make him whimper.
“you need to remember who’s in charge here. you think you can pull that shit in public and just get to cum the second you want?”
tears were welling in jake’s eyes now, spilling over and tracking down his temples into his dark hair.
“m’sorry. i’m so sorry. please, just let me—i’ll be good, i swear i’ll be so good.”
you leaned down, your lips brushing against the salty tracks on his cheek. “oh, i know you will.”
you repositioned yourself and sank back onto him with one swift, brutal thrust.
the sound jake made was something between a sob and a scream, his back arching off the bed. you didn’t give him a second to recover; you started riding him again, harder this time, using your leverage to pound yourself onto him with a relentless fury.
jake’s composure was completely gone.
his accent, usually a soft, charming lilt, had thickened to a drawl so heavy it was almost unintelligible, each word dragged out of him on a sob.
“fuckin’ hell—can’t—too much, it’s too fuckin’ much,” he gasped, his hands scrabbling at your thighs, your hips, trying to slow you down or pull you closer, you couldn’t tell. “gonna—i’m gonna cum, i can’t—please, let me come, please, i’ll do anythin’.”
“no,” you said simply, slowing your pace to a deep, grinding swirl that made his eyes roll back. “you don’t get to cum until i say so.”
jake let out a sound of pure anguish, his head lolling to the side. his cock was pulsing inside you, impossibly hard, and you could feel every desperate throb.
you leaned back, bracing your hands on his knees for better leverage, and began to bounce on him again, taking him fast and shallow, letting the head of his cock slam against your prostate with every movement.
“oh, fuck—!” he screamed, his whole body seizing. “it’s right there, it’s fuckin’—i’m gonna—i’m gonna cum, you gotta let me, please, baby, please, please, please—“
jake was crying in earnest now, tears and snot mixing on his face, but he didn’t look anything but beautiful.
his pleas were a litany, a desperate prayer offered up to you. his accent was so thick you could practically taste it, wrapping around each word like honey.
“stoppin’ me,” jake begged, his voice cracking. “you’re fuckin’ killin’ me ‘ere. can’t take it. need it. need to cum so bad, i’ll fuckin’ die if i don’t. please, love, please.”
you reached forward and wrapped your hand around his throat, squeezing the slightest bit, feeling the frantic pulse of his heartbeat under your palm. with your other hand, you slapped him lightly across the face, just a sharp crack that made his eyes widen and his hips jerk.
“look at you,” you said, grinding down on him, holding him deep inside you. “so pathetic. you wanted my attention so bad? you have it. every. single. inch. of it.”
a high-pitched, keening whine left jake’s lips. his entire body was trembling violently, a fine tremor that shook the bed. jake was being held at the very edge, a hair's breadth away from falling, and you were the only thing keeping him from the plunge.
you leaned forward again, your face inches from his.
“you’re going to cum inside me,” you whispered, your rhythm finally faltering as your own climax began to build, a pressure coiling hot and tight in your belly. “but only when i tell you to. understand?”
jake nodded frantically, a jerky, desperate motion.
“yeah, anythin’. just tell me when. tell me when, please.”
you started moving again, a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm driven by the need for your own release.
you rode him hard, chasing the feeling, his desperate gasps and sobs a symphony in your ears. you could feel jake’s cock twitching, pulsing, his balls drawn up tight against your ass. he was holding on by the sheer force of his will, his face a mask of anguished ecstasy.
“now,” you gasped, the coil snapping as your own orgasm crashed through you, your inner walls clenching down on him like a vice. “now, jake. cum.”
the single word was jake’s undoing.
a raw, guttural shout was torn from his chest, his back bowing off the bed as he finally, finally let go. you felt the first hot pulse of his release deep inside you, then another, and another. he came so hard his entire body seized, his hands fisting in the sheets hard enough to tear them, his hips jerking up into you with each spasm.
jake’s mouth was open in a silent scream, tears still streaming down his face, and his accent was just a raw, guttural blur of sound that might have been your name.
he kept coming, more than you thought possible, jake’s cock was desperately pulsing inside you until he was completely spent, his body going limp beneath you. his chest was heaving, his eyes closed, his pretty face tear-streaked and utterly wrecked.
you stayed seated on jake for a long moment, letting him catch his breath, feeling the last aftershocks ripple through his body. finally, you lifted yourself off, collapsing onto the bed beside him. a trail of his release followed, warm and sticky against your skin.
the silence in the room was heavy, broken only by jake’s ragged breathing.
after a minute, jake turned his head on the pillow, his brown eyes finding yours; they were puffy and red-rimmed, but there was a deep, boneless satisfaction in them, a look of pure, utter contentment.
a small, wobbly smile touched his lips. jake’s voice was a wrecked, hoarse whisper, the aussie drawl still clinging to the edges of his words.
“so… d’you reckon that makes us even, or…?”
you couldn’t help it; a laugh burst out of you, breaking the last of the tension. you reached over, brushing the damp curls off jake’s forehead, your touch gentle now.
“not even close,” you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of jake’s swollen mouth. “but i guess it’s a good start.”