Too Touchy for Just Friends
vivian hugo x reader
genre: smut , wc: 3k , slight ooc
contains: virginity loss, pervert vivian, no protection sex.
Hugo was your best friend. You two were inseparable, like peas in a pod. You’d been with him since the beginning of his career, long before the fame, before the cameras constantly followed him around, before women started throwing themselves at him every chance they got. Back then, he was just Hugo—your Hugo. The boy who’d walk you home after school, steal fries off your plate, and complain endlessly whenever training got too hard.
You grew up side by side, practically attached at the hip. Sleepovers became normal. Sharing hoodies became normal. Sitting on his lap because there wasn’t enough space became normal. Everything about the two of you felt natural, effortless.
When you were younger, physical affection meant nothing between you. Holding hands while crossing the street, hugging each other after long days, leaning against him during movie nights—it was all innocent. Hugo never thought twice about it.
Until you both got older.
Because as the years passed, the two of you changed.
You matured. Your features softened and sharpened in all the right places at the same time, your body no longer resembling the awkward girl he used to run around with as kids. And Hugo changed too—broader shoulders, rougher hands, a deeper voice, a stronger presence. The two of you weren’t children anymore, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.
At first, he didn’t notice when things started affecting him differently.
Not when you’d casually sit beside him with your thigh pressed against his during long car rides.
Not when you’d throw your arms around his neck from behind after he came home exhausted from training.
Not when you’d wear his shirts around the house, the fabric hanging shorter on you than it used to.
But slowly, those little touches stopped feeling innocent to him.
Your hand lingering on his arm suddenly made his heartbeat stutter. The way you’d absentmindedly play with his fingers while talking made him lose focus entirely. Even something as simple as you laying your head on his chest during movie nights had him staring at the ceiling for hours afterward, unable to sleep.
And the worst part?
You had no idea, or so he thought so.
To you, it was still Hugo. Your best friend. The person you trusted most in the world.
But to him, every touch started meaning too much.
Especially because you were so comfortable with him.
You’d crawl into his bed without hesitation when you couldn’t sleep. You’d fix his hair while talking to him up close, your face inches away from his. Sometimes you’d grab his hand in public without even thinking, and Hugo would have to force himself not to squeeze back too hard, not to think too deeply about how perfectly your fingers fit between his.
He hated how affected he became.
Hated how his mind wandered whenever you sat too close. Hated how protective he got whenever other men looked at you too long. Hated how he started comparing every woman to you without even realizing it.
Because somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his best friend.
And Hugo knew he was completely fucked the moment those harmless little touches—the ones that once meant nothing—started driving him insane.
Hugo genuinely tried to ignore it at first.
He told himself it was temporary. Just hormones. Just stress. Just the result of spending too much time around you.
But it kept getting worse.
Painfully and physically worse.
Because you were still the same with him—completely unaware of what you were doing to him.
You’d plop down beside him after showering, hair still damp, wearing those tiny sleep shorts like it was nothing. You’d steal his hoodies and stretch in them lazily while talking, the fabric slipping off one shoulder without you noticing. Sometimes you’d climb onto his bed and rest your head on his thigh while scrolling through your phone, entirely oblivious to how hard his dick was.
And Hugo hated himself for reacting the way he did.
You were his best friend.
His best friend.
But his body didn’t seem to care anymore.
There were nights when he had to physically leave the room because you had become too comfortable with him. There were also nights when he would lock himself in the bathroom, stroking his dick and clutching the panties he had stolen from your laundry basket as if he were losing his mind. He felt disgusted by his behavior at times, especially because you had trusted him so much.
Meanwhile, you just kept touching him so casually.
Your fingers brushing against his stomach when you reached for something.
Your legs thrown across his lap during movie nights.
Your sleepy voice mumbling his name while half-asleep beside him.
Every little thing chipped away at his self-control.
Hugo wanted you in ways that terrified him.
It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It wasn’t some small crush he could bury under years of friendship and self-control. No—this was hunger. The kind that sat heavy in his chest (and dick) and followed him everywhere, turning every little interaction with you into torture.
Because you were so unaware.
So soft with him.
And Hugo was starting to lose his mind over it.
Sometimes he’d catch himself staring for too long. Watching the way your lips moved while you talked, the way your shorts rode up when you curled beside him on the couch, the way your body fit so perfectly against his whenever you hugged him. His thoughts would spiral instantly, filthy and relentless, before he could stop them.
He started clenching his jaw constantly around you.
He detested how every time these moments end and he returns home, he begins stroking his cock, fixated on the events that transpired.
Looking away whenever you bent over near him because he knew if he kept staring, he’d think about things he absolutely shouldn’t.
But it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Not when you’d absentmindedly sit on his lap like you used to as kids, completely oblivious to the way every muscle in his body immediately locked up. Not when you’d wrap your arms around him and press yourself close without hesitation, your warmth sinking into him so deeply it drove him insane afterward.
And God, your voice.
The sleepy little tone you used with him late at night nearly ruined him every time.
There were moments where Hugo genuinely thought he was going to snap.
Like the night you crawled into his bed after a nightmare, wearing one of his old shirts. You climbed beside him without a second thought, pressing close to his chest like you always did. Your leg tangled with his instinctively, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt while you mumbled his name sleepily.
Meanwhile, Hugo was fixated on the ceiling, his entire body on fire. He was worried you might notice the pent in his shorts.
Because all he could think about was you.
How warm you felt.
How good you smelled.
How easily he could wrap an arm around your waist and pull you impossibly closer.
He felt pathetic for how badly he wanted you.
Sometimes he’d leave after being around you and immediately feel consumed by guilt, because no matter how hard he tried, his mind always wandered somewhere dangerous. He started having to avoid touching you for too long because even the smallest contact affected him now.
Your hand on his chest.
Your nails dragging lightly across his arm.
Your thighs brushing his when you sat too close.
Everything made his thoughts turn dark and needy.
And the worst part was that you still trusted him completely.
You’d smile at him so sweetly while he sat there internally fighting himself apart. You’d look at him with those soft eyes while he struggled not to think about kissing you senseless. Sometimes you’d lean into him so naturally that Hugo had to physically hold back a groan.
He wanted you so badly it made him irritable.
Other men touching you suddenly made his stomach twist violently. Hearing you talk about dates or flirting jokingly with someone else put him in horrible moods for the rest of the day. He started standing closer to you unconsciously, touching your waist without thinking, glaring too long whenever someone looked at you in ways he understood all too well.
Because he knew exactly what they were thinking.
He thought the same things every single day.
And it was getting harder and harder to pretend he didn’t.
Hugo was close to exploding at this point.
Months of suppressing everything he felt for you had hollowed him out completely. Every little thing you did affected him now—your touches, your voice, the way you smiled at him so easily. He was constantly tense around you, constantly fighting himself, constantly trying to stay the version of Hugo you trusted.
Your best friend.
That evening, he was sitting on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone while trying to ignore the restless frustration sitting heavy in his chest. The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of traffic outside.
Then the front door opened.
Hugo barely reacted at first, You always barged in without knocking anyway.
But when he looked up and saw your face, everything in him immediately sharpened.
Your eyes were glossy with tears, lips trembling slightly like you’d been trying not to cry the entire way there.
He sat up instantly. “Hey. What happened?”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you walked straight to him before climbing into his lap without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you buried your face into his shoulder.
And fuck.
Hugo nearly lost all coherent thought right there.
Your body pressed fully against his, warm and shaking from quiet sobs. He could feel your thighs against his hips, your chest rising unevenly against him while your fingers clutched desperately at the back of his shirt.
Meanwhile, his hands froze at your waist.
Because even now—even while you were crying—his body reacted to you automatically.
“Talk to me,” he said quietly, voice rougher than usual.
You sniffled against his neck. “I’m so embarrassed…”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“What happened?”
“There was this guy,” you mumbled shakily. “I thought he actually liked me and then I saw him with another girl today and…” your voice cracked, “I feel stupid.”
Something dark twisted inside Hugo’s chest.
A guy.
Another fucking guy.
And somehow you were here, crying in his lap over someone else while Hugo had spent years wanting you so badly it physically hurt.
His hands tightened unconsciously against your waist.
You didn’t notice.
You just kept clinging to him, pressing yourself closer for comfort while he sat there struggling to breathe normally. Your cheek brushed his neck softly when you shifted, and Hugo had to shut his eyes for a second because he genuinely thought he might snap.
“You’re not stupid,” he muttered.
You gave a weak laugh through your tears. “You have to say that. You’re my best friend.”
Best friend.
The words hit him like a blade.
Because he suddenly couldn’t do it anymore.
Couldn’t sit here pretending this was enough. Couldn’t keep letting you touch him like this while acting like he didn’t crave more. Couldn’t keep listening to you cry over men who didn’t know you the way he did.
He looked down at you.
Really looked at you.
Your watery eyes. Your flushed cheeks. Your lips parted slightly as you breathed shakily against him.
And something inside him finally broke.
Before he could stop himself, Hugo grabbed your face gently and kissed you.
Hard.
Like he’d been holding it back for far too long.
For a split second, he expected you to shove him away.
Instead, you kissed him back immediately.
And that completely ruined him.
Hugo let out a shaky breath against your lips, one hand sliding from your waist up to your jaw while the other pulled you impossibly closer against him. The kiss turned messy fast—years of tension and restraint unraveling all at once.
You made the softest sound against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair, and Hugo genuinely felt dizzy from it.
Because you were kissing him back.
Actually kissing him back.
All those years of wanting you, trying not to want you, trying to bury every filthy thought he’d ever had about you—and now you were melting into him like you’d wanted this too.
He kissed you deeper before he could think better of it, completely consumed. Every suppressed feeling poured into it at once: jealousy, frustration, longing, lust.
His forehead rested against yours when he finally pulled back, breathing unevenly.
And the way you looked at him afterward nearly destroyed what little composure he had left.
Your bodies pressed close as you two kissed again. You could feel his desire intensifying, and you knew he wanted more. You also knew that you were ready.
He pulls back, his eyes searching yours, "Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice soft. "We don't have to rush into anything. I've waited this long, I can wait longer."
You smile, your heart filled with warmth and affection, "I'm sure, Vi," you say, your voice steady. "There's no one else I'd rather do this with. It's only ever been you."
He looks at you, his eyes filled with surprise and happiness, "Really?"
You nod, "Really.”
He grins, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you closer, "Then what are we waiting for?"
He starts to unzip his pants, but his hands are shaking slightly, betraying his nonchalant facade. He pauses, taking a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.
You watch him, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Vi," you say, your voice soft, "It's okay. We don't have to rush."
He looks at you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire, fear, and disbelief. "No, I want to," he says, his voice hoarse. "I've wanted this for...fuck, I don't know how long. I just...I don't want to mess this up."
You cup his face, your thumb brushing his cheek, "You won't. We're in this together, remember?"
He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. When he opens them again, they're filled with determination. "You're right," he says, his voice steady. And with that, he finishes unzipping his pants, his eyes never leaving yours.
He pulls you closer, his hands gripping your hips as he positions himself at your entrance. He looks into your eyes, his expression serious. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice soft. "There's no going back after this."
You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'm sure, Vi. I want this. I want you."
He takes a deep breath, and you can see the slight tremble in his hands. He's nervous, you realize. He's been waiting for this for so long, and he's nervous. The realization sends a warmth spreading through you, and you lean in to kiss him softly.
He responds immediately, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that surprises you. He pushes into you slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. You gasp at the slight pain, but it's quickly replaced by pleasure as he begins to move.
He starts slow, but it's not long before his desire takes over, and he begins to move faster, harder. You can feel the heat building between you, your bodies moving in perfect sync. You can hear his ragged breaths, his moans of pleasure, and it only serves to heighten your own pleasure.
"Fuck" he groans, his voice hoarse. "You feel so fucking good."
You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer, whimpering in his ear.
He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in circles as he continues to move inside you. You gasp, your body arching against his as pleasure courses through you.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "I want to feel you come apart around me."
His words push you over the edge, and you cry out, your body convulsing with pleasure. He follows soon after, his body tensing as he finds his own release, groaning your name.
For a moment, you both stay like that, him still inside you, your bodies pressed together, your breaths ragged. Then he pulls out, gently lowering you onto the bed beside him. He turns to you, his eyes filled with a softness that you've never seen before.
"Chérie" he says, his voice soft. "I...I don't know what to say."
You smile, your heart filled with happiness and contentment. "You don't have to say anything, Vi. I know how you feel."
He raises an eyebrow, "You do?"
You nod, "Because I feel the same way."