・contains : fluff , frat!toji , slight suggestiveness , suggestive jokes (??) , cussing :// , loud extrovert!reader x equally as loud and extroverted!sukuna , mentions of alcohol , Shokohime , lazy writing , implied enemies to lovers , reader and Sukuna still kinda love hate each other , lazy kinda rushed ending lawl.
With 3 weeks left of school, Sukuna and his frat dorks decided to throw an ‘end of the year pool party.’ Seniors only.
The party started at 4:30pm, and there he was standing near the outdoor couches with his friends, Toji and Choso, holding a soda can in his right hand.
Now it's 5pm and almost everyone’s already drinking, getting high, or in the pool. The music is loud enough that you can see the speakers shake at every beat.
You decided to come a bit late, you always do. If you were early to a party, that’s how Sukuna would know that it really isn’t you. That’s if you were kidnapped and replaced with an evil doppelgänger.
You’re wearing Sukuna’s jersey, which you partially hand made, over your swimsuit. You walk through the house and into the backyard, immediately searching for your boyfriend. Once you spot pink hair and that glorious broad tattooed back of his, you strut towards him. Toji nods towards you as a greeting, causing Sukuna to turn. He stares at you, his eyes trailing down your body as if he’s trying to savor the sight.
You wonder what he’s thinking yet you don’t ask any questions, you clear your throat instead. That caught his attention.
“Hi”, you greeted to break the awkward silence.
“Hey, sweets” he greeted back calmly, yet half distracted with a lazy smirk on his face as his eyes trail down again.
“My eyes are up here” You tease with a nudge at his chest with your index finger, causing him to look back up at your eyes after a few seconds of lingering. “I know that…”
“You look great” He pauses “Wearing my jersey like that” he admits, his tone of voice getting lower. He places the soda can on a stool before both his hands sneak under his jersey and find your waist. He whispers, “You know we don’t need a pool to get wet—“
“Ryomen.”
“Ma’am?” He quipped with faux innocence and a smirk.
You just rolled your eyes, holding back a laugh which came out as a scoff instead.
“We’re right here.” Toji speaks up with a grimace on his face. You turned to look at both Toji and Choso. Choso gave you a small wave, you returned a similar wave along with a small yet polite smile. Sukuna only turned towards Toji with furrowed brows and a frown.
They bickered as they always do, now it’s something about “ruining the moment”. You don't care enough to pay any mind to it but you decided to do god's work and stop their useless arguing.
“Kuna, let’s go to the pool” you suggested as you placed a hand on his bicep, yet the both of you knew it was more of an order. And all of a sudden Toji is forgotten.
“Yeah, sure”
“You have sunscreen on right? You know you burn up easily” You stated. Which earned a snicker from Toji.
Sukuna shot him a sharp glance before responding. “Yeah…” his ears redden slightly.
“You put it on by yourself?” You ask.
“Choso helped.”
── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──
Instead of going to the pool you ended up getting distracted conversing with your friends while Sukuna followed you like a loyal dog. He’s clearly bored.
So he decided it was a great idea to carry you bridal style and jump into the pool with you in his arms.
Which earned cheers from everyone else.
When you rise back to the surface, still in his arms, you both start laughing. “I’m still wearing your jersey!” You exclaimed in between giggles.
“Oh no I guess you have to take it off now” He scoffs sarcastically. His arms snake around your waist.
“You’re so corny” You sighed before taking the jersey off and setting it on the cement behind Sukuna, leaving you in your new black tankini.
Sukuna is practically drooling at this point.
“Quit staring, it's embarrassing for you” you spoke; looking down at him as you slightly pushed his head back with your index finger. “You know I don’t believe in that “embarrassment” bullshit” he responds while looking at you with low lidded eyes. You let out a small and quiet laugh as your hands trail up his chest to rest on that space between his neck and shoulder.
“Can’t believe I used to hate you” you muttered before leaning in for a kiss in which he returns.
── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──
It's currently 12am and the party is still going. This time the music is a bit lower and there’s more people inside than outside. You’re one of the people who are outside, along with both your friend group and Sukunas, which really just combined into one big friend group.
Sukuna and Toji come back from getting drinks and chips from the kitchen and the first thing they see is a circle of said friends. They’re all cheering “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
As Sukuna gets closer the image of you in the circle chugging straight vodka with your best friend Shoko comes into view.
You were already somewhat drunk when you were casually drinking a beer at the pool, so yeah he’s pretty worried.
“Oh shit..” he curses under his breath.
“Hey ain’t that your girl?” Toji asked with a cocky grin before laughing. He knows damn well.
He gasps as he finishes laughing, catching his breath. “Fuck, good luck with that man.” He pats on Sukuna's shoulder before moving towards the circle to cheer you on just to spite him.
And with a groan, Sukuna walks toward you and places a hand on your shoulder while the other pries the bottle from your grip with a gentle “Come on woman, that’s enough.”
Once he succeeds in taking the bottle away, you instantly pout. “Nononono I was about to win!!” You whine. “I’m not letting you kill yourself with alcohol, now come on.” He insisted in a surprisingly stable tone.
Then Utahime comes out of the house and immediately panics once she spots Shoko. “Shoko, I go to the bathroom for a second and you can’t even control yourself.” She started with a whiny tone of voice, as if she was about to cry, before helping Shoko get up on her feet, keeping her steady with a hand on her waist as they walked from the backyard and into Shoko's car.
Meanwhile you and Sukuna were already at the stairs on the way to his room.
“Let go of me!!” You squealed as he held you against his side so you wouldn’t tumble down the stairs in front of your whole grade. He ignores your orders like always.
“You can’t be drinking like that, Y/N.” He scolds with furrowed brows and that sharp look he used to give you before you guys even started sleeping together.
“Don’t tell me what to do, this isn’t some freaky bdsm bullshit, you’re not my owner!” You slur out.
“What the fuck are you talking about?!” He asked with genuine confusion. The both of you stop at the top of the stairs.
“You.” You slur as you press your pointer finger on his chest.
“Yeah, me.” He responds with a small grin, holding back a laugh.
“You're not my dad, you don't tell me what to do."
“But I'm daddy when I'm blowing your back out, huh?” He quipped with that shit eating grin he wears when he's having the time of his life fucking up someone's day as his arms cross over his chest.
You groan loudly and dramatically.
“I'm not listening to you I'm going back and I'm drinking shoooo fugging much.” you slur before stepping back to test him.
“Okay."
“Okay?” you question.
“No no no nonono, don't do that!” you yell.
“Lower your fucking tone!” he barked.
“You're supposed to stop meee!" you whined as you stomp your feet on the floor as your bottom lip jutted out to form a pout.
“Okay okay! Come on, let's go to bed." he ordered with a sigh.
“Okay!” you respond, immediately altering your attitude to something calmer. In which Sukuna sighs once more before quietly muttering, “holy shit.”
Once the both of you got in his room and his back hit the door after locking it. You got on your toes and held onto the collar of his shirt, “pinning” him onto the door with big half lidded glossy eyes.
“Bold.” Is all he has to say, getting a giggle out of you before his lips crashed into yours
NOT PROOF READ
a/n : first post kinda nervous…. Lwk rushed this bc it’s been in the drafts for MONTHS. H8 writers block (°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)
summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 2.5k
warnings: 18+ eventual smut/fwb, but this will be a series
a/n: inspired by my college experience since it's been almost a year since graduation! but Rafe is so much more fun and interesting ~
banner by @uzmacchiato
Where you sit in class at college usually determined where you would sit for most of the year, so it was a very important decision. Usually, you would pick a seat next to a girl who looked friendly. Rarely, you would sit next to a guy if he was incredibly hot. But unfortunately today, you were early.
The classroom had three tables arranged like a U. Chairs sat outside of the table, 15 total. Small class, but that was expected. It was only an hour, and supposed to be an easy A. It was basically a class on study skills. Time management, focus, motivation. A good way to boost your GPA.
But you were early enough that only one person was in the room. He was seated right in front of you, at the first table, his short hair dyed blue like he was fully committed to supporting the Duke Blue Devils. It felt wrong to sit far away from the only other person in the room, so you took a seat next to him, relieved when he smiled warmly at you.
The rest of the class filed in slowly, an almost even mix of girls and guys. One of the last to arrive sauntered in, taking a seat beside the guy next to you. They fist bumped, clearly recognizing each other. And you couldn’t help but notice he looked familiar. You’d definitely seen those piercing blue eyes before. But where?
The professor introduced herself as Ms. Smith. A boring name for an easy class, but she seemed very sweet. Her voice was soft as she called out attendance. You almost missed it when she called out your name. She moved through the short list quickly.
“Ah, Rafe Cameron?” She widened her warm brown eyes, searching the room.
“Present.” The boy with the blue eyes muttered. Rafe. That’s right. He was the hockey player the girls in your dorm talked about. Well, they talked about a lot of the hockey players, but you had been to a few games last year and remembered him well. He was a forward. Aggressive, mouthy, fast, and very, very, good. And apparently very good in bed. You quickly looked away from him, like he'd catch you staring.
“Alright, I want you to introduce yourself to the people to your left and right. Take a minute to get to know each other.” Ms. Smith announced, taking a seat at her desk on the other side of the room.
“Hi, I’m Evan.” The blue haired boy next to you spoke before it could get awkward. You introduced yourself, mentioning your major in finance. He tells you he hasn’t picked a major yet, but he’s a freshman playing soccer at Duke.
Next up was the girl to your left, her dark curly hair piled into a messy bun. Her green eyes were striking against her tan skin. She tells you her name is Meghan, a sophomore in communications.
Ms. Smith starts her lecture on time management, her voice the perfect cadence to lull you to sleep. You would have, if it weren’t for the athlete boys next to you chattering under their breath and chuckling at every little thing. Evan seemed nice enough, but you’d heard enough about male athletes to want nothing to do with them. Egotistical assholes who only cared about themselves. No thanks.
Ms. Smith had other plans, though. She divided the class up into their first group assignment, pointing out every other person. That paired you up with none other than Rafe Cameron. And knowing that he was the only hockey player you remembered by name, he probably had an ego the size of North Carolina.
Rafe introduces himself to you with a casual confidence that you envy, like he doesn’t expect you to know who he is but he wouldn’t be surprised if you did. He takes a moment to learn your name, and then oddly enough, he gets started on the assignment. You expected some goofing off with his buddies, or a complete disinterest altogether. But he takes charge, asking for your input now and then.
At the end of class, it feels like it will be easy enough to get an A and that you made the right decision signing up. The rest of the week, you focus on your new routine for the semester. When to get coffee between classes. The café you like to eat at that still takes your student card and is cheaper than the dining hall, even if it’s a bit further away.
You had no intention of including Rafe Cameron in your routine, but he seemed to have other ideas. Any time Ms. Smith suggested pairing up for class, he would corral you and Evan before either of you could speak. His excuse was that there had to be one group of three with the 15 students, so it might as well be you three. Nevermind the fact that you had wanted to get to know Meghan a little.
Two weeks later, you tried to be quick when Ms. Smith asks you to pair up. You turned to Meghan, hoping she would turn to face you, when someone to your right cleared their throat. You turn to Evan, who looked at you sheepishly. Rafe, on the other hand, was faking a pout.
“Not gonna join us, partner?” He accused.
“I-” You looked over at Meghan, who was already pairing up to the blonde girl who always sat next to her. “Don’t you have a hockey friend you’d rather have in the group?” You nod at the ginger guy next to Rafe.
“Holiday? He’s my roommate. I see enough of him.” Rafe shrugs. Holiday. So, the guy with orange hair came from a hockey family. His dad definitely played: Roger Holiday. Maybe his grandpa, too, if you remembered right. You could bet his ego was worse than Rafe’s.
“Fine.” You say, crossing your arms. You give Evan a gentle smile, not wanting him to think your irritation was at him. The assignment was simple enough, and as soon as class was dismissed, you nearly sprinted to Meghan to chat with her. You hadn’t been out yet, and were craving a night out with some girls.
Lucky for you, Meghan agrees, and the two of you hit the bars on Friday night. Your roommate and few other girls from class are supposed to meet up with you at the only club on campus later, but you take Meghan to your favorite bar. It has a ton of retro arcade games, and you used to come here whenever you visited your older brothers before they graduated.
“Wanna play against me?” You ask Meghan, sticking some tokens in for the Mortal Kombat game.
“Um, sure,” She smiles hesitantly. “It’s like boxing, right?”
“Yeah. Those buttons say what they do when you press ‘em. But no pressure.” You tell her, sifting through the characters.
“Oh! The hockey team is here!” She practically squeals, turning her head to the entrance.
“Nice.” You comment, picking Kitana as your player.
“You’ve been talking to Rafe, right? He’s so cute.” She gushes, and you finally glance away from the screen. Meghan’s actually blushing, her cheeks matching the lip gloss she had put on.
“Uh,” You stammer, her enthusiasm catching you off guard. “Not really.”
“Oh, come on! He always picks you as his partner in class.”
“He picks me and Evan.” You remind her, shrugging.
“Well, I saw him make a big stink when you tried to match up with someone else.” She wags her eyebrows suggestively, making you laugh. “If you won’t talk to them, I will. I’ve got a bit of crush. Is it okay if I go say hi?” Her green eyes widen, glancing back at the screen for a second. You could tell she didn’t seem super interested in playing video games, and didn’t want to keep her from talking to any boys she liked.
“Yeah, go for it! Good luck!” You try to match her enthusiasm, and she grins before sauntering off. You turn back to your game, choosing to go against the computer this round. You were rusty anyway. You get into a rhythm, starting another match when a voice interrupts you.
“Now, what kind of guy would leave a pretty girl like you all by yourself at this game?”
You freeze. You knew that voice.
Sure enough, when you turn your head, Rafe Cameron is standing behind you. For a moment, he seems taken aback, like he didn’t fully recognize you in a full face of makeup. But then his smirk returns. His eyes quickly skim your outfit, and you try to stand a little taller and more confidently.
“Hey, partner. Mind if I join you?” He asks, nodding at the game.
“Sure.” You take a moment to let the computer win before adding some tokens for another match.
You can feel adrenaline starting to simmer under your skin. Growing up with two brothers had made you competitive, or you were born that way and never grew out of it with them around. You could feel your fingers tense in anticipation as Rafe chose his character. After an excruciatingly long time deliberating, he chose Sub Zero. You picked Kitana again, going with your most comfortable.
At the start of the first round, you landed a couple hits off the bat, getting your confidence up. Rafe cursed under his breath, noticing that you were all in. He cleared his throat, and landed a few kicks. You blocked one, and started to attack again.
“Jesus, do you just button mash?” Rafe commented, voice low.
“What?” You scoff. “I know what buttons I’m pressing.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not button mashing.” He replies, and your focus is so thrown off that he wins the round.
“You bitch.” You mutter, glaring at him.
“Watch your language.” He smirks, getting ready for the next round.
This time, you force yourself not to be distracted by him. He tries to make a few more comments, but you ignore him and win that round, and then the next. With the match won, you look up at him in satisfaction. You expect him to look angry or annoyed, but his bright blue eyes are glinting like you just stepped up to the challenge.
“My turf next.” He nods his head over to the air hockey table.
“Shouldn’t that be an easy win for you?” You raise a brow.
“Why don’t you find out? Unless you’re too much of a pussy.”
“Please, don’t say that.” You roll your eyes.
“Chicken.” He counters.
“You’re on, but I need to buy some more tokens.”
“I can-” He starts before you cut him off.
“Nope. I do not want to owe you in any way.” With that, you walk over to the token machine, eyes scanning for Meghan. She’s talking to another hockey player, a super tall one with tanned skin. When she catches your eye, she gives you a thumbs up, and you can’t help but smile. Once you scan your card and grab the tokens, you start to make your way back until shrill laughter stops you in your tracks.
A group of girls have surrounded Rafe at the air hockey table, all trying to talk to him and fiddling with the pieces of the game. They’re all fairly tipsy, but clearly happy to have run into a hockey player that they know. You find yourself standing there, tokens in hand as you hear some of them ask if they can play the game with him. And honestly, they’re stunning. Beautiful, confident girls that Rafe would probably be more than happy to drop you for. You start to head back to Mortal Kombat when you hear Rafe speak up.
“Actually, I was playing with her.”
You turn to Rafe, meeting his eyes as the gaggle of fangirls stares at you. He tilts his chin up, as if urging you to ignore them and come back. And for some reason, you do. The girls get flustered, saying goodbye to both of you and wishing him a good night as they scurry away. And then it’s just you two, facing off over the air hockey table.
Unsurprisingly, Rafe wins all three rounds. He’s too quick, his reflexes too fast. It’s not even close, and if he weren’t an athlete you’d be a little embarrassed. You roll your eyes when he celebrates like he just won the rival game in overtime.
“Okay, ready to get back to your teammates?” You try to bring him back to reality.
“What? No. They don’t give a shit. They’re down to leave without me.” He says dismissively.
“Watch your language.” You retort, and that gleam in his eyes is back.
“Besides, partner, we’re now 1 to 1 at these games. We gotta play at least one more to see the real winner.”
“Fine. Pick a game that’s not basically what you do for a living.” You tease, secretly loving the challenge. He pretends to be annoyed at you, shaking his head. Walking around the arcade, he slows in front of the basketball hoops. What he doesn’t know is that you played for a few years. Not good enough to be a college athlete, but good enough for high school. You try to play it off and act nervous.
“How about this one?” Rafe’s smile grows.
“I don’t know…” You trail off, pretending to scan the arcade.
“We’re doing this one. Give me the tokens or I’m buying.” He insists, and you do everything you can to hold back a smirk. Hook, line, and sinker.
You make the most shots each round easily, giggling at Rafe’s grunts of frustration. You shrug as if it was an accident, as if you got lucky. But he’s not buying it, his mouth set in a thin line.
“That how you wanna play, partner?” He growls in a way that makes your cheeks flush, and you work to keep your composure.
“It’s only fair. You made me play air hockey.” You bat your lashes, playing innocent. “Looks like I win.”
“Nah,” He shakes his head, marching up to a racing car game that’s nearly enclosed. “One more. Let’s go.”
“Rafe,” You hesitate, looking back at Meghan. She seemed fine talking to the other boys, and some of the girls from class had shown up. But you weren’t planning on ignoring them all night.
“What, afraid you’ll lose?” He already knows that’ll get under your skin. Of course it does. You sigh, taking a seat at the racecar next to him. Dropping in the tokens, you wait for him to pick a race course, but he’s just looking at you.
His blue eyes are still confident, amused, determined. But he doesn’t say anything. It’s like he’s finally taking you in now that you’ve both paused. Suddenly, you’re aware of how close together you two are in this stupid arcade game. And suddenly, it feels too hot, his gaze too intense, yet you can’t look away.
A loud smack on the back of the racecar seats startles you both. You turn to see some of the hockey boys peering in, and you try to look as unassuming and normal as possible.
“Cameron!” One of them calls. “Let’s go. Reyes is looking for you.” “Ah, shit. Sorry.” Rafe says to you, chuckling as he slides out of the racecar seat. “This isn’t over, okay? Find me tonight.” He leaves you with a wink.
Authors notes: umm so sorry this took a little while I was really struggling with what part to write. If anyone has burning they want to see pleaseeee let me know bc I don’t know what to do next but want to keep writing for them!
Warnings: pregnancy trope and lots of fluff
Brendon Park x reader (med school!au/college!au)
word count: 1.2k
part 1 part 2
Are you ready?” Brendon takes your hand, helping you out the car. You weren’t really showing yet, maybe the tiniest bump only visible to you and Brendon, so you didn’t put effort into covering it up yet-especially not in this heat.
You were visiting Brendon’s family since it was summer break, and more importantly since you had to break the news of the pregnancy
“As ready as I’ll ever be” you snort and shake your head
“I promise they’ll be happy”
“Mhm…” you hum and follow him up to the front door. He doesn’t bother with knocking, striding straight in and calling out
“Mom? Dad?” He glances around briefly until he hears them
“Brendon, baby, c’mere! We’re in the kitchen!” His mom’s voice echoes back and Brendon grins, dragging you with him through to the spacious kitchen “oh, hello, you two. Oh! You are absolutely glowing” she says to you “summer is really your season, I can’t believe we’ve never seen you in summer” you instantly smile shyly, cheeks burning slightly
“Oh, thankyou Mrs. Park…”
“Nonsense, nonsense” she ushers you away from Brendon and beside her as she sets up a fruit platter “Jane to you, darling. I’ll leave the Mrs park title to you” she winks and you flounder slightly
“Oh-um-thank you Jane…” she laughs beside you, picking up the fruit platter and you follow her automatically as she carries it to the outdoor table
“I hope brendon has been pulling his weight” she raises an eyebrow
“Oh, of course” you nod instantly “he’s quite particular anyways so…well the both of us are honestly” you laugh weakly and she grins
“Well, you tell me if he starts acting up. He may be my son but he’s an adult now…tell me dear, you’re a law student, how much time would I do for that?”
You look at her in confusion for a moment “for what?”
“For…well, you know” she raises her eyebrows
You can’t help the loud laugh that escape you “depends who presses charges with what evidence.”
“Hm…so no evidence, then, seems simple enough” she muses and you laugh again
“Well thank you for the thought Jane, but I’d really rather you didn’t attack Brendon. He’s absolutely perfect”
“Good. I did try” you both laugh. You return to he table, helping her carry some plates of food through and setting it all out on the table whilst Brendon’s dad makes everyone’s drinks. Brendon is busy outside with his siblings, herding them over. Eventually you all settle down at the large table. You’re sat beside Brendon across from his three siblings, with his mum and dad at opposite ends of the table. Brendon is the eldest of 4 with an 18-year-old brother (James), 16-year-old sister (Ella), and 13 year-old brother (Oliver). Brendon made sure your plate was piled up before serving his own, even as you insisted you couldn’t eat all of it, but he simply grinned as he added more. You heard Oliver call your name and you look up
“Brendon told me you’re a lawyer” he grins
“A law student right now, but one day I’ll be a lawyer”
“Can you be my lawyer?”
“Well I hope you’ll never need one, but sure. Keep me on quick dial” you laugh softly, as do the others, although Oliver just stares at you blankly.
Everyone digs in, with a little bit of quiet chatter, but mostly eating and praising Jane for her cooking. You catch Brendon’s gaze in the corner of your eye and he mouths
“After lunch?” You simply nod, feeling the nerves bubble up again, trying to wash them down with your water. Brendon’s dad had given you a bit of a suspicious look when you turned down his offers of various beverages you usually enjoyed in favour of water, which you’d simply excused from feeling a little car sick.
Finally, the plates are cleared and table wiped down, everyone settling into pleasant conversation with Brendon’s little siblings talking about school….well, that is until Brendon interrupted
“Would you mind if we had a moment?” You’ve never seen him so nervous “we have some news”
Everyone looks up curiously, his parents clearly apprehensive
“Of course sweet heart, what’s wrong? We’re here for you” Jane says sweetly and Brendon’s dad nods. You take a deep, shaky breath, looking over at Brendon who smiles reassuringly and squeezes your hand under the table
“I’m pregnant” you blurt out. If the table wasn’t silent before it certainly was now as everyone’s gapes, Oliver coughing on his coke
“Pregnant?” Jake repeats
“Are you for real?” Ella’s eyes are lighting up as both you and Brendon nod
“10 weeks now” Brendon smiles-he really can’t help it, he hasn’t been able to wipe the shit eating grin off his face since he saw those scans
“Oh my god…” Jane whispers, tears in her eyes and you chew on your lip nervously waiting for her reaction “I’m going to have a grand baby?!” She squeaks and you can’t help the watery laugh that escapes you “oh! Adam we’re going to have a grand baby!” She grins. Your attention turns to Adam who looks…rather pale
“Mr. Park are you okay?” You ask quietly
“Adam” he chokes out “I’d really rather you call me Adam right now” you quickly nod
“Sorry, of course Adam. Um…are you okay though?”
You can practically hear his gulp
“Yep…Yep great. I’m going to be a grandad. God I feel old” you and Brendon both sigh in relief
“So…you guys aren’t mad?” Brendon murmurs
“How could we be mad? You’re both adults, and as long as you’re happy I’m happy, and you clearly love each other, and oh! This is going to be the most adorable baby, no wonder you’re glowing!” she gushes and rushes round the table to you, wrapping you up in a bear hug before pinching your cheeks.
“Oh-thank you Jane” you smile shyly “I really appreciate your support. We both do” Brendon nods, still holding your hand although not so tightly
Brendon’s siblings are all chattering excitedly and clamoring to get their question answered
“Can you name it after me?” Oliver grins and you laugh a little
“We’ll have to see about that one Ollie, especially if it’s a girl” he narrows his eyes at you, making Brendon snort.
After a few more minutes of excited chatter and remnants of shock you all retire to the living room, stretching out on the couch beside Brendon. Ella’s head is between your legs as you braid her hair and Oliver is curled up with his head in your lap, half asleep, Jake sat on the other side of Brendon as they talk about the football. Adam and Jane watch fondly at the future image of your family, reassured that you’ll both be fantastic parents, with no doubt that the child will be raised perfectly.
“I was expecting the whole young pregnancy a few years ago” Adam chuckles quietly and Jane huffs, elbowing him in the ribs
“Adam! You know I couldn’t have survived that”
“I know. But look at us now. And they’re both so beautiful”
“Tell me about it” she leans her head on his shoulder as Brendon looks up at them with a (still slightly nervous) smile. They both smile back reassuringly and he turns back to you, your head on his shoulder with the braid done and Ella’s head against your knee, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“They’re just like us” Jane whispers
“I hope so” he nods. They link their left hands, wedding rings pressing together. Brendon laces his fingers with yours, thumb caressing over the soft skin of your ring finger.
I hope everybody enjoys this! Again, pretty please if there’s any aspects/times in their relationship you want to see let me know!
Synopsis: Yunho thinks hiding under your bed for a prank will be harmless fun, but then you bring a guest home and he ends up trapped in a chaotically humiliating nightmare he can’t escape.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, explicit and in depth descriptions of oral sex, non-consensual voyeurism, unintentional voyeurism, humiliation, unrequited crush, jealousy, semi-masturbation, panicked inner monologue, suicidal ideation (non-serious), dramatic death talk, dark humor about dying obsessive and self deprecating thoughts, bodily fluids and detailed descriptions of them, explicit language, dark comedy, self-loathing, extreme embarrassment
Author’s note: this was the most hectic and hilarious thing I’ve ever written. It’s just smut and crack. Smack, if you will. But i loved every second of it. It’s slightly unedited because i literally got nauseous from rereading it so many times, so let me know if you find any mistakes or inconsistencies. I’ll go back through and edit it in a couple days once my palates clean again.
Btw thank you so much for 500 notes on cameraman!yunho!!!! I guess we’re all just down bad for the lanky bastard. In that case, enjoy this smack and lmk what you think❤️
Word Count: 4.2k
In hindsight, it was a catastrophic idea.
But Yunho's smitten with you, and for some reason his brain decided it'd be hilarious—maybe even charming—to wedge his 6'2" ass under your twin bed and leap out like a discount horror movie villain when you got home from class.
So now he's crammed beneath your bed, knees jammed to his chest, spine folded like a poorly built Ikea shelf, and he's choking on dust bunnies the size of actual rabbits. Still, he's grinning like an idiot when he hears the front door click open.
You call out his name. Once. Twice. Then your footsteps creak toward his bedroom.
"Guess he's not here," you announce.
Yunho smothers a laugh as your feet start padding toward your room. His heart is hammering in his chest, but he shuffles forward a little so he'll be in prime position for the big reveal when your door swings open.
Then it does.
He spots your glossy black tabis stepping into the room, and his chest thrums with excitement. He braces himself, about to leap out like the world's dumbest jack-in-the-box—
And then…
Another pair of shoes.
White Air Forces. Huge.
His stomach drops.
Shit.
You? Bringing someone home? The thought had literally never crossed his mind. You’re so introverted he once caught you avoiding eye contact with a poster. A poster, for God’s sake. Like even the printed people were too much.
For one wild moment, he actually considers crawling out, just taking the hit of awkwardness and praying you can find the humor in this slightly creepy situation. But then a voice rolls in:
"Do you know where he went, or when he'll be back?"
It’s deep. Masculine. The kind of voice that belongs to an upperclassman who could (and probably would) kick Yunho's teeth in if he popped out from under your bed.
So he does what any rational person would do: he stops breathing and prays for death.
"Not sure. Probably playing video games with his friends," you reply, dropping your bag with a thud. "He's usually here, though. We don't have class for another couple of hours."
The guy hums, slow, smug, and Yunho’s not sure why it makes his stomach turn until he speaks.
"Good. Then we should probably hurry."
You giggle and Yunho flatlines under the bed.
He's never heard you laugh like that. It's nothing like the polite little chuckles he's earned in the six months of orbiting you like a loyal golden retriever. No, this one's real, bright, and apparently only reserved for sneaker-wearing strangers with deep voices.
He watches in silent horror as your tabis swivel toward the sneakers, then up on tiptoe, and then the wet, unmistakable sound of kissing seals his fate.
There's another smack, a different kind, louder this time, followed by your muffled moan, and his nightmare is confirmed.
He's trapped under your bed watching you (the self proclaimed love of his life) star in the feet version of a softcore porno.
His only options are bleak:
Stay hidden and endure the soul-crushing agony of listening to you get wrecked by big foot, OR, crawl out, get mistaken for a pervert, and risk having his face turned into ground beef by Mr. Air Forces.
Neither sounds great, but Yunho chooses the former and lies there, pinned against the dirty floor, lungs burning with dust and humiliation, and prays for divine intervention.
Maybe the fire alarm. An earthquake. Spontaneous combustion.
Literally ANYTHING.
Anything to drown out the soundtrack of his own personal apocalypse as your room fills with noises that will haunt him longer than his chiropractor bills.
Yunho doesn't breathe. He doesn't blink. He stops existing altogether. He’s now just a pair of eyes staring at the undercarriage of your bed frame, willing it to collapse and put him out of his misery.
But of course, life is not that kind. Instead, both your shoes shuffle towards the bed in tandem, and then the springs groan and sink with your added weights. Yunho’s soul leaves his body.
His mind short-circuits. Should he close his eyes? Cover his ears? He doesn't want to see this. Definitely doesn't want to hear it. His brain screams at him to shut it out, but there's literally no escape. Every squeak of the mattress presses into his spine and ricochets through his bones.
This couldn't possibly get any worse he thinks.
Then your voice comes—low, breathy, and unrecognizable in this register.
"Hold on, let me lock the door."
Yunho clamps a hand over his mouth as you run to the door, trying to hold back the pitiful whimper bubbling in the back of his throat. The lock clicks into place, loud and final, like the clang of a jail cell, and his stomach lurches.
Whatever you’re toeing your way back to do, he’s pretty sure it’s not going to be great for his mental or emotional stability.
You kick your shoes off as you come, and Yunho squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the groan of the bedsprings again.
It never comes.
There's rustling though. Lots of shifting, fabric moving, a zipper dragging down, and the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor. Yunho dares to crack one eye open and immediately regrets it.
You're on your knees...right in front of his face.
Well actually there's a huge pile of Mister Air Forces' fucking pants—still crumpled around his ankles—in front of Yunho's face, but you're right on the other side. Soft, delicate knees pressed into the hardwood flooring between the legs of Yunho's now sworn enemy.
His eyes are stinging, and he feels the first wave of tears forming when Air Forces' sighs, long and deep, then mutters a gut twisting, "Shit..."
They burn for real when the spit slick sounds of you sucking him off curl under the bed and into settle Yunho's skull.
It's slow, rhythmic and obscene—like someone halfheartedly stirring mac and cheese. Then it starts in earnest: the rhythm of your movements, your gags, a wet squelching sound that makes Yunho's wince.
No...no...NO!
God please! No!
He was definitely in hell. He's convinced he died sometime between second period and now, and this was his own personal section of hell. A punishment for all of the times he'd masturbated thinking of you.
"Fuck..." Air Forces gasps. "You think you can take a little more?"
Yunho's eyes nearly bug out of his head.
TAKE MORE???
You hum twice, confirming, mouth still presumably full of dick, and Yunho thinks he's gonna be sick.
"Hold still, okay? Tap my leg if you can't take it."
CAN'T TAKE IT???
No. There's no way he's about to do what Yunho thinks he's about to do. Not to you. Not to the sweetest person he's ever known.
But thats exactly what happens.
Yunho actually lets out a pained whimper this time, but the sound is drowned out as Air Forces braces himself on the balls of his feet and starts fucking your face.
The sound is absurd. He can only imagine what it actually looks like. And it doesn't stop. It just goes on and on, a grotesque symphony of suction and spit. Yunho's temples pound with every glug, glug, glug, each one impossible wetter and louder than the last.
It's not erotic either. It's not even human. It's like listening to someone punching water. And it's so loud. He's loud. God, why is he so loud? Is this what you like?
"Fuck... you're incredible," Air Forces murmurs, voice low and proud. "I've never...mm—never had it like this before."
Yunho wants to laugh, cry, and vomit all at once. His hands curl into fists against the dusty floorboards. This was like some sick fucking joke, and the worst part of it all? His treacherous dick is throbbing like it's in on it.
Fuck. This is so humiliating.
He clenches his jaw, trying to will away his growing erection through sheer will power and self loathing. It doesn't work.
For a moment, he considers jumping out now, tackling the bastard by his ankles, hopefully breaking the stupid little dick he's using to defile your perfect face.
But he can't. One wrong move and he'll be a headline in tomorrow's paper: "College Sophmore Beaten to Death After Cosplaying as a Freaky Dust Bunny."
His obituary will just say PERVERT in all caps.
Yunho's murderous fantasy is cut short by a choked groan, Mister Air Force, and a lewd slurp and pop from above him. You.
"Holy Shit..." he groans, breathless. "You look so innocent. I thought you were lying about not having a gag reflex."
Yunho stares up soullessly at a metal beam running down the center of your bed and wonders how hard he'd have to bang his head into it to kill himself in one go.
You laugh, soft and strained, and Yunho's chest caves in. He's memorized that laugh in so many innocent contexts, and now it's pinned forever to this. To him. To glug, glug, fucking glug.
Yunho's eyes water from sheer mental nausea. He presses the back of his head to the floor, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. But his misery is far from over.
"Now I know what that mouth can do, come here let me see what your other lips feel like."
As you push up to your feet—quick and a little too eager for Yunho's comfort—he doesn't even have the strength to wish for death anymore. All he can do is hope, willing it into the thick, humid air of your room: that Air Forces will nut the second he enters, that he’ll disappoint you, and that maybe… just maybe, this nightmare will finally be over.
He's still thinking it when clothes start raining down like some alternate universe Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs.
Shoes, socks, skirt, shirt, jeans, bra. And then the bed squeaks, and your feet are gone. All Yunho can see now are Air Forces' pasty white toes flexing... FLEXING... and he wonders if he'll ever recover from this.
There's movement above, slow, heavy, and ominous from where he's crammed. Then Air Forces gasps, swearing under his breath. And despite how absurd the whole situation is, Yunho can't stop the curiosity gnawing at him. What were you doing up there? What the hell was he seeing?
"How are you so wet just from sucking me off?"
Yunho's head whips to the side in sheer disbelief—and there they are. Your panties, crumpled a few feet away like the universe's idea of a cruel gag gift. The pale pink fabric is soaked so deep it's turned a darker shade, glaring back at him with all the smugness of, "Yeah, you wish this was for you, huh?"
It stabs him, sweet and cruel, then twists when you say,
"Mingi, are you just gonna stand there and keep drooling over me, or are you actually gonna fuck me?"
His dick jumps. Your voice is so soft, practically begging, and if Yunho were standing—if he could even feel his knees—he'd drop to them like the heartbroken protagonist in a soap opera and shout to the heavens from the gut punch of it all.
How could you say something so filthy in that sweet little voice? How was he ever supposed to look you in the eye again after this, let alone speak to you?
And to make matters worse, you've now gone and put a name to the blunt instrument of his torment.
Mingi.
Fucking Mingi.
What kind of name even is that?
Mingi laughs.
"Someone's impatient..." he says, smug. "I hope you keep the same energy when I'm in it."
You giggle again.
Then there's a pause—the rip of foil—and Yunho nearly passes out.
The bed shifts. Hard. Scooting forward a few inches. Yunho freezes. You squeal. Then the mattress dips.
Yunho closes his eyes, not because of the dust suddenly raining down on him, but because he's trying desperately to disappear into the darkness behind his eyelids for this next part. But it only makes it worse.
You gasp, loud and shocked, then the sound tapers off into a breathless, drawn-out "Oh my god." It echoes in his head like a gunshot.
Then the rhythm starts. Soft at first. Steady. Then it picks up and your moans grow louder. Everything seems to be magnified with his eyes shut. Every smack, every squelch, every blood curdling grunt.
And to make it all worse, his stupid, fucked-up brain is imagining every possible position Mingi might have you in, each squeak of the bed adding another to the list.
"Fuck...that feels so good..." your voice cuts through the air in a shaky, barely coherent whine, and Yunho wants to scream.
"Yeah... say my fucking name." Mingi grits. "Let everyone on the floor know who's fucking you like this."
Yunho silently prays you won’t—please don't. But then you say it, all desperate and euphoric like the girls in the pornos, and he wishes he had some dull pencils or rusty nails to jam into his eardrums.
You choke out his name, over and over, and the bed frame rattles even harder in response. Impossibly harder. Thrashing. Like it’s alive and mocking him.
Yunho grabs himself, holds his erection clenched in a tight, unforgiving grip. He's never been this hard in his entire life. It's actually sickening. It feels like his dick might spring right up and through the fucking bed if he lets go.
And sure, he could probably pull it out and dull the unbearable ache really quick, especially with all the noise you two are making, but this situation is rock bottom enough.
There's no way he could still call himself a human being if he jerked off—UNDER YOUR BED—to the sound of you getting drilled into oblivion, yelling another man's name.
His eyes water for real this time. Not just from the dust, but from the gutting mixture of jealousy, arousal, and abject humiliation.
He's pinned, a silent and unwilling audience; his whole world reduced to the percussion of a mattress, his pulsing dick, and the unbearable truth that this will be carved into his brain forever.
Time stretches. Yunho lies there for god knows how long, joints locked, muscles screaming, chest aching. And then you say something that makes his blood run cold.
"Mingi...I'm gonna come..."
It comes out soft and feeble. And Mingi, the fucknut, grunts something about you squirting all over him. Yunho's mind mercifully blocks that shit out.
The bed rocks a little while longer, then you mewl, and everything stops. He doesn’t mean to bite his lip or grind the heel of his palm against his hard on, but the sound you make as you cum is so fucking sexy that no amount of mortification or rationalization can help him exercise self control.
This was the stuff of his wildest dreams and most perverted fantasies. The whole bed is vibrating. And if Yunho didn’t know what was actually happening, he’d think you were being electrocuted. By the time it ends, you’re practically wheezing, and Yunho’s bitten his lips so hard it’s drawn blood.
He's pants quietly, chest heaving, thumb fidgeting at his zipper, the unthinkable hovering in his mind. He hates himself for even wanting to, for even contemplating it—but it’s you. Outside of this, the closest thing to moaning he’d ever heard from you was a startled little sound you made after tripping on the sidewalk.
And judging by the friendzone fortress you seem to have cornered him in to, he probably wasn’t going to get another chance to hear it ever again. So Yunho pulls the button of his jeans open, swearing to take this low moment of depravity to his grave.
Then Mingi's voice cuts in, gravelly and intrusive, and the spell shatters.
"Uh-uh, turn around. I'm not done with you yet."
Yunho yanks his hand from his fly like he’s been burned, shock and frustration flaring through him. He drags it down his face instead, jaw tight, heart hammering.
For fucks sake…
He watches, temple now throbbing, as Mingi climbs off the bed—great, more feet—but then yours hit the floor too.
You whine as Mingi twists and bends you into position, tapping your ankle with his foot until you pull your legs together. He plants his own wide on either side of yours, and Yunho feels a pang of misery. He doesn’t need his imagination to fill in the blanks.
He knows exactly what position you’re in.
It’s his favorite.
You hiss as Mingi pushes back into you, and without thinking, Yunho bucks his hips, desperate to live vicariously through him.
He knows it’s pathetic.
“Stay just like that,” Mingi instructs.
Then he starts moving.
He doesn’t ease in to it this time. Even from under the bed, Yunho can hear the sticky smacks as Mingi pistons into you like he’s drilling for oil. One of your feet lifts off the floor from the sheer force of it. And for a moment, you’re squeaking. A high pitched, helpless sound perfectly synced to the bed’s violent rhythm.
Yunho can’t believe his ears. He’s seen porn before, but nothing like this. This isn’t sex. It’s a small-scale natural disaster happening on top of a mattress.
Then Mingi’s voice cuts through it all, ragged and mechanical, like the Terminator decided to narrate his own sex tape.
"Stop running." Hey says. Succinct. "You wanted this dick, you gotta take all of it."
You answer with a strained noise that barely sounds human—half breath, half plea—and Yunho’s brain detonates like tiny, self-destructing firework of despair and auditory trauma.
"I'm trying," You whimper. "It's so deep...I-I can feel it...in my stomach."
Yep... he's definitely going to kill himself after this.
The thrusting stops. Mingi pulls out with a slick pop, and the bed squeaks under new weight. You're gasping, practically heaving, and all he says is "come here."
There's a pause, a shuffle, then the rhythm starts again. This time with a sharp, hollow thump echoing through the wall.
Reality slams into Yunho like a bucket of ice water.
Oh God, you're on top.
At first the bed was rocking side to side. Now it's vertical. And that thump? That's definitely the headboard meeting drywall. (Great! First his dignity, now his deposit)
Your moans even sound different. Lighter, breathier. And fucking Mingi. He's grunting like he's auditioning for a livestock competition, and punctuating it with loud slaps Yunho can only assume are on your ass.
"There you go... ride that shit, baby... Fuck, don't stop."
Every word hits Yunho like a sledgehammer, but he can tell you’re loving it. You sound wrecked, voice trembling, breath catching, but your rhythm never falters. The sharp smacks of movement reverberate through the bed frame and into his spine.
Minutes stretch into eternities, and every second is an assault. Every grunt, every gasp, every desperate, broken “fuck” shoots straight to his dick, painting an even filthier picture in his head until he’s sure he’s going to lose it completely.
The room is suddenly way too humid, and the heat is not helping Yunho’s slow descent into horny delirium. He’s drenched, sweat streaming down his face, neck, and sticking his shirt to his back.
He’s half delirious, and can’t stop picturing the way you must look: the flush on your cheeks, the sheen on your skin, the way your body’s probably bouncing in motion.
Mingi mutters something about being close, asks where he can finish. Yunho barely registers it. Then you ask in response, voice soft and dirty, if he wants to finish in your mouth, and it’s like a flip switches in his head.
Every nerve fires off at once—jealousy, desire, shame, awe. They all slam together like a demolition crew in his skull. Sparks fly, circuits short, and his brain catches fire.
Your words hit him like wrecking balls, and as you slide off the bed Yunho’s chest drums with panic. All he can do is listen helplessly and wonder if he’ll ever stop being emotionally obliterated. Or at least get a single minute of dignity.
He wants to cry again when the bed shifts and your knees hit the ground. He almost does when he hears the wet snap of the condom before it hits the floor.
He looks away when the mattress dips again, but there’s no escaping the sound of Mingi’s rough breathing, the slick rhythm of his hand, the guttural noise that follows as he comes down your throat.
From Yunho’s vantage point, the moment feels eternal, every second amplifying his torment, until finally, mercifully, Mingi sighs and it all comes to an end.
You both sink on to the bed, breathless, panting, then it’s still for what feels like the first time in millennia. Mingi mutters something low and satisfied and you both laugh.
Yunho just lies there, pinned, sweaty, and heaving from the sheer violence of what he’s witnessed. He isn’t even sure he exists anymore. He’s just dust, shame, and regret crushed beneath a twin bed that feels more like a coffin. This was the worst sex of his life, and he wasn’t even partaking in it.
It takes forever for you two to leave after the fact. You disappear into the bathroom for a shower, and Mingi stays on your bed, lounging, laughing, and scrolling through TikToks like nothing mattered.
When you return, he watches, itching with an almost painful excitement as you pace around the room getting dressed. Relief hits him like a wave, borderline orgasmic, as you slip your tabis back on, and Mingi those fucking Air Forces Yunho will no doubt see in his nightmares.
When you finally leave, Yunho doesn’t care about the way you hum and giggle when Mingi says he’ll see you later, voice slick with pride and satisfaction. He doesn’t even mind the brief makeout session you stop for at the door before the lock clicks shut.
He waits until he hears the front door close completely, then he lets out a groan so rough and jagged it barely qualifies as human. It tears out of him, lungs protesting from how long he was forced to stay quiet.
For a while, he just lies there. Like a dusty corpse, waiting for the universe to do him a favor and delete what was left of him.
Then it hits him. He’s still under your bed. You’re long gone, and he’s still there. Like a freak. The realization drags him back into his body. He rolls onto his stomach and crawls out, limbs locked and aching, hair full of lint, shirt damp with sweat and maybe a few tears.
His shoulder bumps the frame as he worms his way out like some rejected horror movie extra. His knees tingle like they have pins in them, and his spine cracks when he finally extends it for the first time in nearly an hour.
Yunho’s thinking to himself that he needs a long, scalding shower and a lobotomy when suddenly—
Your door swings open again.
"Shit—!" he hisses, trying to reverse like a panicked Roomba, but it's too late.
You startle when you see him, hand frozen midway to a charger cable dangling off your desk, blinking at the disaster in front of you.
The silence is nuclear.
All Yunho can do is stare helplessly as you take him in: dusty, disheveled, halfway out from under your bed, hair stuck up with static, face flushed and sweaty, eyes wide, and pupils blown.
Your brows draw together slowly.
"...Yunho?"
He throws his hands up, as if to say, Please, I’m not a pervert, then scrambles the rest of the way out, limbs flailing, utterly hopeless.
His knees buckle from lack of blood flow when he tries to stand up, so he just stays there—pathetic, tragic, and doomed. Because there's no explanation in the world that can make this make sense. No way to erase the image of your roommate crawling out from under your bed, covered in lint, eyes wild, and very obviously hard.
"I—it's not—I wasn't—" His voice cracks.
Excuses scramble like rats in his skull: Surprise? Prank? Illusion?? Nothing sounds remotely sane.
You blink at him, then at the bed he just slithered out of, then at the obvious bulge in his lap. He can see the gears turning behind your eyes as you put two and two together, but when your lips part, nothing comes out.
Yunho's intrusive thoughts detonate. Lie. Say you were fixing the slats. Say you saw a mouse. Anything but the truth. She's going to call the cops. You're going to end up on a list. God, why didn't he just jump out and die earlier?
His voice is strained with fear, and even to him, it doesn’t sound believable, but he throws out the only thing he can think of in that moment:
"I-It’s not what you think, Y/N. I can explain..."
synopsis: you’d known ellie basically all your life. she was your nerdy, comic-loving, space-obsessed childhood friend. but why was it only now that you were beginning to realize she was kinda… hot?
tags: soccer!ellie, childhood friends, fluff(?), suggestive if you squint, college au, reader and els r childhood friends
a/n: not proofread lowkey random but i just needed to talk about how hot ellie can be whilst being completely oblivious to it. i’m actually going crazy she’s so?? (find pt.2 here)
“watch out!” dina exclaimed mid-sentence, her startled eyes looking straight past your shoulder and onto the football field behind you.
the soccer ball hurtled toward you at a terrible speed, barely giving you enough time to turn back to see it.
oh fuck.
out of time, you braced for the impact. shutting your eyes tightly as your body tensed, waiting for the hit. and waiting, and waiting, and waiting…
a good ten seconds passed before you realized the hit hadn’t come, and probably wasn’t ever going to.
anxiously, you pried your eyes open.
the first thing you saw was a familiar pair of soccer shoes, blue with a bright red streak through them, firmly planted in the grass in front of you.
your eyes slowly trailed higher up your savior’s body, the figure growing more and more familiar as you did, before meeting a pair of concerned eyes you knew all too well.
“hey, you okay?” ellie asked you softly, worry lacing her voice. you stared blankly in response, brain still in shock.
ellie stood before you, softly panting from exhaustion. short, loose strands of her auburn hair hung over her eyes, still staring at you worriedly.
ellie held your previous assailant, the fiery soccer ball of doom, in one arm, the lean muscle slightly visible under the loose sleeve of her jersey, as the other hesitantly came to rest on your shoulder.
“hello?” she asked, louder this time.
you watched from inside your body as she seemed to look somewhere behind you. “shit, d’you have a concussion?”
“the ball didn’t even hit her, williams.” you heard dina’s voice respond from behind you. “girl, you good?”
the question seemed to shake you from your spell.
you turned to face the two.
“s-sorry-sorry,” you managed to force out. dina turned to face you—so did ellie, her eyes much wider than you expected. “i’m fine.”
instinctually, you lay a hand on ellie’s arm, oblivious to the way she seemed to stiffen before relaxing under your touch.
her eyes met yours for a few moments, lingering, before she flickering away.
you sighed in relief, a smile beginning to play on your lips. “thanks for the save, els.”
“y-yeah,” she breathed out, rubbing her neck bashfully, “anytime.”
her gaze lingered a little longer, eyes full of a longing you were completely oblivious to, as you glanced over awkwardly to dina.
“hey, williams!” a voice you recognized as abby’s called from further down the field, causing ellie to turn back, breaking contact.
“got it!” she yelled back in reply, her voice almost sounding irritated.
she turned back to you, eyes quickly scanning you from head to toe. “you’re okay?”
“yeah.” you nodded, holding up your hand in a thumbs up. “all good.” you smiled.
“good.” ellie nodded, beginning to shuffle backward to the field. “i’ll-uh-see you back in the room?”
you nodded as she drew further. “thanks again!”
you turned to dina once ellie returned to her spot on the field, only to find a curious expression on her face.
she just stared at you, her arms folded and eyebrow raised. “what?” you asked when she didn’t say anything.
“what do you mean ‘what?’?” she uncrossed her arms, waving them nonsensically in the air.
she pointed to the field. “what’s up with you and williams?”
you stared at her blankly, blinking a few times as her words sank in. a laugh suddenly erupted out of your throat.
“wha-me and ellie?” you restated incredulously, hardly believing her words.
another uncontrollable fit of giggles bubbled up when dina only continued to stare. “dina, seriously?”
dina’s face pinched together as if to say ‘um… yes?’
“ellie? she’s such a dork!”
dina’s face somehow grew even more indicative of disbelief, you didn’t even believe that was possible. “yeah, maybe to you.”
your brows furrowed in confusion. “what does that mean?”
“it means,” dina began, “that your ‘dorky best friend’ isn’t like that to most people.”
you raised an eyebrow, “and what exactly is she like to most people?”
dina waved her hands out ridiculously, “um, hot?!”
she punctuated her point with a sharp gesture to the centre of the field, arm directing your gaze to ellie’s moving figure in the distance, just having stolen the ball. “she’s, like, the hottest person on campus!”
you giggled. “what’re you talking about?” never had you ever heard your best friend described this way.
you turned to dina, determined to clear up whatever misunderstanding of ellie’s character this was.
“i’ve known ellie since she was two. she’s the type of girl who’d hole up in her room with her comics and nerd out about dinosaurs! she has, like, no bitches!”
dina scoffed incredulously, “hon, she has like a million bitches. every single girl in this school is her bitch.”
“and yeah,” she continued, “she’s nerdy in front of you. i’ve never seen her act the way she does with you, i was like ‘what the hell?’”
you shook your head, feigning disbelief, though your disagreement was beginning to wear thin. “i do not believe a single word coming out of your mouth right now.”
dina sighed, heavy and exaggerated.
“y’know what?” dina rolled her eyes, “i will not make myself late for class by debating with you any longer. you’re in denial and you’ll realize it soon enough.” and with that she got up and strode toward campus.
you sighed to yourself. dina don’t know what she was talking about.
you turned back to the field, looking for ellie’s jersey number through the crowd of uniforms.
ellie wasn’t ‘hot’.
the whistle sounded for a break when your eyes found the familiar ‘6’ on the field. you watched as ellie trekked over to the bottom of the bleachers.
you’d known her for years—hell, joel used to change your diapers! you definitely would’ve noticed if ellie had changed.
you watched the scene before you. there was nothing intriguing whatsoever, just ellie, your life-long nerdy best friend, walking over to a bench of water bottles.
then she did something unbelievable.
your eyes followed the shape of her hand as she lifted up the dark blue hem of her shirt and brought it up to wipe her face, exposing the sculpted muscle the fabric previously concealed.
she wasn’t hot. she wasn’t…
ellie picked up her bottle, long fingers gripping it tightly, before bringing it to her lips, tipping her head back as she drank.
beads of sweat dripped down the newly exposed skin of her neck, her throat bobbing as she drank.
oh. my. god.
with a final swig of her water bottle ellie looked up from her spot near the bottom of the bleachers, before slowly setting her bottle down.
her face lit up with recognition as she spotted you on your seat.
she reached up slowly, running her fingers through the front of her hair, as a the corner of her mouth drew upwards into a smirk.
her eyes met yours and, strangely, you felt your heart skip a beat.
what the hell was going on?
the eyes that stared back at you now no longer belonged to the familiar dork you’d known all your life.
no, they were different—longing, daring, dangerous. a disaster for your friendship.
you stared down at her, watching, a strange heat beginning to rush to your face.
she flashed you one final grin before finally turning away, leaving you frozen and flustered as you silently followed her number down the field.
oh, you were so fucked.
you buried your face in you palms with a muffled whimper. dina was right.
⤷ word count — 10.4k
⤷ kinktober 2025 taglist — open !
⤷ permanent taglist — open !
⤷ a/n — hi my loves ! i’m so sorry for the delay—i’m honestly just trying to get my kinktober drafts together, even if it’s already the middle of december. but i promise i’m working on polishing and cleaning everything up. once these are done, i’ll be publishing all of your requests along with my in-progress works and series. as always, please enjoy 🤍
⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), pure filth, size kink, rough sex, dom!ni-ki, sub!reader, slightly bratty!reader, possessive!ni-ki, markings (biting and hickies), college!au, non-idol!au, computer major!reader, best friends to something more, power imbalance, dirty talk, jealousy, heavy making out, manhandling, mutual obsession, fluff
.‧₊࿐ summary — ni-ki isn’t the type to dwell on annoyances. he fixes the problem, gets the job done, and moves on. but when you ask him to come over to help with a project you can barely finish—your deadline bleeding closer by the hour—while talking his ear off about your mutual friends, something ugly and possessive finally claws its way to the surface. maybe it isn’t annoyance at all. maybe it’s the last push he needs to stop holding back.
Irritation.
That was exactly what Nishimura Riki was drowning in, even if he looked ridiculously composed—slouched on your desk chair, long legs spread out like he owned the place, your laptop balanced on his thigh as he typed lines of code you had given up trying to understand.
You’d been talking his ear off for the past twenty minutes, rambling about your night out with Jungwon—Jungwon, one of your oldest friends, one of your mutual friends—and Ni-ki couldn’t decide if he hated hearing the story or hated the way you told it.
“Stay still,” you muttered, fingers combing through his freshly highlighted hair with zero remorse for how dramatic you were being. “This strand keeps escaping.”
“I wonder why,” Ni-ki deadpanned, not looking up from the screen. “Maybe because you’ve been clipping random stuff onto my head for the last ten minutes.”
“They’re not random,” you said, completely ignoring the way he sighed.
You reached over and picked a pink, flower-shaped clip from where you’d pinned them all along the sleeve of his shirt like he was a walking accessory rack. “I bought these specifically for you today.”
“Lucky me,” he murmured, monotone, but his eyebrow twitched when the clip snapped shut on his hair.
“Oh! And then Wonnie bought me a bunch of new lip gloss,” you said, bright and airy, smoothing a blonde streak with your fingers like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Since he lost a bunch of mine when we all went to that beach house a few months ago.”
He let out an absent hum, eyes glued to the code on the screen, but his eyebrow twitched at the nickname.
Your fingers slid gently through the front of his hair, combing it back, repositioning a few rebellious strands with the kind of tenderness you didn’t even realize you had.
You grabbed another clip from where you’d pinned them onto the sleeve of his shirt and unclipped it from the dark fabric.
“And apparently he had to fight tooth and nail for it with Hee,” you continued, as if you weren’t pouring gasoline on an already simmering fire. “Since Hee wanted him to get new shades instead?”
Your voice stayed light, airy, filled with that natural innocence you didn’t even have to force—but it was enough to make Ni-ki’s irritation sharpen.
His fingers hit the next line of code harder than necessary.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, the sound low and tight, brows furrowing at the mention of another shared nickname—Hee. He clicked his tongue, frustration dripping from the gesture as his fingers began typing faster, harsher.
“Stupid fucking numbers—won’t fucking work—” he muttered under his breath, irritation threading clearly through his voice as he backspaced, deleted an entire line, then sighed through his nose like he wanted to strangle the code instead of fix it.
You reached out and gave his head a gentle tap, hesitant, trying not to interrupt but also unable to ignore his growing foul mood.
“Language, Riki,” you scolded softly.
He almost laughed. Bitterly.
The sound sat in his throat but never made it out.
Your tone—your easy scolding, your use of his name—it rolled off your tongue like it meant nothing. Like it held none of the softness you gave everyone else’s nicknames.
Not like Wonnie. Not like Hee.
It made his jaw tighten.
“I’m not five,” he muttered, eyes glued to the screen as he kept typing, forcing himself to focus on the code instead of the way your fingers returned to his hair—sliding gently across his scalp, smoothing a stray strand with absent affection.
You pouted at the top of his head, lips pulling down in disappointment.
“Still,” you mumbled, fingers moving to the side of his head to work on the clip-free strands. “That’s not very nice.”
He tore his eyes away from your screen and looked up at you, eyebrow raised in disbelief, like he couldn’t fathom that you were actually irritated with him.
The expression pulled something out of him—a small, sharp, almost wounded spark of disbelief.
Your fingers didn’t stop—if anything, the gentle brushing got softer.
“Scold me again,” he said, voice quiet but carrying weight, “and I’m not finishing this.”
Your pout deepened when you grabbed another clip from his sleeve—this one a tiny white bow—and clipped it into place with a sulk.
Ni-ki hummed, satisfied. “That’s what I thought..”
You let out a defeated sigh, shoulders dropping as your gaze flicked toward the closet behind you, just beside your bed.
“Where was I…? Ah—yeah.” You adjusted one last strand on the side of his head, your fingers lingering longer than you meant to—barely, but enough for Ni-ki to feel it.
“I have the glosses inside my closet,” you added, your voice slipping into something softer, quieter. “I’ll show them later. When you’re done.”
He couldn’t help it—his eyebrow rose immediately.
It was small, subtle, but obvious enough from where you stood. He peeked up from beneath the strands falling over his forehead, the highlights catching faint reflections from the laptop screen.
“Why are they in your closet anyways?” he asked, typing—fighting—with one of the last, extremely long lines of code.
He clicked his tongue, fingers flying over the keys in sharp, irritated taps. “And why did you take a computer-related course when you hate anything remotely connected to complicated technology?”
The accuracy of that statement hit you like a slap.
You pouted again, and with absolutely zero shame—your fingers slid down to his fringe, giving his bangs a soft tug in retaliation. Just a little. Just enough to be annoying.
He groaned at the sudden pull, “You’re gonna need to try harder than that if you wanna annoy me, princess,” he drawled, letting the nickname spill lazily off his tongue.
Your pout deepened instantly as you fixed a clip that had started slipping, leaning closer—stepping just a little deeper into the space between his legs without even realizing it.
“Because they’re new and I don’t want them to get damaged,” you huffed, fingers returning to the top of his head. You fiddled with the blonde strands, trying to get the clips to stay in place, but his stupidly soft hair refused to cooperate.
Ni-ki kept typing, the rapid clacking steady and unfazed. But the corner of his mouth twitched upward, almost a laugh, when your dainty fingers brushed—barely skimmed—his scalp.
“Your hair is impossible,” you grumbled, clipping another bow near the crown of his head. “Curse you and your stupidly silky hair, Riki.”
He hummed. Just a sound—low, warm, and irritatingly calm.
The lack of reaction pushed you closer again.
You leaned down, peeking over his shoulder to check the screen—only to see that he was almost done with the code. Almost.
You turned your gaze back to him instead.
The glow of the laptop illuminated the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the soft shape of his lips that always looked like he was pouting even when he wasn’t. His eyes—sharp, narrowed, calculating—were focused, but controlled.
You’d always admired how he could choose exactly when to show emotion, and when to hold it back.
He glanced up at you suddenly, catching you staring.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said quietly.
The sudden attention snapped you out of your daze. Your fingers—still gently carding through his hair—flinched the tiniest bit as you blinked down at him, heat rushing straight to your cheeks.
You tried to steady your touch, pretending you weren’t melting under the way he was looking at you, but Ni-ki only leaned even closer, eyes half-lidded like he was encouraging you to keep going.
Waiting—expecting—ready to tease the life out of you the second you opened your mouth.
“I—I did answer,” you stuttered, gaze darting anywhere but him.
Suddenly, the packs of glittered stationery stacked behind him on your desk looked extremely fascinating—like they were the most important thing you had ever seen in your life. “I said they’re new, and—and I didn’t want them to be broken the moment I lay a hand on them, you know?”
His typing slowed… then stopped entirely.
Ni-ki’s finger hovered above the space bar for a beat longer before he quietly closed the laptop with both hands—carefully, gently, like he was afraid the sound might scare you off.
Your hand froze mid-stroke.
He moved, placing the laptop behind him without even looking, and somehow it landed safely on your desk like he had perfect spatial awareness or something. Your brows knitted in confusion as your hand dropped to your side.
“Are you… done?” you asked, head tilting.
Ni-ki didn’t answer. He just let out a low, almost annoyed grumble deep in his throat—one you’d heard before but never directed at you—as he pushed the chair back, towering over you in seconds.
Before you could even register it, his arms wrapped around you—tight, all warmth and limbs—pulling you into his chest so suddenly you let out an embarrassing little squeak.
“R–Riki!” you yelped, hands immediately pushing against his hoodie only to end up clutching it instead when he didn’t budge. “Wh—what has gotten into you?”
He only moved closer—close enough that your breath stuttered—his arms sliding down from your back to your waist with unhurried pressure. His grip tightened, long fingers sinking through the thick fabric of your sweater like he could touch your skin anyway.
He clicked his tongue, low and irritated, before burying his face in your hair.
The warmth of him, the size of him, the way his entire body curved into yours as if he could fuse you to him… it made your knees wobble. You squirmed just the slightest bit, instinctual, but his arms only clamped down tighter, lifting you half an inch off the floor with embarrassing ease.
“Was the code that hard?” you muttered, trying to blame this on something logical—anything logical.
Ni-ki pulled back, but only enough to see you. To look at you.
His brows stayed furrowed, but the line between them deepened, the frustration turning sharp as he raised one eyebrow. His mouth was pulled into a frown—not his usual childish pout, but something more annoyed, more… hungry.
His lips were soft and usually glossy from his habit of licking them every few seconds, biting them when he concentrated. Today he’d barely spoken, barely touched his mouth, and yet they looked flushed—pinker. Wetter. Like he’d been chewing on them while listening to you talk.
About another guy.
His jaw tightened.
“You really don’t get it,” he muttered, voice nearly a growl.
He hated it. Every single thing you did without realizing.
He hated the way you sat here and talked about another man in his ear while your fingers were in his hair—messing it up, fluffing it, making him look younger than you despite him being a few months older.
He hated how you opened your dorm door wearing the skimpiest sleeping shorts known to mankind, pretending your oversized sweater covered anything when the hem barely brushed the tops of them.
He hated how you looked beautiful, hair falling down your back instead of its usual heat-curled waves that bounced when you walked. He hated how you blinked up at him with your bare face—no makeup, no hiding—just soft, real, curious.
He hated that you thought your imperfections were something to conceal when he found every single one of them unfairly inviting.
He hated—“Riki…?” you whispered.
He hated how your hands fisted in his shirt like you needed him to stay close.
Hated how your mouth fell open just barely, like you were waiting for his words to fill that tiny gap.
And when you tilted your head up to the side—big doe eyes staring at him with nothing but pure confusion and fluster—Ni-ki actually let out a laugh, he kind that slipped through his teeth before he could stop it.
You blinked at him, thrown off by how oddly it came out.
Your brows pinched together, your cheeks still embarrassingly warm as you huffed, your pout practically carved into your lips as you muttered, “What are you on about, Nishimura?”
That was the moment everything in him snapped tight. Not in a sudden, dramatic way, but in that slow, inevitable burn he’d been holding back all day.
He groaned—loud, frustrated, like you’d just pulled the rug out from under whatever restraint he still had left. His fingers flexed on your waist before his grip loosened, but only barely. You could move, sure—turn, squirm, shift—but you couldn’t escape him.
Not that you knew whether you even wanted to.
Ni-ki stepped forward—slowly—like he was testing how close he could get before you fell apart completely.
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
You stepped back, not because you wanted to, but because something hot and unfamiliar burst beneath your ribs—instinct, panic, heat, all tangled together so tightly you couldn’t tell which one was winning.
The air between you thinned, stretched, trembled.
It felt like stepping into steam—your skin prickling, your throat tightening, the chilled hum of the air conditioner doing absolutely nothing to cool the burn crawling up your neck.
He tilted his head at you, the movement slow, almost predatory, amusement twisting into something darker as he murmured, “Are you playing with me right now?”
“N-no,” you stuttered, voice wobbling embarrassingly. You took another uneven step back as he moved toward you with that unnerving calm. “Riki, seriously—if this is one of your sick pranks again and I end up crying—”
The words died in your throat.
His hands were back on your waist—warm, steady, terrifyingly gentle. His palms were big enough that your sweater might as well have not existed; the heat of him seeped straight through, crawling under your skin and blooming in dangerous places.
He didn’t squeeze, but he didn’t let you go.
“Is everything I do automatically a prank to you?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed hard, your entire body reacting to the tone he used. He wasn’t mocking. He wasn’t irritated. His voice was steady in a way that made your pulse flicker, too calm for the storm trembling underneath it.
He moved closer again, you stepped back again.
Your heel brushed the soft edge of the carpet mat beside your bed—an intimate little warning that there was nowhere left for you to go—and your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his shirt.
Your knuckles grazed his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the thin material and making your breath tremble.
“I’m just asking why you’re acting so weird,” you muttered, trying—failing—to sound firm. Your voice cracked right through the middle, and you hated how obvious it sounded.
Ni-ki scoffed.
He took another step—not clipped, not sudden, but slow, heavy, like each inch of space he stole meant something to him.
He kept coming closer, and something in you kept breaking open.
Your knees hit the edge of your mattress; the cushion dipped under your weight, and the world tilted for a split second. Your fingers tightened desperately around his shirt, pulling yourself to him even as your voice strained in panic.
“R-Riki, I’m going to fall—!”
“You won’t,” he said, voice low enough to vibrate through your chest.
He caught you before your balance even shifted—one hand sliding behind your back, fingers splaying wide, warm heat seeping through your sweater and right into your spine.
His other hand stayed firm on your waist, thumb grazing just above your hipbone, steadying you with a grip that felt far too careful for someone who liked teasing you this much.
His breath ghosted along your cheek, warm against the cool air of the room, brushing so close to your skin it made your stomach twist. You felt his chest rise and fall with every slow inhale he took, felt the subtle tremor of restraint in his arms around you.
“Not unless I let you,” he murmured.
Your mouth parted, ready to fire back some sharp retort to shatter this silence between you, but all that escaped was a shaky breath, warm and uneven, hanging in the scant space separating your faces.
Ni-ki’s eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, the fluorescent lights overhead casting sharp gleams along the blonde highlights in his tousled hair, turning those streaks into threads of molten gold that framed his intense stare.
You blinked up at him, heat flooding your cheeks until they burned, your pulse thundering in your ears like a distant storm. This wasn’t the playful boy you'd known since you were three, the one who’d drag you to the beach to build lopsided sandcastles, laughing as waves knocked them over.
No, that version of him had vanished, replaced by this man who now cornered you against the edge of your bed, his body effortlessly—pinning you in place without even trying.
One wrong breath, one tiny shift, and you’d tumble backward onto the mattress, sprawled out flat under those piercing eyes. But he wouldn’t let that happen—not yet.
His fingers dug into your waist with a firmness that bordered on possessive, holding you upright as his gaze bore into you, hard and furrowed brows knitting together in silent calculation.
He was waiting for you to crack under the weight of his attention, to drop your eyes and flush deeper like you always did when anyone held your stare for more than five seconds. It was your tell, your shy little habit he’d teased you about a thousand times.
Your mind raced, a whirlwind of confusion and that unwelcome spark of thrill twisting in your gut. Yet you didn’t look away.
Your gaze held his, defiant despite the flush creeping down your neck, staining your skin with heat that had nothing to do with the room's stuffy air.
A flicker of surprise crossed his features, so subtle you almost missed it, before his lips curved into that infuriating half-smile. He leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours in a feather-light touch that sent electricity skittering across your skin.
His voice dropped to a murmur, rough around the edges, vibrating through the air like a secret meant only for you. “Or do you want me to?”
The words hung there, laced with challenge, and your throat tightened. You swallowed hard, forcing the words out in a stutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “R-Riki, just stop playing around and let me go.”
He didn’t pull back. If anything, he pressed nearer, his breath mingling with yours in the tiny gap between your lips—warm, mint-tinged, and far too intimate for best friends.
His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, darkening with something you couldn't quite name, as he tilted his head. “You're telling me to let go,” he said softly, “but your body says otherwise.”
God, you hated how right he was. Your fingers, traitors that they were, clutched at his shirt even tighter, knuckles whitening as you yanked the dark fabric downward, exposing a sliver of his toned chest beneath.
The cotton stretched taut under your grip, and you could feel the rapid thump of his heartbeat mirroring your own chaotic rhythm. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, a reflexive bite to stifle the whimper building in your throat, the sting calming you amid the haze.
Ni-ki’s gaze dipped instantly, zeroing in on the way your teeth pressed into the soft flesh, his pupils dilating just enough to notice. Heat bloomed where his eyes lingered, making your skin tingle as if he'd touched you there instead.
Slowly, his stare traveled back up, locking onto yours again with an intensity that made your knees weaken. “You amuse me, (Y/N),” he breathed, your name rolling off his tongue like velvet—low, drawn out, and laced with a teasing edge that sent your mind reeling.
our head spun, a dizzying mix of embarrassment and that forbidden pull you'd buried deep for years. “Stop doing stuff you don’t mean, Riki,” you managed, your voice cracking with frustration and something dangerously close to plea. “This isn’t funny.”
His chuckle was soft, almost inaudible, rumbling from his chest and vibrating against yours where your bodies nearly touched.
But he didn’t release you—instead, his thumb traced a slow circle just above your hipbone, the motion hidden beneath the hem of your sweater but searing through the fabric like a brand.
“Who said I’m playing?” he murmured, his furrowed brows smoothing out as his free hand lifted, fingers ghosting along your jawline without quite touching.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting shadows that danced across his highlighted hair, making him look almost ethereal in this moment.
Your breath hitched, internal walls crumbling as years of buried feelings clawed their way to the surface. He’s always teased, but this… this feels real.
You wanted to shove him away, to laugh it off like every other time, but your body betrayed you again—leaning into his hold, your grip on his shirt turning from desperate to needy.
The mattress edge pressed into the back of your thighs, a precarious reminder of how easily this could tip over into something irreversible.
Ni-ki’s eyes searched yours, that calculating glint softening into something warmer, more vulnerable, as if he were unraveling too. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, nose brushing yours once more, his lips so close you could taste the air he exhaled.
“And I will. But I don’t think you want that.”
Your breath hitched sharply, the sound slicing through the thick tension like a blade, as Ni-ki’s lips pressed into a thin, taut line. He hovered there, eyes locked on yours, patient yet predatory, waiting for your answer to spill out—or for you to shatter the silence in some other way.
The weight of him loomed over you, his arms forming an unbreakable cage that trapped you against the bed’s edge, his body heat clashing with the cold air blasting from the vent overhead.
Your mind raced, pros and cons flickering like faulty fluorescent bulbs: the risk of ruining your lifelong friendship, the fear of regret, the terror of finally admitting what you’d buried since those awkward teenage years.
But all of it crumbled under the raw, aching need to have him—to pull this man, your constant, into your arms and claim what you’d denied for so long.
You said nothing. Instead, your fingers yanked his shirt down in one swift, desperate tug, the fabric bunching under your grip as your lips crashed into his. The impact was messy, hungry, your body surging forward to close the gap, pressing closer until your chest molded against his solid frame.
Ni-ki didn’t hesitate for a heartbeat; his arms snapped around your waist, hauling you tight against him, fingers digging into your sides with a need that matched the fire igniting in your veins.
He kissed back fiercely, urgency pouring from him like he’d been holding it back for years—lips moving with a bruising intensity, tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours as breaths mingled in hot, ragged bursts that chased away the room's chill.
The world narrowed to the slick slide of his mouth, the way his hold crushed you closer, bodies aligning in a way that felt inevitable. But then he pulled back—just the slightest inch—enough to break the kiss and leave you pouting, lips swollen and chasing his warmth.
His eyes bored into yours, dark and searching, brows furrowed in that mix of dominance and rare vulnerability. “Are you sure about this?” he rasped, voice rough from the kiss, his thumbs stroking soothing circles on your hips even as his grip stayed ironclad.
He’d craved you for the longest time, dreamed of this exact moment, but the last thing he wanted was to push you into something you’d resent—to make you feel cornered beyond the thrill.
His thoughts scattered when you muttered, low and breathless, “Shut up and kiss me.” That was all the confirmation he needed, the green light he’d been starving for.
Ni-ki surged forward again, lips sealing over yours in a deeper, more demanding press as he spun you both around with effortless strength. His hands guided you down onto the bed, the mattress sinking under your combined weight as you quickly straddled him, swinging a leg over to settle firmly on his lap.
The fall was controlled, exhilarating, your arms wrapping around his neck to anchor yourself, fingers threading into the soft strands of his blonde-highlighted hair at the nape.
His hands roamed greedily over your back, palms sliding up the curve of your spine before finding the hem of your sweater. He slipped beneath it without pause, calloused fingers caressing the small of your back, the skin there burning hot under his touch, alive with the pulse of your shared desperation.
You ground down instinctively, hips rolling against the growing bulge in his sweatpants, the friction sending sparks through you both. A deep groan rumbled from his throat into the kiss, vibrating against your lips as his tongue invaded your mouth, dominating with bold strokes that left you breathless and pliant.
His hands ventured lower, tracing the dip of your waist before cupping the supple flesh of your ass through your shorts.
He squeezed hard, pulling you flush against him, grinding you down onto the hard length straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants—and the flimsy barrier of your shorts and underwear. The pressure was electric, his cock throbbing insistently beneath you, the outline clear and insistent as it nudged against your core.
Ni-ki broke the kiss with a gasp, only to tilt his head and drag his mouth along the expanse of your neck, leaving quick, open-mouthed bites that stung sweetly, teeth grazing skin before his tongue soothed the marks.
“If this is the only thing that shuts you up,” he muttered against your pulse point, voice husky and laced with dark amusement, “I should’ve done this sooner.”
You threw your head back at the sheer sensation of his lips ghosting over your throat, a shiver racing down your spine as his hot breath fanned the damp trails he’d left.
“What are you talking about?” you mumbled, voice hazy, lost in the haze of his assault.
His hand cracked against your ass in a sharp smack, the sound echoing softly in the room, making your body quake with a jolt of surprise and heat that pooled low in your belly.
Ni-ki lifted his head, gaze raking over your flushed face—cheeks red, eyes glassy, lips parted in a mess he’d created just for him. “Talking about other guys,” he growled, eyes narrowing as he dove back to your neck, teeth sinking in to leave a blooming red mark that throbbed under the pressure.
You moaned softly, the sound involuntary and raw, arching into him as he followed the bite with a soft kiss, then a slow lick down the reddening skin, savoring the taste of you.
He pulled you impossibly closer, one arm banding across your back while his mouth continued its relentless assault—sucking hard enough to raise hickeys in purpling blooms, biting just shy of pain before laving the spots with his tongue.
“You have a lot of nerve,” he breathed between marks, voice muffled against your collarbone, the words vibrating through you.
Your fingers tugged sharply at his hair in response, pulling a low hiss from him, but a shit-eating grin spread across his face as he met your eyes, triumphant and feral.
His other hand splayed across your back for leverage, while the free one trailed dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts, fingertips teasing the elastic edge.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Now tell me, who’s watching you turn into such a mess with just a few kisses?”
A moan escaped you, unbidden, as his proximity overwhelmed your senses. “Riki, just shut up and—”
He hummed low in his throat, cutting you off mid-sentence, the vibration rumbling against your skin. His fingers hooked into the band of your shorts—and the underwear beneath—tugging sharply so the elastic snapped back against your waist with a sting that made you gasp.
“I asked you a question,” he said, tone commanding yet teasing, before his hand delved under the fabric, fingers tracing the heated skin of your lower abdomen in slow, deliberate circles.
Heat flooded your face anew, turning your flush into a scorching blaze as embarrassment warred with arousal. You mumbled, voice barely coherent, “Y-You.”
Ni-ki smiled mockingly, that infuriating curve of his lips making your heart stutter. “Exactly,” he purred, satisfaction dripping from the word. Without warning, his fingers slid lower, parting your folds to find your clit—the sensitive bundle already swollen and slick.
He circled it with precise pressure, rubbing in firm, teasing strokes that had your hips bucking involuntarily. A high mewl tore from your throat, your body melting as waves of pleasure radiated from his touch, and you buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, hiding the way your expression twisted in ecstasy.
His free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back gently to expose your neck again, even as his fingers worked your clit with increasing rhythm—pinching lightly, then soothing with flicks that built the tension coiling in your core.
The cold air nipped at your exposed skin, but his body beneath you was a furnace, sweatpants tented obscenely where you straddled him, his cock twitching with every grind you managed through the haze.
Ni-ki’s breath came in pants against your ear, his own control fraying as he murmured, “That’s it, let me hear you. No more holding back.”
His fingers, rough and insistent, kept circling your clit with pressure, sending jolts of electricity through your core that made your thighs tremble against his hips.
The chill bit at your bare legs where your shorts had ridden up, but the heat building between you drowned it out, your body arching instinctively into his touch.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, biting down on your palm to stifle the moans threatening to spill out too loud, the sound vibrating against your skin as his thumb flicked over that sensitive nub, teasing it swollen and slick.
Just as the pressure coiled tighter in your belly, Ni-ki pulled his hand away abruptly, leaving your clit throbbing in the sudden absence.
A desperate whine escaped your lips before you could stop it, high and needy. “Riki, please...”
He chuckled low, the sound rumbling from his chest as his fingers trailed lower, ghosting over the slick folds of your pussy, barely brushing the entrance that clenched around nothing.
“Patience, baby,” he muttered, his voice a husky growl against your ear, laced with that dominant edge that made your pulse race.
The cold air kissed the wetness he left behind, heightening every sensation as he caressed your soaking pussy, spreading your arousal along the sensitive skin with slow, torturous strokes.
Then, without warning, a single finger pushed inside you, thick and long, stretching the tight heat of your walls as it slid in deep. You moaned against his shoulder, the sound high-pitched and muffled by the fabric of his shirt, your teeth grazing his skin through it.
Ni-ki’s breath hitched, a pleased hum vibrating from his throat at the noise, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, tender and almost gentle in stark contrast to the way that finger curled inside you, probing your depths with expert precision. Another finger joined the first, scissoring slowly to open you up, the burn of the stretch mixing with the slick glide that had you gasping.
“Haah—fuck,” you moaned out, the words tumbling free as your nails dug into the nape of his neck, scratching lightly in a bid for more.
Ni-ki hissed at the sharp sting, but that shit-eating grin spread across his face, undimmed, his eyes darkening with lust as he watched your reactions.
His other hand shoved your shorts further down your thighs, exposing more of your ass to the biting cold, the fabric bunching awkwardly but forgotten in the haze.
He started pumping those two fingers in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet space, his thumb occasionally brushing back up to your clit for added torment.
“Feels good?” he asked, voice rough, demanding your affirmation as he thrust deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
You could only nod wordlessly, your voice shattered by the intensity, throat tight with the effort to hold back.
Even so, you kept grinding down on him, your hips rolling against the hard length of his cock straining through his sweatpants, trying to ease the ache you knew he felt, the friction making him groan softly beneath you.
Ni-ki twisted his fingers inside you, exploring every inch, the pads curling against your inner walls as you whimpered, the sound raw and pleading.
“Please, don’t stop,” you begged, your body clenching around him, chasing the building pressure.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered, his lips brushing your skin before he nipped at the juncture of your neck, a soft bite that bloomed into heat, making you mewl in pleasure, the sting sharpening the pleasure coiling low in your gut.
His mouth worked along your throat, sucking marks into the sensitive flesh as his fingers delved deeper, searching.
When he found your g-spot, pressing firmly against it with a hooked motion, a sharp gasp-moan tore from your chest, your back bowing as waves of intense pleasure radiated outward.
Ni-ki smirked to himself, that cocky tilt to his lips as he leaned in closer. “There it is,” he whispered, voice dripping with satisfaction, before he scissored his fingers wide, abusing that spot relentlessly, in and out, fast and hard.
“Riki—ngh, right there,” you moaned, leaning into him fully, your forehead pressing against his collarbone as your body shook, the cold air forgotten in the fire he stoked.
His free hand came down suddenly, slapping your ass with a sharp crack that echoed softly, the sting making you jerk forward, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers.
“Don’t stop—oh god,” you gasped, the plea breathless as his fingers continued their ruthless assault, pumping and curling without mercy.
He left a trail of lasting bites and hickeys along your neck, each one blooming under his teeth, marking you as his while the dual sensations overwhelmed you.
You tilted your head back just enough to expose more skin, but in the heat of it, your teeth found the bare part of his shoulder peeking from his shirt, sinking in with a bite that drew a deep groan from him.
“Shit,” Ni-ki growled, the sound guttural, his hips bucking up once as pain and pleasure mixed for him.
Your hips moved on instinct now, meeting each thrust of his fingers, the slick slide pulling obscene squelches from your pussy as you mewled out, “I’m close—fuck...”
The words were a whine, your walls fluttering wildly around him, teetering on the edge. But then, abruptly, Ni-ki stilled his hand, fingers buried deep but unmoving, denying you the friction you craved.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, pants escaping your lips in ragged bursts, the sudden halt leaving you aching and bewildered, body humming with unspent need.
You lifted your head from the crook of Ni-ki’s shoulder, your breath coming in sharp, frustrated gasps as his fingers hovered just above your clit, the heat of them teasing without touching.
Desperation clawed at you, and your hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing that elusive contact, the slickness between your thighs making every movement feel desperate and exposed.
But his other hand, the one gripping your ass, snaked around your waist in a firm hold, pinning you back against him and halting your pursuit. A whine tore from your throat, high and needy, as the ache intensified.
“Riki, why are you being so mean?” you pleaded, your voice trembling with the edge of tears from the denied release, your body thrumming with unfulfilled tension.
He said nothing, his dark eyes locked on yours with that infuriating calm, but then his fingers dipped back down, tracing slow, deliberate circles over your swollen clit. The gentle pressure sent sparks shooting through your core, your walls clenching around nothing now that his fingers had withdrawn from inside you.
You whimpered, the sound raw and broken, “Ngh, fuck…” as pleasure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your skin flushing hot under his gaze.
Just as you teetered on the brink once more, he pulled his fingers away entirely, leaving you gasping. A shit-eating grin spread across his lips, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief as he watched you squirm.
He leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, and pressed a soft, fleeting peck to your lips—gone too soon, leaving you chasing the ghost of it.
Your bottom lip jutted out in a small pout, frustration bubbling up, your chest heaving as you stared at him with wide, pleading eyes.
He hovered there, noses brushing, and muttered against your lips in a low, teasing rumble, “Now you know that being teased isn’t as fun as it sounds, huh?”
You huffed, the sound half-annoyed, half-desperate, and surged forward to capture his mouth in a sloppy kiss, all tongue and teeth, pouring your need into it. He hummed appreciatively, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours, but pulled back just as you started to melt into him, leaving you even more bereft.
His hand tapped your ass lightly, a playful smack that made your skin tingle, before he completely withdrew his fingers from between your legs.
The loss hit you like a punch, a frustrated groan escaping as your pussy clenched emptily, slick dripping down your thighs. Ni-ki’s grip moved to your waist, strong and unyielding, as he hoisted you up onto your knees with effortless strength.
“What are you—!” you yelped, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, fingers digging into the firm muscle there as the room spun slightly from the sudden movement.
“Up,” he commanded simply, his voice husky with command, as he grasped the hem of your sweater and tugged it toward your waist.
You complied without hesitation, raising your arms to let him peel the fabric off your body, the cool air of the private room kissing your heated skin.
He tossed the sweater aside carelessly, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts now fully exposed before him—nipples perked and hard from the arousal and chill, begging for attention.
A low hum of approval vibrated from his throat, his eyes darkening with hunger as he drank in the sight. He leaned forward, his breath warm against your chest, and pressed a series of soft kisses across the swell of your breasts, each one sending shivers racing down your spine.
Then, without warning, his teeth sank into the soft flesh just above your nipple, the sharp bite drawing a gasp from you as pain bloomed into electric pleasure. You arched into him instinctively, your back bowing, pressing your chest closer to his mouth as your nails scraped lightly over his shoulders.
His tongue followed, lapping soothingly over the mark he’d left, the wet heat making you shiver before he trailed it to your right nipple. He took the pebbled flesh into his mouth, sucking firmly, his teeth grazing just enough to make your toes curl.
The sensation pulled a moan from deep in your chest, your body leaning into him, craving more of that delicious pull—but he released it with a soft pop, leaving you wanting, your nipple glistening and aching in the aftermath.
“Stay still,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a velvet command laced with warning, his hands steadying your hips to keep you from grinding against him.
You froze, obeying instantly, not daring to risk him pulling back from the pleasure again.
Your heart pounded wildly, every nerve alight with anticipation, the intimate room filled with the sounds of your shared breaths and the faint scent of your arousal hanging heavy in the air.
Ni-ki’s fingers hooked under the collar of his own shirt, and he yanked it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the toned planes of his chest and abs, skin flushed with heat.
He tossed the shirt across the room, where it landed with a soft thud somewhere in the shadows, his eyes never leaving yours as he closed the distance again.
His hands gripped your waist firmly, pulling you back down until your lips crashed against his in a heated, demanding kiss.
The cold breeze from the room whispered across your exposed skin, raising goosebumps as his tongue invaded your mouth, tasting and claiming every inch.
You melted into him, your body pressing closer, but he broke away just long enough to growl against your lips, his voice rough and edged with raw need. “Can’t fucking wait anymore.”
One hand slid down your side, fingers dipping just below the waistband of your shorts. He didn’t hesitate, shoving the fabric—and your panties—roughly to the side, exposing your soaking pussy to the chilly air.
The sudden coolness made you gasp, your slick folds clenching involuntarily as the breeze teased your heated core, sending a shiver straight up your spine.
Ni-ki leaned back slightly, his dark eyes raking over you with predatory hunger, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Look at you,” he murmured, pausing for effect, his gaze narrowing just enough to make your heart race. “Poor little thing, your pussy’s practically squeezing onto nothing, begging for it.”
You bit your lip, thighs trembling as you knelt straddling his lap, your knees digging into the cushions on either side of him.
He shifted beneath you, his free hand moving to his pants, deftly tugging his thick cock free from the confines of his pants and boxers. It sprang up, heavy and throbbing, slapping against his toned stomach with a soft smack.
The sight of it—veins pulsing along the length, the swollen head already leaking precum—made your breath hitch.
You followed his gaze downward, gulping hard, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Are you sure that’s going to fit?” you whispered, voice barely above a breath, a mix of awe and apprehension flooding your senses.
Ni-ki let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through his chest, his hand settling on your hip with a possessive squeeze. The other guided his tip to your entrance, teasing it along your slick folds, letting your juices coat him, dripping down his shaft to serve as natural lube.
He hummed in satisfaction, savoring the way you looked so small and vulnerable in his arms, even as you hovered above him on your knees, peering down with flushed cheeks. The contrast only fueled his dominance, your body trembling under his touch.
You held back a moan as the broad head nudged your clit, sparks of pleasure shooting through you, but it escaped as a soft whimper when he dragged it lower, pressing just against your opening.
He leaned in, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest, nipping at the swell of your breasts before sucking a nipple into his mouth.
His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, tongue swirling around it as he muttered against your skin, voice muffled but commanding.
“And you’re taking every inch of me like the good fucking girl you are.” The words sent a rush of heat pooling between your legs, making you whimper louder.
Without warning, his hand came down in a single, sharp spank to your ass, the sting blooming into warmth that made your pussy clench desperately.
Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively, fingers threading into his hair as you rocked your hips down just a fraction, urging him to push past your folds. The tip breached you slowly, stretching your entrance with a delicious burn.
Ni-ki’s fingers tucked a stray strand of fallen hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle amid the intensity. “What happened to the little brat from earlier?” he teased, his eyes locking onto yours with a challenging glint.
You hissed through your teeth as he sank in the slightest bit deeper, the thick girth splitting you open. “S-shut up,” you managed, but it dissolved into a throaty moan when he thrust his hips up, forcing another inch inside.
The sensation was overwhelming—your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust to the invasion. Ni-ki groaned low in his throat, his head falling back slightly. “Fuck, you’re sucking me in, and I’m barely inside you.”
His hands wrapped fully around your waist now, fingers digging into your flesh as he fought the urge to yank you down completely onto his lap, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal motion.
Emboldened by the pleasure-pain mix, you shifted down a little more, inching along his length. “Ngh—fuck…” you mumbled, gasping sharply as you felt him enter you further.
The thick, veined head of his cock dragged against your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Every ridge and pulse of him filled you inch by inch, your juices easing the way but doing little to dull the intensity.
As you sank lower, Ni-ki hummed in deep approval, his breath hot against your neck. “Breathe for me, baby,” he coaxed, one hand stroking your back in slow circles while the other held your hip steady.
“I can’t take it anymore,” you whined, voice breaking, your body quivering on the edge of surrender. The fullness was too much, too good, your clit throbbing against his base as you hovered just shy of taking him all.
He sneered, sharpening his features as he gripped you tighter. “You can and you will, or do I have to do it myself?” The threat hung in the air, and you opened your mouth to protest—
But before the words could form, Ni-ki’s hands clamped down, pulling you flush onto his length in one swift motion. He filled you completely, fully, his cock bottoming out until the tip kissed your cervix with a deep, pressure that bordered on ecstasy.
You had to fight back a scream, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat instead as your eyes watered from the sheer pleasure of being so utterly stuffed.
Waves of sensation crashed over you—your pussy clenching rhythmically around him, milking his thickness as your body adjusted to the invasion.
The cold breeze ghosted over your sweat-dampened skin, heightening every nerve, while Ni-ki’s chest heaved against yours, his own groan rumbling deep as he held you there, savoring the tight, wet heat enveloping him.
“That’s it,” he rasped, nipping at your earlobe, his hips giving a subtle grind to emphasize his point. “Feel how deep I am? You're mine now, every fucking inch.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, breaths coming in ragged pants as the initial stretch gave way to pure, addictive bliss, your body already craving more despite the overwhelming fullness.
Ni-ki’s breath fanned hot against your skin as he pressed soft, lingering kisses along the side of your neck, his lips brushing over your pulse point in a soothing rhythm.
He held still inside you, giving your body time to adjust to the thick stretch of his cock buried to the hilt, the way it pressed insistently against your inner walls, making you feel him deep in your core—like he was rearranging your insides with every subtle shift.
The sunlight filtered through the slight opening in the shutters, casting warm golden streaks across his face and your intertwined bodies, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his toned chest.
You shot the side of his face a glare, your brows furrowing even as pleasure hummed through your veins.
“Asshole,” you mumbled under your breath, the word lacking any real bite, especially with him throbbing inside you, so deep it felt like he was nudging your stomach.
He pulled back just enough to peek at you, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement under the soft light, that signature smirk curling his lips. “That got you to finally shut up, didn’t it?”
Before you could snap back, he delivered a single thrust upward, his hips snapping sharply to grind his cock deeper into your clenching pussy.
The motion ripped a moan from your throat—“Ah—!”—your nails digging harder into the back of his neck, scraping against his skin as your body arched involuntarily.
The jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core, your walls fluttering around his length, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that made your thighs quake.
Ni-ki’s low chuckle rumbled through his chest, clearly pleased by your reaction, his hands holding your waist in a loose but firm grip, thumbs stroking the curve of your hips. Your glare hardened, defiance flickering in your eyes despite the haze of lust clouding them.
Slowly, experimentally, you lifted your hips, rising up his shaft until just the tip remained inside, your slick juices coating him and dripping down to his balls. Then you sank back down, setting yourself fully onto him again with a controlled roll of your hips.
“Fuck,” Ni-ki groaned, his head tipping back slightly, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “You’re squeezing me so well.”
The praise sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your pussy clamping down tighter as you continued your ministrations, slowly riding him—up and down in a teasing rhythm, your ass cheeks flexing with each descent.
He sighed in pure pleasure, the sound deep and guttural, reveling in the sensation of nothing but your tight, wet heat enveloping him completely, sucking him in with every lift and drop.
His mouth found the juncture of your shoulder, lips parting to suck hard, leaving blooming hickeys in his wake—dark red marks that would bruise beautifully by morning. The sharp sting mixed with the pleasure, making your eyes practically roll back to the back of your head as you picked up the pace just a fraction.
His cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, the ones your fingers could never quite reach, every thick vein pulsing along your walls, every ridge catching and pulling at your fluttering entrance.
You couldn’t hold back the moan that bubbled up, raw and desperate. “Hah—Riki, fuck—you feel so good.” Even without him moving, you were already melting into putty in his hands, your body pliant and eager under his gaze.
He let you have your fun, his hands steady on your waist as he watched you with hooded eyes, enjoying the way you looked so utterly fucked out already—lips parted, cheeks flushed, bouncing on his lap like you were made for it.
Your half-lidded eyes locked onto his, staring back with a mix of challenge and surrender, cutting off whatever egotistic response he was about to spit out.
In a surge of boldness, your lips slammed into his, tongue diving in to find his immediately, tangling in a messy, heated kiss that tasted of salt and need.
Ni-ki’s arms around your waist tightened instantly, pulling you impossibly closer, the non-existent distance between your bodies making everything hotter, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
He controlled the angle just enough to let you move up and down his cock more freely, your bounces growing bolder, your little pussy sucking him in with obscene wet sounds that filled the room alongside your shared breaths.
He bit down on your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth with a growl as you squeaked out, “I’m close—hng—!”
The familiar coil of an orgasm wound tight in your lower belly, heat building relentlessly with each grind of your clit against his pubic bone.
You halted to a stop abruptly, him still buried deep inside you, and your body convulsed as the climax crashed over you hard. Your pussy spasmed wildly around his cock, milking him in tight, rhythmic squeezes as waves of ecstasy ripped through you, your juices flooding out to soak his lap.
You practically fell limp into his arms, burying your face into his chest, inhaling the musky scent of his skin as aftershocks trembled through your limbs.
Ni-ki hissed through his teeth at the vice-like grip of your orgasm, his cock twitching inside you as he fought the urge to chase his own release right then.
“Poor thing, tired already?” he murmured, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to the top of your head, his fingers carding gently through your damp hair.
You blinked up at him, utterly flushed and wasted, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, body still humming from the high.
He smirked down at you, that predatory glint returning to his eyes. “Too bad, I’m not done with you yet.”
Without warning, he shifted you in his arms, lifting your waist just the slightest bit so it hovered above his lap, carrying your weight effortlessly as if you weighed nothing.
His muscles flexed under your touch, biceps bulging as he held you suspended, only the tip of his cock remaining inside your sensitive folds.
“Riki, what the hell?” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, a mix of surprise and lingering pleasure making your voice waver.
He didn’t answer with words—instead, he thrust up suddenly, slamming his hips forward to bury himself deep again in one powerful stroke. The force sent you jolting forward, your body pitching into his bare chest with a high-pitched squeal, your arms wrapping around him desperately as fresh sparks of pleasure ignited in your core.
His cock filled you completely once more, the head pounding against your cervix, and you could feel every inch stretching you anew, your walls still fluttering from your recent orgasm.
“Shh, just hold on,” he whispered against your ear, voice laced with dark amusement as he started a relentless rhythm, bouncing you on his length with strong, upward thrusts that made your toes curl.
Your mind went blank, every thought dissolving into pure sensation as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his back, needing an anchor in the overwhelming storm of pleasure he was creating.
Your nails dug into the firm muscle of his shoulders, then scraped downwards, leaving fresh, angry red marks in their wake as you tried to hold on tighter.
Ni-ki hissed at the sharp sting of your nails on his skin, a sound that was half-pain, all-pleasure. It only seemed to spur him on. He continued his assault on your pussy, pounding into you relentlessly, his hips snapping up to meet yours with a force that stole the air from your lungs.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. He was enjoying this—enjoying the way your high-pitched, desperate moans left your lips uncontrollably.
“You spent all this afternoon talking my ear off about Heeseung,” he ground out, punctuating the name with a powerful thrust that made you cry out. “And Jungwon,” he added, giving another deep, punishing roll of his hips that had you moaning a strangled, “Fuck, right there!”
A sneer twisted his handsome features, a flash of raw annoyance crossing his face as he glared down at you, his rhythm never faltering.
“Do you think it was fun, watching you talk about other men when I was imagining you taking my cock just like this?” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
He gave a slow but devastatingly powerful thrust, angling himself perfectly to nail your g-spot, making your vision swim with white-hot pleasure. “Treating me like a child just because I’m a few months younger than you?”
Without warning, he pulled you down flush against his lap, crushing his mouth to yours. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a claiming. He shoved his tongue past your lips, dominating the kiss, tasting you, swallowing your moans.
Your eyes rolled back into your head, the dual stimulation of his deep kiss and his relentless thrusting pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
He pulled away just enough to speak, his lips still brushing against yours. “Now tell me,” he demanded, his voice a rough command. “Who’s making you feel this good?”
He lifted your hips again, his grip bruising, and began thrusting into you with a fast, harsh rhythm that stole your breath.
One hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there, not enough to choke, but more than enough to establish his complete control.
His other arm held you snugly at the waist, keeping you pinned to him. “Eyes on me while I fuck you,” he mumbled, his gaze intense and burning into yours.
You were quick to obey, too far gone in the pleasure to do anything but stare up at him, your body completely at his mercy as he continued his breathtaking assault.
“Riki, I’m so close, don’t stop—fuck—!” you cried out, your voice breaking as your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of pure, blinding ecstasy that confused your senses and left you trembling.
As you convulsed around him, he placed a searing kiss to your lips, his hands tightening around your throat, a possessive gesture that held you in place as you rode out your high.
You leaned forward, pressing frantic, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his face, his jaw, anywhere you could reach. “So sensitive, Riki, wait, please,” you whimpered against his skin, the overstimulation almost too much to bear.
“I’m almost there,” he grunted, his voice strained with his own impending release. “Be a good girl and wait for me.” You whimpered again, a sound of desperate submission, as he gave one final, gut-deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
You felt him pulse as he painted your insides with hot, thick ropes of his cum, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he found his own release.
He softened his hold, softly placing you down on his lap while he was still inside you, his cock twitching as it spilled the last of his cum. He groaned, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pulling you with him as he fell back onto the mattress.
You lay panting against his heaving chest, your heart hammering against his as you both struggled to catch your breath. After a moment, you blinked up at him, a soft, blissed-out smile on your face as you mumbled, “I love you.”
That was all it took. A small, genuine smile finally broke through his intense demeanor, softening his features. “I love you too,” he said, his voice now a low, gentle rumble.
You sighed, reveling in the warm, safe afterglow of such hot and intense sex, your body feeling boneless and sated in his arms. The silence was comfortable, filled only by your shared breathing, until Niki suddenly broke it.
“Throw the stuff Jungwon got you,” he said, his tone serious. “I’m getting you a new one.” The sudden, possessive command was so absurdly Ni-ki that you couldn’t help but break into a fit of breathless laughter, the sound echoing in the quiet room as he held you close.
You drew small, absentminded circles on his chest, your fingertips tracing the faint sheen of sweat that still clung to his skin. He looked down at you, his dark eyes watching your movements with a softness that was a stark contrast to his earlier aggression.
“I can’t just do that,” you murmured, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. “Jungwon’s a close friend of yours too, you know.”
Ni-ki hated how pretty you looked in that moment, your eyes wide and almost begging him to understand, your lips still swollen from his kisses.
He huffed, a puff of air ruffling your hair. “Yeah, and I fucked any thought of him out of you, didn’t I?” A shit-eating, teasing grin made its way to his lips, all sharp teeth and smug satisfaction.
You scoffed, slapping his chest softly, the sound a gentle thud against his firm muscle. “Nishimura Riki!”
He laughed loudly, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. The sound was so infectious, so full of genuine amusement, that it made your heart ache. He pulled you impossibly closer, his arms banding around your waist until there was no space left between you.
“Okay, fine,” he conceded, his voice still laced with laughter. “Maybe not that one. What about the stuff Heeseung got you instead?”
The glare you gave him this time was sharp enough to cut glass, a silent warning that he was treading on very thin ice. It was so utterly serious that it only made him laugh again, his head thrown back against the pillows.
He tightened his grip, rolling you both over so he was hovering above you, propped up on his elbows. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of adoration and relentless teasing.
“Oh, come on,” he coaxed, lowering his head to nuzzle his nose against yours. “Don’t look at me like that.” He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another on your jaw.
You rolled your eyes, a fond gesture that lacked any real annoyance, and hooked a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to press a chaste kiss on his lips.
“You’re so jealous,” you mumbled against his mouth, “and it shows.”
He furrowed his brows, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression mock-serious. “And I had every right to be,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.
You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the room, and the sound seemed to break his composure. He toppled over, letting his full weight squish you as he buried his face in your chest with a dramatic groan.
Your hands automatically found their way into his soft hair, your fingers gently combing through the dark strands. A soft, dorky smile made its way up to his lips, hidden against your skin, and it made you smile right back at him.
You sighed, your mind already racing ahead, thinking of excuses to tell Jungwon if he ever started looking for the stuffed animal he got you, wondering if you’d ever used it. “Sorry, Jungwon,” you mumbled quietly to yourself.
Ni-ki’s head snapped up, one eye cracking open to peer at you. “What was that?”
You huffed, gently pushing his face away from you. “Nothing, I said. Go grab your phone and order pizza.”
A triumphant smile spread across his face as he nuzzled closer, tucking his head back into the crook of your neck like a contented cat. “Three more minutes,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Steve Rogers, the best student in class, knew just the way to help you study.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+/MDNI. [Pussy slapping, clit play, hes being like that on purpose], name calling.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 374
𝐀/𝐍: day one of June Jukebox Scribbles hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles!!!! Coming in strong with my newly found degradation kink hehe🤭
𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭: “I never understood a single word he said”
⤷June Jukebox Masterlist ⤷Steve Rogers Masterlist
“Say that again, sweetheart.” He purrs against your throat, licking a long stripe up your soft, sweaty skin.
Steve Rogers.
The golden boy with the dark edge. Everyone hated him. But they knew.
Knew he was the best.
"I didn't understand today's lecture..."
"Why? Professor Adler not teaching you right?" He asks with casual ease, as if his fingers weren't inching closer and closer to your bare, dripping pussy.
It was a rule— you want him to teach you, you take off your panties. Simple. Just like all things were for him.
“I— I never understood a single word he said,” you whisper, guilt underlining each word, “because... you sent me your picture.”
You could feel his grin on your skin, shameless and proud, “You're so dumb, baby. One picture and all you could think about was my cock. You're such a filthy slut under all that good girl guise, yeah?”
He lands a quick smack to your cunt, the wet sound echoing in his dorm room. You cry out his name, clutching onto his thick forearm as he soothes the stinging burn with his fingers rubbing soft circles on your throbbing clit.
“My poor, dumb baby loses every thought when she's horny for me, right?”
His words made you burn with shame. As much as you prided yourself for being good, Steve always succeeded to bring out this side in you, the damned side you didn't even know existed.
“Now, why don't you go ahead and read your notes?"
You nod, leaning forward to grab the notes he made you write last week, but couldn't possibly read a single word as he pinches your clit between his fingers, chuckling when you yelp in pain, your body writing to get away from his hold.
“Tsk-tsk… don't move around too much, we haven't got all day.”
Another slap to your pussy. This one much sharper than the last, making your pussy drip down his lap, staining the faded denim.
Not that he'd mind wearing the wetness all day long, showing everyone just how perfect he was even when he was a mess.
“Steve! Please….”
“You beg so pretty, sweetheart. Might just let you suck my cock after you get your questions right…”
𑣲⋆ if you'd like to be added to my taglist, send a letter via a pigeon...or just a reply down below🫶🏻 (i write for ce babes and bocky. if you'd like to be tagged for someone specific, please feel free to let me know 🤭🤭)
❝ professor!steve x student!reader ❞
── they say you should never meet your heros, but when you'd heard the guest lecturer was cultural anthropologist professor steven rogers, you knew there was no way you were passing that opportunity up.
⤷ tags: semi-forbidden lovers, hes a professor but hes not HER professor, alternate universe - college/professor!au, somewhat friends to lovers, minor author nerding out (feel free to skip the geek speak), age gap, light fluff, steve is a good teacher 😉, semi slow burn (author is incapable of a true slowburn), inexperienced reader ⋮ warnings: 18+ mdni! eventual smut, p in v, porn with semi plot, oral ⌞f receiving⌝ virginity loss, cowgirl, fingering, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, babydoll), orgasm denial/control, praise kink, dirty talking steve rogers, dom!steve?, light size difference, light rough play, creampie
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── i have so many other things i should be writing right now but THIS fucker wouldnt leave me alone... so enjoy, soz if you dont (ps i wrote this off three hours of sleep and hands down by dashboard confessional playing on repeat... can you tell) (pps i hate the ending how are you supposed to end a pwp why do i do this)
dt: hello babygirl @epiphanyrogers 😋 this is for u, enjoy ur pokemon collection 🫶🏽
The auditorium was bustling with hushed conversation as you stepped inside, the quiet voices layering over each other until a faint static-like hum was filling the air. You kept your eyes forward as you walked up the stairs to an open spot, part of you wanted to sit in the front but the abundant occupancy of it veered you further towards the back.
You slipped into your seat halfway down the aisle, clutching the hardback to your chest like it might steady your pulse. Cultures in Transition—dog-eared, highlighted, annotated in the margins with questions you’d never expected to ask the man who wrote it.
Professor Steve Rogers. Guest alumnus lecturer. Cultural anthropology. Nobel Prize winner. Former field researcher whose work you’d cited in three separate papers already. You'd have posters of him in your room if he had any, hearing he was going to be on campus was like hearing Superman was stopping by for a meet n' greet, unheard of and completely unmissable.
And now he was standing at the front of your lecture hall, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms dusted with dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose as he smiled politely at the room full of students.
“Thank you for having me,” he began, voice warm, steady, with that faint Brooklyn undertone you’d heard in interviews. “I’m excited to talk with you all today, not at you.”
That earned him a laugh. Mostly from the front row. It was a glittering group of girls who had sat there, angling in their seats to try and catch his eye. Sure the professor was handsome but his level of attraction was the farthest thing you were excited to see, your brain was practically buzzing with all the questions you wanted to ask him, all the knowledge he could offer.
You tried to focus. Really, you did. It started out fine at first, a quick raise of the hand for a clarifying question, then another that turned the conversation sideways and soon it seemed half the class was intent on turning a discussion of post-conflict cultural preservation into some kind of flirting Olympics.
One girl asked whether emotional attachment ever clouded his judgment in the field, batting her lashes as she said it.
Another wondered aloud if he’d ever fallen in love with a culture he studied.
Mr. Rogers handled each question with professional grace, redirecting, reframing, answering thoughtfully without indulging the tone. Still, you noticed the way his jaw tightened just slightly as the questions drifted further from substance.
You waited. Your heart pounded louder with each raised hand, each giggle, each sidelong glance aimed at the podium.
Your fingers trembled as you lifted your hand, finally, the professor gestured toward you. “Last question.”
“In your work on post-displacement communities,” you said, voice steadier than you felt, “you emphasize preservation through adaptation rather than restoration. But how do you reconcile that with cultures that don’t want to adapt—where change itself is seen as a second erasure?”
The room went quiet.
He didn’t answer right away. He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing loosely, gaze fixed on you with a focus so intent it made your breath catch. Not polite interest. Not academic courtesy.
Real curiosity. It sent a cold chill down your spine.
“That’s…” he exhaled, thoughtful. “That’s a damn good question.”
The professor continued, slowly, “The honest answer is—you can’t always reconcile it. Sometimes the role of an anthropologist isn’t to solve the conflict, but to sit with it. To document the resistance as faithfully as the change.”
His eyes never left you.
“And sometimes,” he added, quieter, “the most ethical thing you can do is let a culture grieve what it’s losing instead of pushing it toward what we think it should become.”
Your chest felt tight as you nodded, sitting back down. When the lecture ended, the room erupted, students crowding the front, phones out, questions queued, laughter spilling too loud. You hesitated, then waited at your seat, heart hammering.
You looked down at your book then back up to the crowd at the lectern, it was like they had seen a baby animal at the zoo, cooing over its cuteness and trying to get its attention. You told yourself the lecture was enough, you even got one question in out of the dozen that wracked inside your head, the book didn't need a signature. The book held the memory well enough.
You felt it before you heard it, the unmistakable sense of being watched, of attention shifting and narrowing until it pressed hot between your shoulder blades.
“Hey—excuse me.”
You turned.
Professor Rogers stood a few feet away, book bag slung over one shoulder, expression earnest. Up close, he was somehow both softer and more imposing, lines at the corners of his eyes, beard neatly trimmed, gaze steady.
You froze, your brain stalled out completely, like it had tripped over its own feet.
“Oh,” you said stupidly. Brilliant start. “Hi.”
He smiled, a little tentative, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to do this either. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”
Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag, nails biting into the leather. You nodded once, twice—too fast. “Yeah. I mean. Sure. Um.”
Act normal. Please. Act like a functioning academic.
“I wanted to talk more about your question,” he continued, gesturing vaguely back toward the front of the room as students filtered past, casting curious glances. “The one about resistance to adaptation.”
Your stomach flipped. “That was—” you cleared your throat, heat creeping up your neck. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything. I was just—”
“No,” he interrupted gently, shaking his head. “Please don’t apologize. That question’s been sitting with me since you asked it.”
That did not help your composure at all. He motioned toward a quieter corner of the hall, away from the lingering clusters of students. You followed on autopilot, brain screaming the entire way.
“You’re right,” he said. “There’s a tension there that a lot of my earlier work didn’t fully account for. The idea that adaptation is always preferable, it’s a very Western bias.”
Your eyes widened despite yourself. “Exactly,” you said, a little breathless. Then immediately winced. “I mean, sorry. Not exactly. I just—”
Steve smiled, clearly amused now. “No, go on.”
You exhaled, grounding yourself the way you’d learned to during seminars. “A lot of displaced communities see adaptation as a concession. Like agreeing that what they lost is gone for good. In some cases, resistance isn’t stagnation, it’s preservation through refusal.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s… very well put.”
Your shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “I saw something similar in Eastern Europe in the late nineties,” he continued. “Villages that refused modernization not because they couldn’t change, but because change meant admitting they’d survived for nothing.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” you said, warming now, nerves giving way to passion. “That sometimes grief itself becomes a cultural practice.”
Steve’s gaze sharpened, impressed. “You’ve thought about this.”
“A lot,” you admitted softly. “Your chapter on transitional identity kind of… ruined me, academically.”
He laughed, low and surprised. “I get that more than you’d think.”
There was a brief pause, comfortable, charged. Then reality crashed back in all at once as your fingers shifted against the weight of your book bag in your hand. This was a tried and true now or never moment, and seeing as he took the leap of seeking you out, you think you can muster up enough courage for it.
“Oh uhm.” You fumbled with your bag, acutely aware of the book inside it. “This is awkward. I actually brought something and now I feel ridiculous.”
Steve lifted a brow. “Ridiculous how?”
You pulled the book out slowly, holding it against your chest for a second before extending it toward him like a peace offering.
“I was hoping you might sign this,” you said, eyes dropping to the floor. “But you don’t have to. I mean, I know you probably get asked all the time and I don’t want to be—”
“A fan?” he offered gently.
You winced. “Yes.”
He took the book without hesitation. “I like fans,” he said, flipping it open. “Especially the ones who argue with me in their heads while they read.”
Your mouth parted despite yourself. “I don't… do that. All the time.”
“I could tell,” he said, smiling as he uncapped his pen.
He paused, glancing up at you. “What’s your name?”
You told him, voice softer now. He wrote carefully, deliberately, far more than a quick autograph. When he finished, he hesitated, then added something else. Tore a small scrap from his notebook and tucked it into the pages.
When he handed the book back, your fingers brushed. Electric.
“If you end up writing on that question,” Steve said, quieter now, “I’d be curious to see where you take it.”
You looked down. Inside the cover was his inscription, warm, personal, and beneath it, an email address written in neat block letters.
“Email me,” he added. “If you have more questions. The good kind.”
You swallowed hard. “I—thank you. For… all of this.”
He nodded once, sincere. “You’re welcome. And keep pushing back. The field needs more of that.”
You floated through the rest of the day like you’d been lightly unplugged from reality.
It wasn’t dramatic, no swooning, no outward signs of distress, but everything felt just a half-step off, like the world had been tilted and you were still adjusting your balance.
You sat through your next class with Professor Rogers’ book open on your desk, his signature catching your eye every few minutes like it was glowing. You’d trace the edge of the page with your thumb, then force yourself to look away before anyone noticed.
Email me. If you have more questions.
Your phone buzzed. A reminder about a quiz. You stared at it for a full ten seconds before remembering what class you were in.
Someone asked you a question about your notes. You blinked at them, startled, then laughed it off like you hadn’t just been replaying the way Steve had leaned against the desk, brow furrowed, genuinely interested in what you had to say.
By the time you made it to the library, your bag felt heavier than it should have, like the book inside it carried more than paper and ink. You tried to work. You really did.
You opened your laptop. Pulled up your readings. Typed half a paragraph about ritual memory and promptly deleted it because all you could think about was the way the professor had said grief itself becomes a cultural practice like the words mattered.
Because they did. Because you did.
You caught your reflection in the darkened screen and shook your head. “Get it together,” you muttered. “He’s just a professor.”
A world-renowned anthropologist, your dream accomplishment in a physical human form. A literal authority in your field. A man who had sought you out after a lecture hall full of students.
Just a professor.
You didn’t even remember the walk home.
Your apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the late afternoon light slanting in through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a moment—still, suspended.
Then you pulled the book out. You sat on the couch, flipping it open again like the words might have changed. They hadn’t. His handwriting was still careful, deliberate. His email address still tucked just beneath it.
Your phone appeared in your hand without you consciously deciding to grab it. You opened your email app. Started a new message. Typed the address.
And froze. Your thumb hovered over the screen, heart suddenly pounding like you were about to step off something very high.
What would you even say?
“Hi, you don’t know me but—” No, he does know you.
“Thanks again for the lecture”—too stiff.
Too eager? Too casual? Too much?
You locked your phone and tossed it onto the coffee table like it had burned you. Five minutes passed. Ten. You paced. You made tea you forgot to drink. You sat back down. Picked up the phone again. Unlocked it. The blank email stared back at you, patient.
You exhaled slowly and began to type. Nothing clever. Nothing rehearsed. Just honest.
Dear Professor,
You said to email if I had anymore good questions, hopefully heres another for you.
Can grief function like a cultural language when other forms of expression are suppressed? Do you see this a lot in cultures affected by colonization or displacement?
Your fingers trembled as you finished, reread it twice, then a third time. You hovered over Send.
Thought about his smile. His attention. The way he’d said he wanted to hear more. And then, you tapped it. The email disappeared with a soft swoosh, gone before you could second-guess yourself. You stared at the screen, breath held, heart racing.
Too late now. Somewhere, maybe hours from now, maybe days, Professor Rogers would open his inbox. And he’d read your words. You set the phone down gently, like it might shatter, and leaned back against the couch, pulse thrumming, a nervous smile tugging at your lips.
Whatever happened next, you’d asked another good question.
The first day passed with a patience you didn’t trust.
You told yourself it was unreasonable to expect anything. He was busy. He was important. He’d probably respond when he had time, or not at all, and that would be fine. Normal, even.
You checked your email anyway.
Once in the morning. Once between classes. Once while waiting for your coffee.
Nothing.
By the second day, patience curdled into awareness.
You reread the email you’d sent more times than you’d admit to anyone. You analyzed your tone like it was a primary source. Too formal? Too eager? Did the last sentence sound like an invitation instead of a question?
You deleted the draft of a follow-up email three separate times.
By day three, it had lodged itself under your skin. Every vibration of your phone sent a spike of hope through you—each one followed by the dull thud of disappointment. Group chats. Campus alerts. Spam.
You told yourself, He didn’t owe you anything. Which somehow made it worse.
That night, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the room dark except for the glow of your phone charging on the nightstand. Midnight came and went. You rolled onto your side, eyes burning with exhaustion.
Just let it go, you thought. Your phone chimed. You were upright before the sound finished. Email notification. Your heart slammed so hard you felt dizzy as you grabbed the phone, fingers clumsy, breath shallow.
From: Professor Steve Rogers
The timestamp read 12:47 a.m.
You didn’t even open it at first—just stared at his name like it might vanish if you blinked.
Then you tapped.
I hope it’s alright that I’m writing this late.
I kept thinking about your question, and then about your email, and I realized I didn’t want to give you a rushed answer.
You’re right—grief often becomes the structure that holds a culture together when everything else has been stripped away. In many cases, grief becomes the archive—stories, songs, ceremonies that remember what was lost.
Thank you for trusting me with your thoughts. They stayed with me longer than you probably realize.
— Steve
Your chest ached.
Not from longing exactly, but from being seen. From the carefulness of it. From the fact that he’d taken days not because he didn’t care, but because he did.
You replied immediately, thumb flying before fear could catch up.
Professor,
I was worried I’d crossed a line emailing you at all.
I didn’t expect a reply—thank you for taking the time.
Your work is what made me brave enough to ask the question in the first place.
You smiled into the dark.
I’m glad you did email,
And for what it’s worth, bravery tends to come from people who don’t realize they’re being brave.
Also feel free to call me Steve.
You hugged the pillow to your chest, heart pounding.
Okay, Steve,
Can I ask you something else?
Not for class, just… something I’ve been thinking about.
The reply came almost instantly this time.
I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
It stopped feeling like email after that.
The pauses shrank. The formality softened. Paragraphs turned into shorter thoughts, questions folded into confessions.
You told him about your program, your fear of choosing the wrong focus too early. He told you about the years he’d spent convinced he was studying the wrong things entirely.
I used to think anthropology was about answers,
Turns out it’s mostly learning how to live with questions.
You typed back without thinking:
That’s what scares me.
And what keeps me in it.
The reply came a beat later.
Good.
If it didn’t scare you, I’d be worried.
At some point you realized you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, blanket pooled around your waist, the dark outside your window slowly thinning to blue.
You talked about fieldwork. About ethics. About loneliness. About how easy it was to disappear into research and forget yourself.
I think that’s why I liked your question,
It wasn’t theoretical. It was human.
Your throat tightened.
So is yours,
Your work always leaves room for the people inside it.
The reply took a little longer to hit this time.
You know, I don’t usually get to talk like this about my work anymore.
You stared at the screen, pulse steady but deep.
I’m glad you are now.
Silence.
Then,
Me too.
The sky outside your window was pale when you finally glanced up, stunned. Birds were starting to stir. Your phone read 6:02 a.m.
You’d talked all night.
Not about anything dangerous. Not explicitly. But something had shifted all the same—an understanding built word by word, question by question.
Before you could overthink it, another message appeared.
We should probably get some sleep,
But I’d like to continue this conversation. If you would.
You smiled, soft and certain.
I would.
You set the phone down only when your eyes burned, the glow of sunrise washing the room in gold.
The week after that night, your inbox became both a lifeline and a dangerous temptation.
Emails started off strictly academic, questions about post-displacement communities, debates about ritual versus adaptation, but quickly blurred the edges. Professor— Steve, asked about your readings. You asked about his fieldwork. He’d reply with short anecdotes, and somehow, between sentences about ethnography, you found yourself telling him which classes had you losing sleep, which assignments were crushing you, which lectures made you feel like you were barely keeping afloat.
So, Anthropology 302 is killing me. I can’t get the material to stick for the midterms.
I feel like I’m drowning in notes.
A response appeared within the hour.
I can help you work through it if you want. I know a few oldschool techniques that make the material… stick.
Your chest jumped. Part of you screamed: No, that’s too much. You’re a student. He's a teacher, that's almost cheating. But another part—the part that had stayed up half the night thinking about his emails—couldn’t resist. You're not his student.
…I mean, maybe. But it’s kind of embarrassing. I don’t want to waste your time, you must be busy with other stuff.
Not wasting my time. We’ll do coffee—textbook and highlighter required. I’ll bring some of my old notes.
By Friday, you’d caved. You found yourself in a quiet little café near campus, textbook open, highlighters ready, heart thudding faster than usual. And there he was, casually leaning back in the chair opposite you, looking impossibly calm, as if grading papers and mentoring undergrads in cafés was as normal as drinking coffee.
He smiled when he saw you. “You brought the right weapons,” he said, gesturing at your color-coded chaos of notes.
“I brought reinforcements,” you muttered, holding up a worn packet of flashcards like a shield.
Steve laughed, that low, steady sound that had nothing to do with the class. And then, just like that, the tension melted into focus.
You spent the afternoon working through concepts, making charts and diagrams, breaking down case studies. He explained things in ways that made sense, and when you got stuck, he’d patiently guide you through it without ever making you feel small for not knowing.
By the time you left the café, your head was spinning, but in a good way. You felt… prepared. Confident. And maybe just a little giddy at the way he’d leaned over your notes to point something out, fingers brushing yours briefly each time.
The exam itself was a blur of adrenaline and concentration, but every question seemed familiar. Every prompt had an echo of their study session. When the scores came back a week later, you almost didn’t believe it.
A+ / 100%.
The email from the professor of the class congratulating you arrived, but your first instinct was to email Steve:
I don’t know how to thank you. I got a 100. Your study session worked.
Minutes later, the reply appeared:
I knew you could do it. You just needed someone to help you see how much you already knew.
Also, I’m proud of you. Seriously.
Your stomach did a little flip. His pride wasn’t the same as a grade on a paper—it was personal. It was soft and warm and a little dangerous.
I think I needed that more than I realized.
His reply came quickly.
I’ll make a deal with you. Next exam, same place. You bring the courage, I’ll bring the notes.
You laughed at your screen. Your pulse was a little too fast. Your mind wandered briefly, remembering the brush of his fingers over your notes.
Deal. But you’re buying the coffee this time.
And just like that, a week of emails had become more than mentorship. You closed your laptop and leaned back, smiling. Steve had just made studying feel… dangerous, in the best possible way.
The second study session feels different before it even starts.
You noticed it in the way you check the café window twice before going in. In the way you smoothed your sweater like it matters. In the way your stomach flipped when you spotted him already seated at the small corner table, sleeves rolled, glasses on, a coffee waiting across from him like he knew exactly when you’d arrive.
He looked up when you approach and smiled. There it is again, that calm, grounding presence that somehow makes you feel both steadier and more exposed.
“You made it,” he said, standing slightly, polite. Careful.
“I wasn’t late,” you replied, a little too quickly. “I triple-checked the time.”
He chuckled, sitting back down. “I didn’t doubt you.”
Something about that landed warm in your chest. You settle down next to him, pulling your notebook out, though you realize quickly you’re not nearly as frantic as last time. This exam doesn’t feel like a looming disaster. You feel… capable.
Steve notices.
“You seem more confident,” he commented softly, eyes thoughtful. “That’s good.”
You shrug, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “I had a really good tutor.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I hear he’s alright.”
The banter slipped out so easily it surprises you both. You open your notebook, and soon you’re leaning in together, shoulders nearly touching as he walks you through a tricky concept. His voice drops unconsciously, quieter than the café requires, like this explanation is just for you.
“You see how the framework shifts here?” he explained, pointing to your notes. “It’s not about replacement, it’s about coexistence.”
You nod, following his finger. “So it’s less linear than it looks.”
“Exactly, good job.” he praised, and when you glance up, you realize how close he is.
Too close to be accidental. You don’t move right away. Neither does he.
For a second, the world narrows to the space between you, the faint scent of his coffee, the warmth radiating from his arm, the way his eyes flick briefly to your mouth before snapping back to the page.
You pull back first, heart racing.
“Sorry,” you murmured, even though you’re not sure what you’re apologizing for.
Steve cleared his throat softly. “No, my fault. I should—”
He shifts in his chair, putting a little more distance between you, but the awareness lingers. Thick. Unspoken.
You work through a few more questions, but the rhythm is different now. Charged. Every small thing feels amplified, the brush of fingers when you pass a pen, the way he waits for your answers instead of jumping in, the smile followed by a soft 'good job' he gives you when you get something right.
“You always think out loud like that?” he asked at one point after watching you mutter to yourself over the same line three times.
“Only when I’m nervous,” you admitted. "Sorry."
His gaze softened. “I don’t mind it.”
That shouldn’t feel like such a big thing. But it does. When you finally close your notebook, the sun is dipping low, golden light filtering through the windows. You stretched, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Steve offered gently. “You’ve got this.”
You hesitated, fingers lingering on the edge of the table. “I was… worried this might be weird.”
He studies you for a moment, careful again. “Is it?” You considered that. The honesty between you. The way he listens. The way your pulse still hasn’t quite slowed.
“No,” you said quietly. “I don't think so. Just… different.”
He nods, like he understands exactly what you mean.
“Well,” he breathed out, standing, “we can take it one exam at a time.”
You smiled up at him, heart fluttering. “One exam at a time.”
Outside, you part ways with a polite hug that lasts just a fraction longer than necessary. When you pull back, his hands drop immediately, respectful, restrained. But his eyes linger.
"Hey," he called out before you got too far. You turned with a smile. "What made you want to study cultural anthropology? No fancy answers."
You laughed but thought seriously about it for a moment, the best answer one you've kept near your heart for a long while. "'It may be in the cultural particularities of people — in their oddities — that some of the most instructive revelations of what it is to be generically human are to be found.'"
Steve's face contorted with confusion then intrigue. "Clifford Geertz?"
You nodded your head. "Being weird is the universal truth about humanity. It's our mirror to what it means to be human everywhere. Anthropology taught me that being weird, noticing the oddities in people… it’s not just okay, it’s the point. That’s where you see what it really means to be human.”
Steve didn't say anything at first, just stood there with a soft smile before he nodded almost to himself.
"Good job."
You walk home with a ridiculous smile on your face, replaying every almost-touch, every almost-word.
You don’t realize it all at once. It creeps in later, when the noise of the day has faded and you’re alone in your apartment, shoes kicked off, notebook open on your lap for no real reason other than the fact that it still smells faintly like coffee and him.
Your thumb traces the margin where his handwriting lives now. Neat. Precise. Little arrows and annotations tucked between your own messier notes, think about this differently, this matters, good instinct. Things he’d written without thinking, probably. Things that somehow feel… intimate.
You run your thumb over the words again. And that’s when it hits you. Not the nerves. Not the admiration. Not the fluttery, starstruck feeling you’d tried to brush off since the lecture.
Feelings. Real ones. All for him.
Your chest tightens as you replay the afternoon, the way he leaned in without realizing it, the way his voice softened when you got an answer right, the split second where his eyes had dropped to your mouth like it was instinct instead of intention.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Oh no.
You’ve never really done this before. Never dated in any meaningful way. A few almosts. A few maybes that fizzled out before they became anything. You’d always told yourself you were just focused on school, on your future, on becoming someone worth listening to.
But now you’re lying back on your couch, staring at the ceiling, heart doing things you don’t have words for, wondering what it’s supposed to feel like when you like someone.
Is it supposed to feel like this? Like warmth and fear braided together? Like wanting something and having no idea how to reach for it?
You press the notebook to your chest. He’s older. He’s accomplished. He’s careful in a way that makes you feel safe, and unbearably seen. You don’t know what you’d even expect from him. Don’t know what wanting him means. All you know is that the thought of him pulling away makes your throat ache.
And that scares you more than failing any exam ever could.
Steve stared at his own notebook long after he gets home.
It’s open on the kitchen table, pages spread out beneath a dim light, but he hasn’t been reading. He’s been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes, utterly incapable of telling you what it says.
Because all he can see is her.
The way she’d frowned at a problem like it personally offended her. The way she’d looked up at him when something finally clicked, eyes bright, mouth parted just slightly, like she was surprised by her own intelligence.
And damn it, he hadn’t meant to look at her lips. That part scares him the most. Steve scrubs a hand down his face and exhales slowly, grounding himself the way he’s learned to over the years.
Get a grip.
She’s a student. Brilliant, yes—but young. At the beginning of everything. She came to him because she wanted to know more, because she trusted him as a mentor, because he was safe. And he’d almost leaned in. Almost let something cross his face that had no business being there.
He closed the notebook gently. She probably doesn’t feel anything like what’s tying his stomach in knots. She’s focused. Ambitious. She’s trying to survive her program, not… whatever this is. Steve shakes his head, a sad little smile tugging at his mouth.
She’s just grateful. That’s all. Grateful for the help. For being taken seriously. For having someone listen. And if there’s warmth in her emails, if there’s an ease between them—it’s because she’s kind. Because she’s earnest. Because she doesn’t know how carefully he’s holding himself back.
He’s too old for her anyway. Too settled. Too weighed down by experience and restraint and knowing exactly how badly things can go wrong.
Steve poured himself a glass of whiskey he doesn’t drink.
He tells himself he’ll keep things professional. That he’ll give her the support she needs and then step back. That this is nothing more than a temporary closeness born from late nights and shared curiosity. But even as he turns off the light and heads for bed, her voice echoes in his head—soft, thoughtful, alive.
And for the first time in a very long while, Steve falls asleep hoping he’s wrong.
The third study session slips into place like a habit neither of you has named yet.
Same café. Same corner table. Same quiet hum of conversation around you as notebooks open and coffee cools forgotten between you. It feels easier now, like your bodies already knew where to settle, how close is acceptable, how close is tempting.
You’re midway through a discussion about kinship models when Steve pauses, glancing at his watch.
“We’re in good shape,” he said. “You’re ahead of where you think you are.”
You smiled, relieved. “That’s… actually a miracle.”
He chuckled, closing his notebook.
“Same time next week, then?” The words left your mouth before you can second-guess them, hopeful and casual all at once.
Steve’s smile falters—not by much, but you catch it. A fraction too slow. A hesitation that makes your stomach dip.
“Ah,” he started gently. “I actually have an alumni mixer that night. University thing. Panels, speeches, a lot of small talk.”
“Oh.”
You regret the sound immediately. It comes out smaller than you mean it to, like you’ve deflated without permission. You nod too fast, already pulling your notebook closer like it might shield you from the feeling blooming in your chest.
“Of course,” you added quickly. “That makes sense. You’re busy being a professor and all. I mean—you should go. Obviously.”
You try to smile. It doesn’t quite make it to your eyes.
Steve noticed. Of course he does. He watched the way your shoulders sink just a little, the way you busy yourself packing up even though there’s no rush. Something tightens in his chest—sharp and immediate and entirely inconvenient.
He hates that look on you. Hates that he put it there.
“Well,” he said slowly, and you glance up. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, decision, maybe. Or recklessness. “It’s… not a closed event.”
You blink. “It’s not?”
“No,” he shook his head. “Technically, it’s for alumni and faculty, but there’ll be grad students, researchers, visiting fellows. A lot of people in cultural anthropology.”
Your brow furrowed. “Okay…?”
Steve exhales, then does something he absolutely did not plan on doing when he woke up that morning.
“You could come,” he suggested.
The words hang between you.
“I mean,” he continued quickly, too quickly, “it might actually be a good opportunity. Networking. Exposure. Conversations with people who are doing work you’re interested in. It could be… useful.”
You stare at him.
“With you?” you asked softly.
He nodded. “If you’d want to.”
Your disappointment melts into something startled, fragile and bright. “I— are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then, more honestly, “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t think you’d belong there.”
Something in your chest loosens.
“I just didn’t want to overstep,” he added, careful again. “No pressure. If it’s weird, or you’re not comfortable—”
“I’d love to,” you said, the words tumbling out before fear can catch them.
His relief is immediate, and deep. It settles in his bones.
“Yeah?” he asked, quieter now.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He smiled then, slow and warm, like he’s memorizing the sight of you happy. What he doesn’t say, what he can’t say, is that he offered because the thought of you going home disappointed twisted something fierce inside him. Because if he were braver, he’d admit that keeping that smile on your face feels instinctive. Necessary.
Like something he could spend a lifetime doing.
You sling your bag over your shoulder, cheeks warm. “So… alumni mixer.”
“Alumni mixer.” he echoed.
Neither of you mentions that it doesn’t sound like studying at all. As you part ways outside the café, the air between you feels charged, full of possibility for anything. And as Steve watches you walk away, heart doing things it hasn’t done in years, he realizes something quietly terrifying.
He was head over heels for you.
You don’t rush getting ready. You can’t.
Your apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every thought echo louder than it should. You stand in front of the mirror longer than necessary, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your outfit like you’re grounding yourself.
The suit dress fits you perfectly—sleek, elegant, intentional.
The white blazer is sharply tailored, structured at the shoulders, the black lapels cutting a bold contrast down the front. Beneath it, the fitted knee-length skirt hugs you just enough to make you feel grown, capable, seen. Not a student playing dress-up. Not a girl pretending.
Someone who belongs.
You adjust the sleeves once more, exhale, and whisper to your reflection, “It’s just a mixer.” Your reflection does not believe you.
Steve adjusted his cufflinks for the third time before realizing his hands have gone still.
The suit had been custom-made… years ago, charcoal, three-piece, clean lines meant for panels and keynote speeches. He rarely wears it anymore. Tonight, he feels suddenly aware of every seam, every polished edge.
This isn’t just another professional obligation. He checks his watch. Straightens his tie. Tells himself, again, that this is for your benefit. Networking. Exposure. Opportunity.
He does not think about how he hopes you likes how he looks.
You spot him across campus first. He’s standing near the steps, posture relaxed but alert, hands clasped loosely in front of him. When he looks up and sees you, something in his expression stills—like the world pauses just long enough for him to take you in.
His breath catches.
White suits you in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. Clean. Confident. Striking. The contrast of the black lapels draws his eye, sharp and elegant, and suddenly he’s painfully aware that you don’t look like a student tagging along.
You look like someone attending with him.
“Hi,” you said, a little softer than usual.
Steve cleared his throat. “Hi.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Then he smiles—warm, proud, unmistakably pleased. “You look… incredible.”
Your cheeks go warm. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He laughed under his breath as he offers his arm. “High praise.”
You fall into step beside him as you walk toward the venue, the early evening air cool and buzzing with anticipation. The warmth of your hand wrapped around his arm feels electric. Charged. Inside, the room hums with conversation, voices overlapping, glasses clinking, old colleagues reuniting. Steve moves easily through it, greeting people with familiarity and warmth.
And every time someone approaches, he introduces himself, strong handshake and stronger smile.
“Professor Rogers—”
Then he gestures to you, saying your name with quiet certainty, “ —a brilliant anthropology student. She’s doing some really thoughtful work.”
Each introduction lands like a small thrill. You shake hands. Smile. Answer questions. You notice how Steve subtly stays close, never hovering, never possessive, just… present. Anchoring.
You start to relax. Start to enjoy it. Then someone calls his name from behind.
“Rogers! You son of a—”
Steve turned, breaking into a grin. “Oh my god. Sam Wilson, I can’t believe it.”
The man— Sam, approaching him is older, weathered in that unmistakable field-research way—sun-worn skin, sharp eyes, the kind of confidence that comes from living out of a backpack for years.
They clasp hands, pull into a brief hug. “How long has it been?” Sam asked.
“Too long,” Steve replied. “This is—”
He turned back to you. And before he can finish—
The man smiles knowingly. “And you must be the girlfriend.”
The world stops.
“What—?”
“I—”
“No, I—”
Your face flooded with heat as you glance at Steve, only to find him already looking at you, equally flustered, ears unmistakably red.
“She’s—” Steve started.
“I’m—” you tried.
The colleague blinks. “Oh. Sorry—”
“No,” Steve said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just—she’s—”
“A student,” you blurted out. "Not his, but a student… here."
Steve winces internally. Sam raises his brows, amused but apologetic. “Ah. My mistake. You just… arrived together.”
There’s an awkward beat. Steve recovers first, ever gracious. “Easy assumption to make.”
Too easy. Sam laughs it off, launching into a story about fieldwork in Ghana, but you barely hear it. Your pulse hasn’t slowed. Neither has Steve’s. When the conversation finally ends and you drift toward a quieter corner, the air between you is different now. Thicker. Aware.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said quietly. “He shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” you interrupted, breathless. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”
“Me neither,” he admitted.
The music shifts sometime later.
Not into anything loud or obvious—just a softer rhythm layered beneath the hum of conversation. A cue you almost miss until you notice small clusters of people drifting toward the center of the room, conversations slowing, bodies angling closer.
Steve notices at the same moment you do. He glances toward you, uncertain. “There’s usually some kind of… informal dancing at these things,” he said, like he’s apologizing for it existing.
You smiled, nerves fluttering. “Anthropologists really know how to let loose.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised.”
There’s a pause.
Then, carefully, “Would you—”
“Yes,” you said before he even finishes. The word comes out softer than you expect. More honest.
Steve’s eyes warm as he offers his hand. You take it.
His palm is warm, steady, and when he guides you toward the open space, it feels natural, like your body already knows where to go. He keeps a respectful distance at first, hand light at your waist, your other hand resting against his shoulder.
But as the music carries on, as the room fades around you, the space between you closes without either of you consciously deciding it should.
“You doing okay?” he murmured.
You nodded. “Yeah. I just—this doesn’t feel real.”
He smiled faintly. “That makes two of us.”
You sway together, subtle and slow, talking quietly about nothing and everything, about the absurdity of academic mixers, about fieldwork stories that sound like fiction, about how strange it is to share space like this after weeks of emails and study sessions.
His thumb moves slightly at your waist.
Unintentional. But you feel it. Your breath catches. His does too.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. More conversations. More introductions. Steve’s hand remains at your back, steady and grounding, until eventually the crowd thins and the night softens.
Outside, the air is cool and clean, campus lights glowing softly as you walk side by side.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
"Steve?" you said quietly, breaking the quiet air that had grown around you.
He turns to look at you, twinkling stars reflecting in his glasses. Looking at him pushes all the air out of your lungs and you feel like you can't form a single word in your throat, but you can't keep simmering like this anymore. The lingering buzz of his hand at your back emboldens you in ways like never before.
"Am I crazy," you asked quietly. "or do you feel this too?"
The question hangs there—fragile, terrifying. Steve doesn’t answer right away.
His jaw tightens, eyes searching your face like he’s deciding whether to tell the truth or protect you from it. Finally, he exhales.
“I do,” he said. Simply. Honestly. “I’ve felt it for a while.”
Relief crashes through you so fast it makes you dizzy. You laugh softly, shaky. “Okay. Good. Because I—” You hesitated, then pushed through. “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never really… had a boyfriend, or anything like this. I don’t know what to do with feelings like this.”
He softened instantly, stepping closer, but still careful. “That’s exactly why I’ve been holding back.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t ever want to take advantage of you,” he said, voice low and steady. “Or hurt you. You’re at the beginning of everything. You should be figuring out who you are, what you want. You shouldn’t feel like you have to tie yourself to someone like me.”
Your chest ached at the way he says it—someone like me.
“That doesn’t matter to me,” you said, firm now. “You matter to me.”
Steve shook his head slightly. “I’m older. I’ve lived a lot of life already. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t get to—”
“I don’t feel trapped,” you interrupted. “I feel… chosen. When I’m with you.”
That stops him. He looks at you like the words hit somewhere deep, somewhere unguarded.
“I know you’re scared,” you continued softly. “I am too. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this. And I won’t resent you for caring about me.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and electric. Then you take another breath, the bravest one yet.
“If you’re worried about crossing a line,” you started, voice barely steady, “then tell me how to cross it.”
His eyes darkened. “What?”
“I’ll make the first move,” you offered, heart racing. “If you tell me how. That way… you’re not taking anything from me.”
Steve’s breath stuttered. He lifts a hand like he might reach for you, then lets it fall again. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
The night seems to hold still.
“If you’re sure,” he said quietly, “then—just… come here.”
That’s all it takes. You step into him, slow and deliberate, giving him every chance to stop you. His hands hover at your waist, unsure, reverent. You tilt your face up.
Your lips brush his. A whisper of contact, testing.
He exhales your name like a confession. And then he kisses you back. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just deep and sure and achingly tender, like he’s been waiting longer than he’ll ever admit. His hands settle at your waist, grounding, protective, as if memorizing the fact of you.
You melt into it, heart full and racing, the world narrowing to warmth and certainty and the quiet truth settling into your bones, you wanted this, nothing but this.
When you finally pull back, foreheads resting together, Steve keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer.
"Can I walk you home?" he asked breathlessly.
You nod, licking your lips and feeling the phantom curve of his against yours. You try not to smile too wide. You fail.
The walk back to your apartment is quiet in the best way. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… full.
Steve keeps pace beside you, one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, the other laced with yours, posture relaxed but attentive, like he’s still half-expecting the world to interrupt this moment if he looks away too long.
You’re acutely aware of everything—how close he is, how warm his shoulder feels when it brushes yours, his fingers encasing yours, how your body still hums from the kiss like it hasn’t quite settled back into itself.
You reach your building and stop. So does he. For a second, neither of you moves. The lamplight catches the side of his face, softening it, making him look younger somehow. Or maybe more human.
You swallow.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?” His voice is gentle. Open.
You hesitate, then glance up at him through your lashes. “Can I… kiss you again?”
The question is barely louder than the night around you. Something unmistakable shifts in his expression, surprise giving way to warmth, then to something deeper, restrained but unmistakably there.
“Yes,” he said, voice huskier than last time. “You can.”
You step closer. This time, there’s no uncertainty in the way you move. You rise onto your toes just slightly, fingers brushing the front of his coat as you tilt your face up.
The kiss is different. Still careful, but fuller. Your lips press to his with more intention, more confidence. He responds with a quiet exhale, hands lifting instinctively to your waist, thumbs settling there like they belong. His mouth moves against yours slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring it. Like he’s grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you deepen the kiss just a fraction, lingering, letting it last, his grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a subtle hitch in his breath the only giveaway that he feels it too.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his chest. You smile, a little breathless. “Okay. Yeah. I just needed to know.”
He chuckles softly, warmth vibrating beneath your cheek. “You’re trouble,” he murmured, not unkindly.
You step back reluctantly, keys already in hand, then pause.
“Well,” you drawled, turning the key in the lock, suddenly very aware of how late it is. “I, uh… I still have my notes out from earlier.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Your notes.”
“Yeah,” you nodded, earnest to the point of absurdity. “From studying. I thought maybe, since you helped me understand that one concept so well, I could show you what I ended up writing.”
He studied you for a long moment. Sees right through the excuse. And instead of calling it out, he smiles, slow, fond, dangerous in its gentleness.
“If you want,” he said.
Your heart flipped. “I want.”
You open the door wider, stepping aside. “Then come in. Just for a minute.”
Steve hesitates for exactly half a second. Then he follows you inside. The door closes softly behind you, the quiet of your apartment wrapping around the two of you like a held breath. And suddenly, notes feel like the least important thing in the room.
Your apartment feels smaller with him in it. Not cramped, just charged. Like every familiar surface has been quietly rearranged around his presence
You shrug your jacket off and drape it over your desk chair, moving through the room like there's an invisible land mine planted somewhere, each step more hesitant than the last.
You sit side by side at the small table, laptop open between you, your essay pulled up on the screen. You talk him through it at first, nerves fluttering as you explain your argument, your methodology, the way you framed grief as an active cultural force rather than a passive response.
Steve listened the way he always does, fully. Leaning in, elbows on the table, eyes flicking between the screen and your face. When you finish, there’s a brief silence.
Then he exhaled. “This is… really good,” he murmured quietly.
You glanced at him. “Just good?”
He turned to you fully now, expression serious in a way that makes your pulse spike. “No. This is exceptional. Your analysis is clear, your voice is confident, and you’re not hiding behind citations. You trust your own thinking.”
Something warm and electric slides down your spine at the praise—stronger than before, sharper, almost dizzying.
“You belong in this field,” he added. “I don’t say that lightly.”
Your breath catches.
“Steve,” you mumbled, heart racing. You’re just about to ask, about kissing him again, about whether this closeness can deepen. He doesn’t give you the chance.
He leans in and kisses you. It’s unhurried but sure, like he’s done pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants. His hand cups your jaw, thumb warm against your skin, guiding you gently closer.
You melt into him, fingers curling into the front of his suit jacket, the kiss deepening as if you’re both learning the shape of each other all over again. His mouth is warm and deliberate, his breath a quiet sound between you that makes your knees feel weak.
When he pulls back just slightly, his forehead rests against yours.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,”
You don’t hesitate. “Don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
You feel the hot press of his tongue against your lips and you sigh against it, feeling it slip past your teeth. You both move in tandem, your laptop quickly abandoned as he pulls you into his lap, your dress bunching up and riding up your thighs. He takes a hand and rakes it down your spine, fingers dancing down into the light divet of your back before grabbing a handful of your ass, your lips part with a gasp and he takes the chance to move his lips down your throat.
It feels like lightning and fire struck your body all at once, bringing your body to a burning temperature, like molten lava running through your veins and settling at the deep core of your lower stomach. Steve bites a mark into your skin before licking it soothingly, his free hand moving up to the zipper of your dress.
"Wait," you pressed a hand to his chest to part your bodies, a full face of concern when he looked up at you. "No it's okay I just,"
You licked your lips before taking in a breath for confidence. "I've never done this before."
"This… as in?"
"I'm a virgin."
You can see the gears turning behind his eyes, a full sea of emotions crashing over him: fear, worry, doubt but underneath it all, desire.
"Please," you stop his train of thought before it can crash and burn. "I want this. I want you."
He still hesitates but you can see the smooth of his furrowed brows and feel the dig of his hand in your waist. "You want to stop at any time you tell me, okay?"
You nod fervently, hands looping around his neck to lean in and kiss him again when he pulls back.
"Say it. Say you understand."
Heat runs through you where fear probably should, you'd never seen Steve so authoritative before and it makes your inner thighs tingle in way like never before.
"I understand."
He kisses you again, fiercer this time with a soft grunt and its like a dam broke within you, melting you into mush in his hands. Your hands fist themselves in his suit jacket and pull him impossibly closer, your hips moving on their own accord yet restricted by the fabric of his dress.
"Can I take this off sweetheart?" he breathed out against your neck, moving his hands up to the shoulders of your dress, you nod and let out a small yelp when he pinches your skin. "Words."
"Yes, please." you whined, clumsily stepping off his lap as he guided you backwards until your backs of your knees hit the couch. He spun you so gently it felt like you were back on the dance floor, his hands resting on your hips and slowly moving up your sides, thumbs pressing circles into your waist until he was back at the zipper.
He took his time in bringing it down, letting his fingers brush the open skin of your back before helping you shrug the material off, it slid off your body and pooled at the floor with ease. You could hear the hitch in his breath as you turned back around.
"So beautiful," he whispered before taking your hand. "Take me to your room sweetheart."
You blushed like a fool before turning to guide him down the hall, every step making the air around you feel thinner, each breath shakier than the last. You open the door and step aside for him to take in the space, it's not much considering you're still and undergrad living on campus but its nice enough.
He walked into the room and shrugged his jacket off, hanging it over the chair in the corner and moving to unclip his cuff links. You stood awkwardly in the center of the room, watching him like a trance, it was your own home and he took the space up like it had been his for years.
"You can sit down," he motioned to your bed and nodded like it was obvious, padding over to sit down on the edge.
Steve kept standing there, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat and setting it aside, his eyes never leaving you for a beat.
"You touch yourself in here?" the question caught you off guard, sending a heat down up the back of your neck.
"Sometimes…" you admitted with a hushed whisper.
"Only sometimes?"
He had gotten down his button up shirt, the white material flowing open revealing a plain white tank clinging to his chest. You could see the ripples of his pecs with every shift of his arms, the rolls of his abs as he peeled his long sleeve off, leaving him in just the tank and his slacks.
"Couch," you blurted out after realizing you had been caught staring. "Sometimes… on the couch too."
Steve slowly, finally, made his way over to you, gently pushing your thighs apart as he stood between them. "The couch huh? Naughty girl."
You looked up at him in awe, lips parted as he towered over you. "Sometimes."
"Does it make you wet?" his hand came up to brush your jaw, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "Touching yourself in front of all those windows? Knowing anyone nearby might hear if you're too loud?"
The brush of his thumb on your lip ignited something in you, something instinctive that had your parting your lips even more, the tip of your tongue sneaking out to flick it across the finger pad.
He let out a low groan, a deep rumble in the back of his throat that made you ache.
"Are you gonna be a good girl for me?" he asked as he smeared the light spit you left on his thumb across your lip.
"Yes," you replied instantly. "Yes, Steve, I'll be your good girl."
He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, making you lean back into the bed. His hands smoothed over your thighs before gently lifting them up, guiding you up to the center of the mattress.
"Can I touch you pretty girl?" he muttered against your lips, licking and nipping at the bottom one as his fingers drifted to your inner thigh. You spread your legs wider in response. Two fingers press over your clit through your panties, you moan with a flutter of your eyes, Steve watches you as he gently moves in light circles.
"That feel good baby?"
"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please, Steve."
He took his free hand and hooked it into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles. A soft brush against your clit makes you inhale sharply and he quickly pulls away.
"No, no," you plead, scrambling for his hand. "It's okay, I'm okay. Please touch me."
Steve hesitates for just a moment, eyes lingering on your face before his fingers gradually start moving again. His lips drop to your breasts, still tucked in your bra, and you let out a soft cry when two of his thick fingers push into you.
You sink down onto them before he can pull away again, filling your cunt until you reach his knuckles, it's a sweet burn that melts you from the inside out and you never want it to end. He groaned against your skin and reached around to unclip your bra.
"That's it baby," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth, making you whine and push down further. "Good girl, making yourself feel good."
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, the praise in that husky baritone voice making you shudder as you rocked your hips, a strange buzzing starting to hum under your skin.
"Mm I feel you getting tighter baby, gonna cum for me?"
"I… I don't— I'm," you stammered over every word, thighs twitching.
Steve hummed at the valley between your breasts, giving you a reprieve from the love marks he had been biting into your skin. "That's right, my pretty girl's never cum on anyone's fingers before."
"Don't worry baby, I'll show you, keep moving your hips just like that."
His thumb brushes your clit and your nails dig into his biceps, your body tightening and curling around him.
"Steve," you gasped, legs shaking feeling like something was about to explode within you. "S-steve, please."
Your cries filled the room around you as your clit sent bursting pleasure across every inch of your body, your hips grinding against his palm chasing the high. When your breathing settles into a soft even pace he pulled his fingers back and licked them clean.
"Taste so good," he purred through his fingers, sinking to his knees. He pulled the last of your panties off your ankle and tucked them into his back pocket. "Tried not to imagine this, to let myself want you like this but fuck sweetheart,"
His words make your head spin, that he's thought about you like this. Naked on your bed with your panties tucked in his pocket, bare and open begging for more.
Two fingers return to their original place, gently curling inside of you as you melt into it. He takes one leg and drapes it over his shoulder, kissing up your thigh before he reached your cunt, passing his searing tongue over your clit.
He's ravenous in devouring you, sucking your throbbing clit with hardly any mercy, his wrist twisting and fucking his fingers into you like your pleasure fills him with an ecstasy of his own. Your spine bows and your fingers rake through his hair, hips rutting into his mouth. The sounds you let out would make a nun drop to her knees in prayer, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care.
Your bed had grown damp under you and just when you think Steve has given you enough, he slides a third finger deep inside and kitten licks a circle around your clit. The stretch hurts but in the best way possible.
His lips latch around your clit, plush and warm as his fingers caress that deep spot inside you that not even your own hand could hit and you're cumming all over again, your wetness slicking his hand as you moaned out.
"Jesus Christ," you stammered, face flushed every shade of red as he stands up between your legs, his hands deftly sliding his belt off.
He dives for your lips once free from the last of his clothing, a small jolt of surprise running through you when you feel the hard length of his cock brushing your thigh, and when you looked down you swore your jaw could unhook from its hinges.
"Steve…" you mumbled wearily, trying your best not to gawk and stare at it.
"It's okay sweetheart, I'll take good care of you."
You blink up at him, blushing with a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips, letting your body meld in his touch as he bends your knees beside him.
"Do you trust me?" he whispered against your jaw, peppering light kisses across it.
"Yes, I do." you breathed out. "I want it, I want you."
With that, he positions himself right against your cunt, rubbing soft yet electric circles on your clit with the tip of his cock before he lowered himself in. Your shaky gasp met his low moan, he slid one arm under the pillow and cradled you in close.
You breathe in together as he slowly pushes in further, his free hand tracing down your thigh to hold it gently. He went still when he hit the hilt, the air between you freezing, going thin like the winds on a mountain top. The was a pang of painful heat blooming between your legs, making all the air in your lungs feel like cement blocks.
When you finally let out a staggered breath he pulled back to look at your face. "Are you okay? Are you hurting?"
"No," you quickly shook your head, rolling your hips to prove your point. "'M okay, please move."
Steve's face is hesitant for a moment before he leans back to, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss softer than ever before, gently pulling out and sliding back in. "My pretty girl,"
"Taking me so well, pussy feels so good." he moved in and out slowly at first, getting you both used to the feeling of him twitching inside you. He's thick and hard and your tight walls clenching with every odd stroke.
"S-steve," you moaned through a soft breath, the pain fading way to just buzzing heat in your cunt. For it being your first time your body is responding to him like this was the hundredth time, your back arching as your hips roll in time with his thrusts. Soon you're writhing under him, his mouth sucking a deep purple mark into the crux of your collarbone before he pushes himself up onto his forearm, hovering above you.
"Doing so good for me babydoll," he grunted as he lifted your thigh up just enough to make you cry out. "Can feel you squeezing me so tight, wanna cum for me?"
"Yes, yes please Steve I wanna cum for you." you babbled out, eyes deep in the back of your head.
He nearly growls, picking up the pace of his thrusts just enough to send you over the edge, your thighs twitching in his hold as your cum floods over his cock.
"Such a good girl for me, my pretty girl," Steve praised with your name, gentle on his lips. "All mine."
When your vision blinks back into focus he had shifted you on the bed to him on his back and you hunched over his chest. You pushed up on your hands to see him, pupils blown wide with lust and his hair slightly mussed, there couldn't be anything more attractive on this earth.
"You know how this works baby?" he asked, voice low as his hands settled on your hips, fingers lightly digging into your skin.
You made a so-so motion with your shoulders. You knew how it worked with the woman on top, but you don't really know if you can do it right and disappointing him spawns a black hole of fear behind your ribs that could make you cry if you focus on it too much.
"That's okay, I'll show you,"
Steve leaned forward to kiss you again, licking the seam of your lips open making you hum happily, you've already gotten so infatuated with the feeling of his lips on yours you can't imagine anyone else's being there.
Slowly he guided your hips up, making you hover above him as he used one hand to align his cock back up into your wet cunt. You bit his bottom lip with a muffled curse, the angle change making him fill you so differently than before, the width of cock stretching you out with a sweet, sweet burn.
He didn't rush you, let you hold yourself just on his tip for a few moments, kissing you so soft and slow. After another blissful moment of his lips you pulled back, resting your forehead against his as you kept sinking down, a staggering breath leaving your lungs.
When you were completely seated against him it was like the world went silent. He felt big inside you before but now it was like you were complete, like this was the missing piece your body had needed all this time. You felt one of his hands drift down to your ass, gripping the flesh in his hands and pulling you impossibly closer.
"Lift your hips for me pretty girl," he rasped out, his voice thick as he gently guided you up. "Just like this."
You followed his instruction, lifting yourself up to almost the head of his cock before rocking back down, every vein and ridge making you shudder. He kept lifting you up and letting you push yourself back down each time, every stroke flowed into the next, smooth and fluid and perfect.
"Fuck baby," he grunted through a broken moan, thrusting up to meet you every time you came down. "You feel so damn good, pussy taking me so good, takin' every inch I give her."
"Steve, please— 's too big, too much." you pleaded, you weren't sure what you were begging for but you felt that familiar heat creeping up your spine and only knew it was a matter of time before you fell apart all over again.
He sat up further and wrapped his arms around you, pulling your flush to him brushing his lips over the shell of your ear. "Not yet babydoll, I'm gonna keep fucking this sweet little pussy and you're not going to cum until I say so, okay?"
"But it feels so good," you mewled, rocking down onto him, your body desperate to chase the oncoming high. "Please Steve, just a little more, please."
You felt his hand track up your spine to the back of your neck, his fingers digging into the nape— not hard, just enough to get your attention as he went completely still underneath you, making you whine at the loss of friction.
"No," he said, voice breathy but stern as he pulled you back to look at him. "You're not cumming until I say,"
Your heart was ramming against your chest, you were so close and now all that heat was slowly flooding out of you.
"Understand?"
"Yes," you whimpered, hands gripping his broad shoulders and forcing your hips to stay still. "I understand Steve, please."
Steve hummed contemplatively before pulling you into another searing kiss. "Please what?"
"Please let me cum again, I'll be good I promise, please."
"Oh I know you'll be good for me," he cooed as he slowly dragged his hand down your back and to your tummy, splaying his wide fingers across the skin before letting his thumb drop to your clit, pressing it in light little circles. "Because you're my good girl aren't you? You'll listen to me right?"
"Yes!" you cried out clutching his shoulders, the light stimulation already setting every nerve ending within you ablaze.
"That's it baby," he purred, keeping the pace of his thumb even and slow. "Sitting there bein' good for me."
Every time you shifted and squirmed in his lap he brought his hand to your hip, holding you in place as he continued his tortuous circles.
You could've held through, maybe would have made it, if he hadn't started kissing your neck.
"S-Steve…" you shivered, thighs twitching around him. Lightning shot down your spine and all the air in your lungs left with each brush of his thumb. "Please, if you don't slow down…"
"Mm, what? You'll cum on my cock?" he teased in a voice so deep that nearly sent you over the edge itself. "You said you'd be my good girl, and good girls don't cum until they've been told. Is that you?"
Every moan that left your mouth was more sinful than the last, strained and wanton.
"Tell me you're my good girl," he growled against your neck, biting the skin just a little harder than before. "Say you're all mine and I'll let you cum."
"I'm your good girl Steve, I'm all yours, please—" he started rolling his hips back up into you and your head fell to his shoulder, melting in touch.
"Please… Professor," you begged, your hips started moving on their own again, sickly sweet wet sounds echoing off the walls as you fucked yourself down onto him with a vigor like never before.
Steve surged up and caught your lips, the kiss all teeth, tongue and passion. "God I can't get enough of you, of this pussy, so fucking perfect, say it again."
"Professor please let me cum, I've been such a good girl for you, please I'm so close. I wanna cum for you, I wanna be your good girl, please."
The world around you turned to white noise, static in your ears as your body melted into a puddle, toes curled and vision narrowed, it was a wonder you heard Steve at all,
"Cum for me pretty girl." he pinched your clit just enough and you shattered, swells of pleasure dragging you deep into its depths and turning you inside out. Steve bit off a curse as he followed suit, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you, marking you as his with every spurt.
Everything felt warm and far away as ripples of aftershocks ran over you, your eyes heavy and body even heavier, limp and worn. You don't know how long you stayed there in the purgatory of pleasure, but soon your eyes slipped shut, yet before you completely succumbed to its enveloping arms, you felt the soft brush of lips against your temple and you fell into a sweet sleep.
Morning comes slowly.
You wake curled into warmth, half-asleep, disoriented for one blissful second, until you realize Steve is still there, propped slightly against the headboard, glasses on reading one of the books off your nightstand, shirt rumpled, watching you like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he looks away.
You blinked up at him. “You stayed.”
He smiled softly. “I did.”
Your voice is sleepy but certain when you ask, “Can you… stay?”
Not just this morning. Not just today. Stay.
Steve sets his book aside and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, just like the one last night. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “I promise.”
You smiled, eyes closing again, safe in the weight of his arm around you.
