I’M GON’ RIDE in which James -your ‘friend’ just bleached his hair blonde but you’re atrociously down bad for each other.
༝ 赵雨凡 ༝ 𝒙 idol!reader
♯ MDNI, friends-with-benefits, blond hair!james, semi-public heated interaction (for a lack of better words), needy and vocal james, oral (m. receiving and f. receiving), riding, extreme eye contact, unprotected sex.
〆the number of requests for blond hair james was concerning. is everyone okay? anyways thanks for 2k my gooner team!
𓏸 7k ╱ 𝓶. list
‘Do people have a sixth sense that-‘
You clicked the delete button furiously, fingers shaking.
‘Can someone feel when another person is-‘
You closed the Google tab, seconds away from throwing your phone out of the window- but the specific feeling that lived right between your thighs magically dragged your fingers back to the screen, opening a brand new one instead.
‘Is it possible for someone to feel when another person is aroused?’
Aroused was a weak word. Fuck that.
‘Is it possible for someone to feel when another person is wet, without touching them?’
You added a single word at the end of your question- reddit. Because somehow these forums had all the answers to every single question.
It had been like this all day -ever since the moment James stepped in the building with that new blonde hair. Platinum, almost silver under certain lights, falling in soft spikes that framed his sharp jawline and made his dark eyes pop like a fucking sin.
The internet was losing its collective mind; and you weren't ready to face the thousands- screw that- millions of thirsty comments.
Blonde James was lethal.
But blonde James was yours first and foremost.
You clicked on the first reddit link, foot tapping on the floor anxiously.
‘You probably can't help being turned on by certain people, but as long as you are polite and don't stare, you'll probably be OK. Just don't do anything to make it worse, like actively fantasizing about sex with them.’ one netizen said.
Funny.
Cause you were pretty sure today, that blonde hair had flipped a switch inside you. Every time James moved, your gaze locked on the way the strands caught the light, he looked like a glorified anime character, sharp and lean everywhere. And then your eyes would drift lower: the corded muscles of his forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves, the prominent veins that traced paths over his skin, pulsing faintly with each gesture.
His hands- god, his hands.
Long fingers, knuckles that flexed when he adjusted his mic pack, veins standing out against the back of his palm. You kept imagining them on you, in you, gripping, teasing, spreading.
‘Just don't do anything to make it worse, like actively fantasizing about sex with them.’
Oh you were fucked.
Because that's exactly what you were doing since 9 am sharp this morning, with no break whatsoever.
Get it together, you thought, clenching your thighs together as you waited in the wings during soundcheck.
You aggressively turned off your phone and put it back in your pocket as if it was mocking you with these reddit threads. Your body felt hypersensitive, skin prickling under your stage outfit, heat pooled low in your belly, a constant throb that made your lace panties feel too tight, too damp already.
Just from hair? Pathetic.
But it wasn't just the hair. (It was the hair.) It was also how it made everything about him sharper, the way the strands brushed his neck when he tilted his head and-
Had you mentioned his hands? Oh yeah you were screwed.
Break time. The hallway between dressing rooms was empty for once, staff scattered for lunch. You slipped away, heart hammering, only to feel a warm hand catch your wrist.
And obvious-fucking-ly, it was James.
James your handsome... There was no word to describe what James was.
James was what he became the moment he slipped in your bed and spread your legs with that cocky smirk of his. Which was happening a whole lot lately ever since you'd made that whole fuck-buddy arrangement on a drunken night.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice low and smooth like velvet.
Since when did you throb when someone greeted you? You were going to have to have a pep talk with the girly downstairs, as soon as expeditiously possible.
James pulled you into a shadowed alcove near the emergency exit, the door clicking softly shut behind you both before you could even greet him back.
Up close, the blonde was devastating. A few strands fell over his forehead, and he brushed them back with long fingers. He was still a little sweaty from dancing, having changed his tee shirt into something more comfortable- but also more revealing; his strong arms now completely bare- shoulders and all.
Your breath hitched audibly.
You were so easy, it was terrifying.
"You've been staring all day," he observed, a small smile playing on his lips. Not smug but rather warm- appreciative even.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting your ear, carrying the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with stage makeup and clean sweat. "Something on your mind, baby?"
You swallowed hard, your back pressing against the cool wall. His hands. Those veins. You wanted them wrapped around your throat, your thighs, inside you.
The thought made your nipples tighten against your top.
Reddit girl would be so mad right now.
"Is it that obvious?" you managed to squeak out, though your voice sounded much deeper than you intended.
You tried to look anywhere but at his mouth, but- there were no buts- James was just all over you, playing with the knowledge that you were currently as red as a tulip.
He chuckled, a vibration that you felt in your own chest and he stepped closer, closing the microscopic gap between your bodies until you could feel the heat of his bare arms. He raised one hand, long fingers grazing your jawline before tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
You let out a shaky breath, your knees feeling dangerously weak. You thought you could die right then and there.
"It's more than just staring," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, pulling it down just enough to reveal the damp pink of your inner lip.
James' gaze darkened, dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. The playful warmth was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by something hungrier, something you knew all too well from how many times you'd explored him.
"You look like you're about to pounce..." He leaned in even closer, his nose brushing against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. "what's wrong baby?"
What's wrong? You wanted to scream in his face, pull on his hair- but the thought only made you wetter- so impossibly wet- you thought you had never been this turned on in your whole entire life.
All because of some bleach and dye.
He didn't wait for an answer. He slid his hand from your face, his palm flat against the small of your back to pull you flush against him, the hard planes of his chest pressing against your breasts and the solid weight of his thighs slotting between yours. You let out a small, broken moan, your hands instinctively flying to his bare shoulders, your fingers digging into the firm muscle there.
You were so incredibly, hopelessly wet it was pathetic- and the friction of his denim against your damp lace was almost too much to bear.
"James," you breathed, his name a plea.
"Yeah, baby?" He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you arch into him. "Tell me what's wrong sweet girl."
Your hands, still anchored to his bare shoulders, slid upward, palms grazing the warm, slightly damp skin of his nape. Your fingers tangled into the short, silky strands of his new hair that was softer than expected. Your nails grazed at his scalp, scratching lightly, the way you knew he loved.
"Nothing’s wrong," you whispered, though the way your hips involuntarily hitched against his told a completely different story. You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "It's just... you. How am i supposed to focus when you're walking around looking like that?"
James let out a soft, breathless sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh and leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he soaked in your words.
"Shit." he let out a breathy laugh, nose brushing your jawline.
Your whole body was on fire, his skin brushing against yours like he had all the time in the world and you weren't standing in a hallway of your workplace.
You didn't answer his cursing with words. Instead, you tilted your head, your fingers tightening in his hair to pull him down just an inch more. You leaned in with a slow and agonizing movement that forced him to hold his breath in anticipation.
When your lips finally met his, it wasn't as frantic as usual; it was a languid, melting sensation. You started with the lightest of brushes, just a ghost of a touch against his bottom lip, teasing him, dragging a needy sound out of him.
You could feel his hands tremble against your waist, his grip tightening as he leaned into the sensation, desperate for more.
Then, you deepened it.
You let your lips part, your tongue sweeping out to graze the seam of his mouth before sliding inside. The kiss was heavy, wet, and incredibly unbearably slow, as you moved your tongue against his in a rhythmic, swirling motion, tasting him the faint hint of mint and the heat of his mouth.
Every time he tried to increase the pace, to suck harder or pull you closer, you slowed down even more, forcing him to endure the delicious torture of your restraint.
James let out a low, broken sound deep in his throat a needy, desperate hum that vibrated against your tongue. He was melting and you could feel him sagging against you.
His hands migrated from your waist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to guide you.
He was so responsive, so hungry for the contact that it made you feel less insane for being so aroused by his goddamn hair.
Every time your tongue swiped against his, he let out a tiny, hitched breath, his hips stuttering a frantic, rhythmic press against yours. And when you finally pulled back just a fraction, leaving a thin, glistening thread of saliva connecting your lips, you didn't let him go far.
You stayed in his space, your noses brushing, your breaths mingling in the small gap between you.
James' eyes were hooded, lips swollen and red from your teasing, "You're gonna kill me, you know that?" he dropped a wet kiss on your collarborne.
You didn't give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer- yet again. Instead, you took one of his hands from your waist and guided it downward, moving slowly, watching his eyes widen, his breath hitching in his throat as your fingers led his palm over the curve of your hip and slid beneath the hem of your outfit.
When his fingers finally made contact with the damp lace of your panties, James let out a choked sound.
He didn't even have to push; the moment he felt the slick, undeniable heat radiating from you, he knew. He felt the warmt of your need, the way the fabric was practically soaked through.
His eyes searched yours, blown wide.
"Fuck" he cursed, his voice cracking. "You're soaked y/n."
He looked like he wanted to sink to his knees right then and there on the floor, to worship you properly while you tugged at his blonde hair.
But just as he began to press a finger inward, seeking to soothe the ache, you caught his wrist.
You pulled his hand away, leaving him momentarily unmoored and breathless, and then you slowly drew his fingers out of the lace.
They were glistening, coated in your heat.
James didn't even hesitate, he brought his hand up to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours, and licked his fingers clean with a slow stroke of his tongue. The sight of him as he tasted you sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"Wanna bury my face between those thighs-" he started, breath fanning over your neck.
But life wasn't all rainbows and butterflies.
"James! Five minutes! We're back on!"
The muffled shout of a stage manager from down the hall shattered the moment in pieces.
The sudden intrusion made you both jump, a small gasp escaping your lips and James let out a frustrated, low groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a fleeting second, breathing you in as if he could store the scent of your skin to last him through the next fe hours.
"I'm gonna die." James exhaled shakily, eyes squeezed shut. "Why'd you have to be so fucking beautiful-"
The man made a low, pained sound in his throat. He glanced down, his face flushing a deep flustered crimson and reached down, awkwardly trying to shift himself, but the bulge in his stage pants was unmistakable and completely unyielding.
Despite his efforts, he couldn't hide the evidence of how much you'd just affected him.
He looked up at you, his eyes wide and pleading, completely overwhelmed and his hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to go, his shoulders hunching as if he were trying to shrink away from his own desire.
"I-I can't," he stuttered, his voice strained and thick. "I can't go out there like this. Fuck i'm so hard."
You started to move toward him, maybe to offer a reassuring touch or a lingering glance, but James stepped back, shaking his head frantically. He looked almost pained, his jaw tight as he tried to regain his composure.
"You have to go," he breathed through a pained chuckle, his gaze darting everywhere but your face. "I need a few minutes to cool down, or I swear i'm gonna forget every lyric to the songs."
He laughed, a shaky, breathless sound that lacked any of his usual confidence. He was trembling, his chest heaving as he tried to force his heart rate to slow down. "I can't get it down while you're standing there looking at me like that. You're too... you're too much. I can't think straight."
You gave him a small, knowing smile, enjoying the sight of him so completely undone.
“Good luck with that, handsome.” You began to back away, but he followed you with his eyes, his expression a mix of desperate longing and a sweet, innocent sort of agony.
"Hey, hey, come back here," he called after you, his voice a little louder now, "I mean no- don't come back- just text me when you're out. You're coming back with me tonight."
𓏵 𓏵
James was a man of his word- so as soon as the show ended, still sweaty and soaked in water from the bottle of waters his members had poured on him- he was looking for you.
The adrenaline from the final encore was still coursing through his veins, he didn't even wait for the staff to clear the wings.
The moment he saw you standing near the equipment crates, he was moving. He didn't walk; he practically stumbled toward you, his eyes wide and frantic, searching yours.
He looked like a man who had spent the last hour in a fever dream, counting down every second until he could touch you again.
"You're here," he breathed, the words coming out as a relieved, shaky exhale. He didn't care that he was damp with sweat, or that the scent of salt and stage musk was heavy on him. He reached out, his large hands finding your waist with a suddenness that nearly knocked the wind out of you, pulling you into the shadow of a heavy equipment trunk.
He didn't kiss you immediately. Instead, he leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving as he tried to regulate his breathing. He was still vibrating from the performance, but the hunger in him was even more intense than it had been in the alcove.
"God, it was so hard," he whispered, his voice a low, wrecked rasp against your skin. "Every time the lights went down for a transition, all I could think about was you."
You let out a small chuckle, amused, but he didn’t let you speak.
"Can we go?" he asked, his voice pleading, his hands sliding down to grip your hips tightly. "Please, baby. I don't wanna talk to the guys, I don't wanna do the debrief... I just wanna be alone with you. I need to feel you."
He leaned in, his damp hair brushing your temple, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours, waiting for your permission, waiting for you to lead him away from the noise and the lights and into the quiet of your bedroom.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your hands sliding up his damp chest to cup his face, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw.
So needy, you thought, feeling a surge of affection so strong it was almost painful.
"Let’s go then, go grab your stuff," you whispered, leaning in to catch his swollen bottom lip in a quick firm kiss. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown out pupils, your eyes dark with the same hunger he was projecting. "We need to leave now before the hallways get crowded."
You grabbed his hand, lacing your fingers tightly with his, and began tugging him toward the private exit.
"Right. Yes. Stuff. Going," he stammered, his brain clearly struggling to catch up with his body's frantic demands. He looked like he wanted to scoop you up and run, but the reality of the crowded backstage area forced him to maintain a shred of decorum. "Don't move. Don't move from this spot. If someone separates us, I’m gonna lose it y/n.”
He practically scrambled away, his movements uncharacteristically hurried as he grabbed his bag and his damp towel. You watched him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, feeling the weight of his gaze on you even as he turned his back to gather his things.
A few moments later, he was back, his hand finding yours with a desperate strength, his fingers lacing through yours so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse your skin together.
He couldn’t care less if the stylists or the other members saw him practically dragging you toward the private exit.
As you slipped through the back door and into the cool and quiet night air of the loading dock, the sudden temperature drop made you shiver, but James was there instantly, pulling you flush against his side. He was still radiating heat, unbothered by the possibility that his members might be looking for him.
"Call your driver, pretty girl," he whispered into your hair as he leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and frantic.
The silence in the car was heavy, James didn't even bother to ask to turn on the radio; the only sound was the low hum of the engine and the frantic uneven rhythm of your breathing.
He sat in the back seat, but he wasn't looking out the window. He was turned toward you, his body angled sharply, one hand gripping the edge of the leather so hard his knuckles were white. Every time the car hit a small bump, his knee would brush against yours, and he would let out a sharp, hitched breath, as if the simple contact was enough to push him over the edge.
"It’s so hard to sit still," he finally groaned, the sound vibrating in the small space. He reached out, his hand trembling as he rested it on your thigh, his fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt. "I feel like if we don't get to the apartment in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to start unzipping my pants right here."
It was a joke- not that you would mind.
He let out a breathless, self deprecating laugh, but there was nothing funny about the way he was looking at you. His gaze was tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your lips, the way your chest rose and fell with your heavy breathing.
"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register that made your stomach flip. "The way you're sitting there... so calm... so pretty.”
“Shhh we’re almost there Yufan,” your hand hiked up his thigh, tracing over the hard muscles there.
His hips gave an involuntary, desperate twitch upward, seeking the pressure of your hand, trying to close the agonizing gap between your touch and his need. He was so hard, so incredibly sensitive, that even the slight friction of your hand against his trousers felt like a lightning strike.
"Don't... don't stop," he groaned, his fingers curling into the leather of the seat, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. "Please, baby, don't stop. If you stop now, I think I might actually die."
𓏵 𓏵
The second the apartment door clicked shut, he was on you.
James didn't even wait to turn on the lights. He didn't even make it past the entryway, he practically tackled you against the door, the heavy wood thudding against your back as his body slammed into yours. His hands were everywhere at once clutching your waist, tangling in your hair, pulling you so close that you could feel the thudding rhythm of his heart against your own chest.
"Finally," he choked out, the word sounding more like a prayer than a statement. "Finally, finally, finally."
He didn't kiss you gently this time. He devoured your mouth, his tongue sweeping into your heat with a desperate, rhythmic intensity that made your knees buckle. He was kissing you as if he were trying to breathe you in, as if he could absorb your very essence into his lungs.
Your hands slid under your top, his palms hot and slightly damp against your skin, tracing the curve of your ribs before gripping your waist to hoist you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his hips, your thighs squeezing his waist, and the sensation of your damp lace pressing against his hard length made him let out a broken moan into your mouth.
"You're so hot," he whimpered against your lips, his voice wrecked and needy. "you're so fucking beautiful."
He began to move, stumbling backward toward the bedroom, never once breaking the contact of your lips or the frantic grip of his hands. He was stumbling, uncoordinated and desperate, his movements driven by a singular, overwhelming need to be inside you, to feel the friction.
You reached the bedroom and just as you were lost in the heat of his neck, James pulled back just an inch, his breathing still heavy but a glint returning to his eyes. That lopsided, cocky smirk the one he usually reserved for the stage spread across his lips, though his eyes remained soft.
“You know...” he started. He tilted his head, a stray lock of that platinum hair falling over his brow as he cupped your jaw “The hair... I dyed it for you.” He let out a soft, breathless chuckle, his hands sliding from your waist to cup your face, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a tenderness that contradicted his smug expression. “Figured since you like Bakugo so much... you might start to like me.”
You stared at him, momentarily stunned. Not a single fiber in your body was ready to think about whatever that meant.
But as you looked at him, really looked at him the way his chest was heaving, the way his eyes were dark with a hunger that bordered on desperation, and the very obvious, heavy ache straining against his trousers a different thought took hold.
Oh, James needs some head. Fuck it he deserves it. “You did?” you smile, breaking the contact. “Didn’t have to change your hair color for me to like you, i already did anyway.”
You slid down his body, your hands gliding over the firm muscles of his thighs, guiding him as you descende and James let out a startled sound as you sank to your knees on the hardwood floor in front of him. He reached out instinctively, his fingers tangling in your hair, his knuckles white as he braced himself against the wall for support.
"Baby?" he breathed, his voice trembling, his eyes wide and blown out as he looked down at you. He looked completely undone, his smugness melting instantly into a state of pure, vulnerable anticipation. "Wait- are you…“
He didn't finish the sentence. He couldn't. He just stood there, trembling, his head tilting back as he watched you, his breath hitching in his throat as he waited for your next move.
You didn't give him the satisfaction of immediate relief. Instead, you leaned in just enough to let your warm breath ghost over the fabric of his trousers, right where he was most sensitive. You watched his eyes flutter shut, his head lulling back against the doorframe with a shaky, expectant groan.
You started with a tease, your tongue tracing the hard, pulsing line of him through the cloth, circling the head of his length with agonizing slowness. You could feel him shudder, his hands tightening in your hair, his hips jerking forward in an uncoordinated attempt to meet your touch.
"Baby... please," he asked, needy "Don't... don't play with me like this. You know how much I need you."
You let out a low, muffled giggle against the fabric, enjoying the way he trembled under your control. You moved your hands up, unbuttoning his trousers and sliding the zipper down with a rasp that sounded like thunder in the quiet room.
When you finally freed him, the sight of him thick, heavy, and pulsing with his own heat made your mouth water.
Then, you finally leaned in.
The moment your lips made contact, James let out a low sound. You took him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head before sliding down the length of him in one long, wet motion.
The reaction was instantaneous. His entire body went rigid, his fingers clenching so tightly in your hair that it was almost a tug, but you didn't mind.
He was lost. He was completely, utterly gone. He leaned his head back, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Oh god..." he gasped, his voice breaking. "Right there angel... just like that. You're so good... so fucking good to me."
You picked up the pace, your movements becoming more rhythmic and intense. You used your hands to stroke the base of him, creating a seamless, overwhelming sensation that had him swaying on his feet. He was a mess of sensation, his breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps, his hips beginning to move in time with your mouth.
The rhythm of your mouth was relentless, a perfect, swirling combination of heat, suction, and the expert glide of your tongue. You weren't just being careful; you were being thorough, worshiping him with every wet, sliding movement. You could feel the tremors racking his entire frame, the way his thighs shook so violently he had to lean against the wall just to stay upright.
As you felt him reaching that final, frantic peak his hips beginning to stutter in short, desperate jerks you decided to change the dynamic.
You slowed down just a fraction, pulling back enough to let the cool air hit his slick, heated skin, and then you tilted your head back to look up at him. Your eyes were heavy, lidded as you looked up at him through your lashes, your lips glistening and we. Your gaze traveled upward, past his trembling chest, past his frantic throat, until it landed on his hair.
The strands were a mess, damp with sweat and tousled from his own fingers, catching the dim light of the apartment.
He looked so goddamn good-
James opened his eyes, his vision blurry and his mind a fog of pleasure, and he looked down to find you watching him with that dazed, worshipful expression. He saw the way your eyes lingered on his hair, the way you looked at him like you’d die if he didn’t touch you.
"Baby..." he choked out, his voice a mere whisper, his hands shaking as he reached down to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your wet lips. "Just- come up here. I’ll give you anything you need, yeah?"
Every time your glassy, dark eyes drifted up to catch his, his heart gave a violent, painful thud against his ribs.
James was not okay.
He felt dizzy a legitimate, spinning vertigo that made the room tilt. It wasn't just the physical sensation of your mouth; it was the way you were looking at him, you looked so hungry and that caused his undoing.
His cock was twitching in front of your face, the head of him weeping clear droplets of pre cum, reacting to the sensory overload of your presence. He felt like he was a live wire, a single touch away from loosing all control.
James reached down, his fingers trembling so badly he could barely grip your shoulders, his knuckles white. He felt like he could cum at any second, just from your eyes alone.
"Don't look at me like that and then stop," he pleaded, a broken, needy whine vibrating in his chest. He was practically begging now, his pride long since abandoned. "Just... finish it. Please. I can't... I can't hold it- I'm right there... I'm so close..."
His hips gave a sudden, violent twitch, his entire body tensing as he felt the first, unmistakable wave of a climax beginning to form through him.
Gosh- was he that down bad?
You didn't let him drift away, you leaned forward, your hands gripping his thighs to steady him, and took him deep.
The sensation of him filling you, the thickness of him sliding past your throat, forced a muffled noise from his lungs. His fingers tangled so violently in your hair that it was almost a pull, his knuckles white as he braced himself against the wall, his entire body vibrating with the force of his climax.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck- baby." he curzed, the word catching in a sob.
He was pulsing, his entire length twitching rhythmically against your tongue as he began to come. You didn't pull back; you leaned into it, your throat working, your suction intense and unrelenting as he poured himself into you. You felt the hot, thick waves of his cum hitting the back of your throat.
He was shaking, his knees finally giving out as he slumped against the wall, his breath coming in frantic, sobbing gasps. He was completely spent, his eyes glazed and unfocused, staring down at you with a look of pure, holy awe.
And you didn't miss a single drop.
You swallowed every bit of him, the thick, salty taste of him a final, intimate seal on the moment. You took your time, making sure he saw the way you swallowed, making sure he saw the way your throat moved, before you finally pulled back.
The moment you finished, James was a man possessed. He didn't let you stay on the floor for long; he scooped you up and carried you to the bed, his lips finding yours in a series of frantic, messy kisses as he laid you down.
He was still reeling, his mind a hazy fog of pleasure, but the sight of you flushed and breathless made his head spin.
He flipped you onto your stomach, hands sliding down the curve of your spine- and he leaned down, breath hot against the back of your thigh, as he began to work his way up.
When his tongue finally found you, nudging your panties to the side- he let out a low, needy groan, his face burying into your pussy from behind.
His strong hands gripped the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you open for him as a moan vibrated against your soaked folds- his tongue dragging slowly from your dripping entrance all the way to your swollen clit.
James was completely lost in it. He licked broad, flat strokes across your pussy, lapping up your arousal like a man dying of thirst. His tongue circled your clit with teasing pressure before flicking rapidly over the sensitive bundle of nerves, making your hips jerk involuntarily.
“Fuck… you taste so good,” he growled against your core, the words muffled as he pressed his face in harder.
He nudged your panties further aside with his nose, then sucked your clit between his lips, hollowing his cheeks as he drew on it with pulsing suction.
Your thighs trembled, a broken moan spilling from your mouth into the sheets. You didn’t even know what to do anymore- you were wrecked- completely.
You were grinding back against his face without shame now, chasing the building pressure which James only encouraged, his free hand kneading your ass, spreading you wider so he could eat you more thoroughly.
He alternated between long, hungry licks and focused suction on your clit, occasionally pulling back just enough to blow cool air over your overheated flesh before diving back in with renewed hunger.
"James..." you gasped, your fingers digging into the bedsheets, your hips arching instinctively toward him. The sensation was incredible, but the ache in your core was demanding something more something else. "James, stop... wait."
He paused instantly, his head lifting, his face flushed and his hair a beautiful, damp mess. He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes wide and searching, looking like a puppy waiting for a command. "What? What’s wrong baby"
"Nothing’s wrong," you breathed, reaching back to grab his hands and pulling him upward. You rolled over, your eyes locking onto his, dark and commanding. "I don't want you down there. I wanna feel you. I wanna ride you."
James didn't argue. He couldn't possibly.
He simply sat back on his heels, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches as he watched you climb over him. His hands hovered near your waist, wanting to grip you, wanting to pull you down, but he held back, his fingers trembling with the effort of letting you take control.
As you settled onto him- hovering over his cock and slowly sinking down- the sensation of him filling you caused his head to loll back, a long groan escaping his lips.
When you began to move, the rhythm of your hips setting a pace that was both slow and punishingly deep, James fell into a trance of pure sensation.
He couldn't even find the words to praise you anymore.
He just sat there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and wild as they tracked every movement of your body.
His mouth hung slightly open, his breath hitching every time you bottomed out against him, his gaze so intense it felt like witnessing something forbidden.
You leaned forward, your hands reaching up to find purchase in that beautiful hair you’d been admiring all day. You wound your fingers into the silky strands, tugging just firmly enough to pull his head back, exposing the lon line of his throat.
"You look so good like this, James," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry purr that seemed to vibrate through him. You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear, your breath hot and teasing. "This hair... you look so good.”
You gave his hair another sharp, commanding tug, pulling his face up to meet yours.
"Fuck..." he finally managed to choke out, though it was barely a sound, just a broken exhale of your name. He looked completely unmoored, his hands finally coming up to grasp your hips, not to guide you, but to hold on for dear life as you drove him closer and closer to the edge. "You’re gonna kill me... You're absolutely killing me."
The pace shifted from a slow, torturous grind to a frantic, rhythmic bounce that sent jolts of electricity straight to his core.
You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his, and reached down to grab his hands, guiding them away from your waist and to the swell of your ass.
“Feels so good- you’re so deep.” you keened, head lolling back.
As you picked up the speed, you began to consciously squeeze, your internal walls clenching and pulsing around his cock. You gripped him with a precision that was nothing short of calculated, catching him with every upward surge of your hips.
"Ah fuck-" he whimpered, trying his best not to make this end so quickly.
His hips began to buck upward instinctively, trying to meet your frantic pace, his entire body coiling into a tight, vibrating knot of pure tension.
"You're so tight... you're so fucking tight..." he gasped, the words coming out in broken fragments.
“I know, baby, I know fuck...” you moaned, your head falling back as you felt him bucking beneath you, “You’re so good, James... you feel so fucking good.”
He couldn't even keep his eyes open; he just stared up at you, his jaw tight, his entire body vibrating with the effort of not coming mid sentence.
"mmhh fuck," he choked out, his hands sliding from your ass to your hips, his fingers bruising your skin as he tried to pull you even deeper, to merge your bodies together. "Do it... do it again. Squeeze me like that... please, sweetheart, please."
So you did.
"You're so beautiful..." he said, the words catching in his throat as he watched you, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Oh fuck”you gasped, the words breaking into a ragged moan as his hips bucked violently against you, trying to meet your desperate pace. You leaned down, your hair brushing against his sweat slicked skin, and bit your lip to keep from screaming as the tension reached a breaking point. “I’m so close, James... so so close”
You reached down, your fingers tangling in his blonde hair to pull his head up, needing to see his expression when you finally broke.
He cursed sharply, hips snapping up to meet you with renewed force. One hand slid up your back, pressing you flush against his chest while the other slipped between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit.
“Come for me baby-” he growled, voice low and filthy. “Let me feel you.”
The tension snapped.
Your orgasm crashed over you hard, a white-hot wave that tore a loud, shameless moan from your throat. You clenched around him rhythmically, pulsing, soaking him as pleasure ripped through every nerve.
You did it one final time, and that was all it took.
James came with a groan that tore straight from his chest. His whole body seized beneath you -every muscle locking up tight as the first spurt of his cum flooded deep inside you. He couldn’t stop moving. Even as his orgasm ripped through him, his hips kept thrusting up into you in short, desperate, uncontrollable strokes, chasing the pleasure, fucking his cum deeper with every erratic snap of his pelvis.
“Fuck- fuck, baby- ” he gasped, voice hoarse.
His arms wrapped around you like a vice, clinging desperately as he pulled your body flush against his. One hand splayed wide across your back, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, while the other gripped the back of your neck, holding you in place. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, mouth open against your sweat-slick skin, panting and moaning as another thick pulse of cum spilled into you.
You could feel everything- the way his cock throbbed and twitched violently inside your pulsing heat, his hips kept rolling in shallow, stuttering thrusts even as he came down, like he physically couldn’t stop claiming you. His lips pressed open-mouthed against your throat, teeth grazing your skin as broken whimpers and curses vibrated against you.
For a long minute he stayed like that -buried to the hilt, still giving tiny, involuntary thrusts as the last drops of his cum leaked into you, arms locked around your body like he never wanted to let go.
“Fucking hell…” he finally breathed, voice wrecked and muffled against your neck. He pressed a sloppy, lingering kiss just below your ear, then another, softer this time. His hold slowly loosened, but only slightly- one hand still stroking down your spine while the other stayed tangled in your hair.
“You okay, baby?” He nuzzled deeper into your neck, pressing another kiss there. “I think I lost the ability to think for a second…”
You softly giggled, breathless- and you kissed him right back on the temple. “Cute”
James looked up, his eyes always told stories but right now- they told you all you needed to know about the nature of your relationship.
There was no way in hell you could both pretend this wasn’t more than a stupid drunken arrangement anymore.
“I should dye my hair more often if it means you’ll ride me like you just did.”
that shit was so long idk what possessed me i’m so down bad it’s so unfunny.😭✌🏻
cw: overstimulation, unprotected p ‘n v, light degradation
an: first james post but he’s actually been taking over my mind oml. short because i wanted to see how u guys like james content 🙂↕️ i’ll do a longer version if y’all want it
“Mm!-“ Your moans were muffled by a hand pushing your head into the pillow. Your hands next to you opening ‘n closing from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body.
“So good f’me,” James hummed. You could practically hear the playful smirk in his voice. “Think you could go for four tonight?”
You made a sound of disagreement as you heard his words. Head attempting to shake ‘no’ from under his hand.
“Yes you can.”
His thrusts were fast and relentless- hitting that gummy ‘n sensitive spot in you repeatedly.
He chuckled, free hand moving to trail down your hip. “You’re so loud baby.” He teased. Words laced with amusement and love. “Even when your face first in a pillow, sound so pretty.”
He let go of your head, hand moving down to rest in between your shoulder blades. Pressing light but noticeable pressure there.
You moaned, head immediately lifting and gasping for breath as your whines became clearer again. Pressing your cheek against the pillow.
“S’i already came twice..” You whimpered into the pillow. Already all fucked out.
“Mhm.” He spoke. Amused and half distracted by the sight of your cunt practically pulling in his cock despite your words. “So you only need to cum twice.”
He ruffled your hair then adjusted, placing his hands on either side of your body ‘n leaning down, resting his weight against you. Littering kisses along your neck.
“my first with him, he already had his with her,” — to all the boys I loved before
✦ You didn’t mean for the letter to send, but it somehow did—and now, he slipped into all the little corners of your life where no one else ever stayed. Unfortunately, you can’t shake the feeling that “you can’t be mad at someone for breaking your heart — it means they loved you in the first place.” Every moment with him feels like something new, something real, something dangerously close to a first you’ll never get back. But falling for him means risking everything… including the parts of yourself you’re scared to show. || pairing: soccer!player James x reader ✉️ wc: 14.9k
‼️ warnings: emotional conflict, jealousy, slow-burn romance, miscommunication, teen angst, mild language, relationship tension, harsh language, making out, pet names
💌 a/n: requested! thank you so much for this idea. I actually didn’t watch the movie so I had to reinstall Netflix and binge watch the first two 🥲.
James has you pressed against the wall before you can breathe, his body hot and solid against yours like he’s been dying to get his hands on you.
He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion. Muscles flexing, stomach tightening and the second he catches the way your eyes linger, his mouth curls into a dirty, knowing smirk.
“Yeah?”
His voice drops, low and cocky.
“You like that don’t you?”
Your thighs clench without permission. You nod, helpless. He slides a hand down your waist, fingers dipping under your waistband, brushing heat, barely there, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Fuck,” he laughs softly, lips dragging along your jaw. “Look at you—so pretty.”
His thumb presses against your clothed pussy, firm enough to make your hips jerk forward.
You gasp, a quiet, desperate sound, and he eats it from your mouth as he kisses you hard, tongue pushing past your lips like he owns the right. Your back hits the wall again.
His hips grind into you, slow and deliberate, the thick shape of his cock rubbing exactly against the spot that makes your knees buckle.
“Thought you’d break for me this easy,” he mutters against your mouth. His fingers slip lower “Let me hear it.”
“J-James.. I-“
You jolt so hard the pen flies out of your hand.
You’re instantly pulled back from your fantasy—heat to ice water in a heartbeat.
“Y/n?” your dad calls, voice muffled through your bedroom door. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Your sister will set the table today.”
You slap your palm over the letter like you’re hiding a crime scene. “I—I’ll be down in a sec!”
Your voice cracks. Horribly. Clearing your throat, you try again. “Yeah! Just—uh—finishing something!”
Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Silence drops. Then the fright hits you. You stare down at the paper. At the graphic, thirsty disaster you apparently wrote while possessed by a sex demon.
“Oh my fucking god.” You grab the paper in both hands, crumpling it so fast it practically crunches like aluminum foil.
“What is wrong with you, Y/n?” You fling the balled-up letter toward the overflowing trash can. It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor like it’s mocking you. Of course it misses. Even your garbage has better aim than your life. A waste of paper and your time. You bury your face in your hands and groan into your palms.
“He doesn’t even know you exist,” you mutter, pacing once, twice, like that might shake the embarrassment off. “How stupid do you have to be writing porn about James!”
James, the school’s most popular student who also happens to be in the soccer team. James who probably doesn’t know you exist and has a girlfriend. Or situationship. Or whatever the hell Amy counts as.
You drop back into your desk chair, heart still racing from the stupid fantasy. A mixture between wetness and heat still clings to your skin in places you wish it didn’t.
“This is insane,” you whisper to the ceiling. “Actually insane.”
You grab another sheet of paper, intending to write something normal. Something sane. Something not involving walls and grinding and his stupid smirk.
The page stays blank. Your hand trembles slightly. You shove it away and stand up.
“Dinner,” you tell yourself. “Food. Air. Brain reset. No… horny… writing.”
You take one step toward the door. Then stop. Then glance at the trash pile, the paper mountain you swore you’d never let anyone see.
One of them shifts from the movement of your fan. A small, sinking feeling hits your stomach. You really need to get a better trash can. Or maybe a shredder—no! Therapy. But first: dinner.
You yank open your bedroom door before you can psych yourself out again. And somewhere in the back of your head—the part you hate the most—James’s voice from your imagination lingers like smoke: Yeah? You like that?
You swallow hard.
“Shut UP,” you whisper to absolutely no one. You go downstairs anyway.
You drift down the stairs the minute the kitchen smells like something worth living for again. Your sister Annie is figuring out how her new phone works that she got for her thirteenth birthday recently. Your dad has his elbows on the counter, the kind of casual that says he’s trying to be chill but actually means business.
“You okay?” he asks between ladles of sauce. He always asks when you look a little too quiet.
You shrug and grab a roll. “Yeah. Fine. Hungry.”
He’s stirring the pot and watching you like someone trying to read the news in a window reflection. “You’re eighteen, Y/n. That means you should try opening up to people a little. Join a club, meet someone new. Don’t close yourself off to the same circle forever.”
You give him the eyebrow. “You mean Bella?”
“Bella’s great,” he says, tone is deliberately even. “But reliable isn’t everything. You have this… tendency to tuck yourself away. Try something that rattles you.”
“Bella is the most reliable person one could ever know,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of you. Suddenly, the words slide into the hollow place where your thoughts live and rattles something loose. Open up. Rattle. Shake. It’s stupid, obvious, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, it feels like the exact sentence you needed to hear.Before your dad can say anything else, you quickly get up from your seat.
“Honey- where’re you going?!” Your dad asks, your sister’s gaze following his. You don’t answer him. There’s no time for that. Sitting at your desk with your lamp low, you carefully grab another slip of paper.. You’ve always been the type to catalogue everything. Feelings, small humiliations, the way your chest tightens when you see James in the hallway, into the soft, safe pages of your diary. But you ran out of pages two days ago. You didn’t throw the journal away; you just taped the spine and pretended that was a solution. Now the spine is a Band-Aid and your life is still leaking.
So you do something slightly insane. You write a letter. A letter to James that you’re obviously not going to send. But you’re not going to send it—fuck no. You might be crazy but not to that extent. Instead, this letter will just fulfill your delusions, knowing you’re too much of a pussy to actually go talk to him.
Plus, James as Amy. A girl that’s ten times prettier than you. Even if the letter was sent, it wouldn’t do anything but humiliate her. You sit down and you write like the instruction are pressed into your ribs.
Dear James,
I don’t know what kind of courage is even required to put this into paper and not just into the soft pulp of my diary where it will sit forever and never hurt anyone but me. I’m out of pages. I like to pretend that’s why this is happening, but really it’s because your face keeps crowding the edges of the life I think I should lead and I am tired of pretending nothing has changed.
I’m writing this because my dad said something tonight about opening up, and for once his advice didn’t annoy me. It lit the part of my chest that likes to tell the truth. Usually, I tell myself the truth in tiny, private scribbles. I tuck things away in notebooks and call it safety. But safe is starting to feel smaller than the way my thoughts about you try to grow.
So here it is: I like you. Not the kind of like that’s polite and fits into a yearbook quote. The kind of like that rearranges the soundtrack in my head and makes dumb songs sound like they were written for mornings when you’re still asleep beside me. I like the way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the field. I like the way your that little pout you make when you miss your shot during your soccer practice. I like the scar on your thumb. I notice the ways you look at nothing and I wonder if you’re keeping a private joke with yourself.
I don’t expect anything. I’m not asking you to change your life, and I’m not asking you to break anything open to fit me inside. I’m just telling you the shape of my heart as honestly as I can. If you look back and you don’t feel anything close, that’s okay. I’ll make more pages. I’ll close my hands around the feeling and let it be pretty and lonely and mine.
If by some impossibility you feel even a fraction of this, if you ever want to talk in the quiet and not for show, I’d like that. If you want to laugh and make terrible jokes and steal fries off my plate, I’d like that too. If you want to touch me and find out how the rest of me holds together like how you do with Amy—well. I want that too, but more than anything I want you to be honest with me the way I’m trying to be honest with you now.
— Y/n
You read it back and feel twelve whole things at once — proud, mortified, relieved, as well as questioning your life decisions. You fold it carefully like it it’s an explosive and slide it into an envelope. You address it with your own hand: Zhao Yufan, his legal name. Under his name, you scribble the address you only learned after realizing he lives six houses down. You seal the flap, press it flat like a bandage, and set the envelope on your nightstand.
You think about putting it in the diary, or a secret drawer, or burning it in the tiny metal box you use to store old receipts, but something about the whole open up thing makes you stubborn. This one you want to feel like it could be sent. So you tuck it under a small stack of textbooks on the nightstand, slide a pen across it like you’re filing it into safety, and tell yourself you’ll shower, you’ll calm down, you’ll decide tomorrow whether you actually post it or not.
You strip and step into the shower, the hot water hitting your skin in a rhythm that slows the part of you that wants to panic. Steam climbs the glass and you lean your forehead against the wall and breathe. You imagine the envelope still on the nightstand where you left it, protected by the textbooks like a little fort.
You shampoo and rinse and think of nothing and everything and finally step out, towel-wrapped and lightheaded. You cross your room, expecting the envelope to be exactly where you left it. But you don’t see it.
You assume you put it somewhere else—under a different stack, in a drawer you forgot about, safe. That makes you breathe easier. You make a mental note to check after you put your hair up. Only thing is you don’t get the chance. As soon as you lay down on your bed, you’re fast asleep.
—
Morning punches you in the face the moment your alarm shrieks. You bolt upright with that weird post-shower fog still clinging to your brain, and then the memory hits you like a shovel: The letter.
“Shit—” You stumble out of bed, hair a disaster, sleep shirt twisted around your waist as you lunge toward the nightstand.
Textbooks: check. Pen you left on top: check. Envelope? Not check. You flip the books. Nothing. Just kill me.
You yank open the drawer. Receipts, scrunchies, a rogue stick of gum. Oh—there’s your favourite lip gloss you lost in eighth grade. No envelope.
You drop to your knees and check under the bed like the letter might be hiding out of spite. Nada.
“Okay, no. No no no—” Your voice rises, scrapes, breaks. You tear through your desk. Under the lamp. Behind your laptop. In your laundry basket like you’re truly losing it.
It’s gone.
You freeze so hard your breath forgets what it’s supposed to be doing. For a full five seconds you just stand there, staring at the nightstand like it personally betrayed you.
“Y/N! You’re gonna make Annie late!” your dad yells from downstairs.
Jesus Christ. Of course the universe picks today to make you a missing-letter fugitive.
You slap on makeup with the precision of a maniac, yank on loose jeans, absolutely forget deodorant, and sprint out the door with Annie trailing behind you.
She’s eating a Pop-Tart like nothing is wrong in the world. “Can you walk faster?” you hiss.
“You woke me up late,” she mumbles around strawberry filling. “This is your fault.”
She’s not wrong, and it only makes you want to scream into a pillow. “Actually, you could have set an alarm on your phone,” you say defend yourself. “What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t put it to use?” Annie rolls her eyes. The whole walk to her school, your brain is doing a full Olympic-level panic routine.
You drop Annie off—barely hearing her bye—and then you’re speed-walking toward your school like your life depends on it. Which, honestly? It kind of does.
Inside the hallway, it’s the usual teenage circus. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loud. Someone aggressively spraying Axe body spray like they’re trying to fumigate the building.
And then, you see him. James. He’s leaning against his locker, talking to Jihoon and some really tall guy, hair falling over his forehead in that stupidly soft way that makes your chest squeeze. He wipes his bangs aside with his knuckles and you swear your soul leaves your body like you’re some Victorian child witnessing the beauty of art for the first time.
Your feet keep walking but your eyes stay glued to him as you’re now walking backwards somehow—hey, is it just you or did he bleach his hair blondish orange?
“Ouch! Watch where you’re going.”
Your shoulder ricochets off a wall of person, and a sharp, irritated gasp snaps you back to reality. “Hi Amy.”
Believe it or not, you and Amy were best of friends back in middle school until popularity took over her. Her brown wavy hair is perfectly glossy. Her skin is so flawless it looks like someone airbrushed her in real time. She’s applying a swipe of lip gloss with one hand and glaring at you like you just stepped on her dog with the other.
“Oh, it’s just you,” she snaps, pursing her lips as she caps the gloss. “Some of us actually care about how we look in the morning.”
Heat floods your cheeks, crawling up your neck. You mutter, “Sorry,” but it comes out thin and squeaky—humiliating.
Her eyes flick over you, slow and critical, before she glances past your shoulder toward James—her whole expression softening instantly, like flipping a switch.
You try your hardest not to look. It would be very embarrassing to do so. But you do.
James is watching. Not glaring. Not smirking. Just watching with that unreadable, calm expression he always gets when he’s trying to figure something out. His friends are waving their hands in front of his face to catch his attention.
Your stomach drops to your toes. Because for one terrible, dizzy moment, you wonder if that letter got somewhere it shouldn’t. You swallow tightly.
This day is already hell. And it’s only 8:07 AM.
You don’t even get three steps down the hall before Bella materializes beside you like she teleported straight out of loyalty. Her ponytail bounces while her iced latte sloshes, eyebrows already raised. “I saw that, by the way,” she says.
You groan into your hands. “Please. Please, Bella. Don’t.” Bella wiggles her brows. “You full-on stared at him like he was Michelangelo’s David, and then you—what was that? Moonwalked into Amy?”
“Let’s. Not. Talk about it.” You want to crawl inside your hoodie and never come out. Bella laughs so hard she snorts. “Okay, fine. But holy crap, you’re lucky she didn’t claw your face off.”
You don’t tell her about the letter. God, no. Bella is your ride-or-die, but even she doesn’t deserve to carry that radioactive emotional grenade.
The day crawls by at the pace of a wounded snail. Class, class, pretend to take notes, class. After school, you follow your usual routine: cut through the side field, slip past the bleachers, and make your quiet little trail toward the soccer field.
It’s stupid. SO stupid. But watching the practices has always been… calming? Or maybe masochistic. Hard to tell. They’re already running drills. Cleats thudding. Shouts carrying.
And there he is, James, wearing the neon-pinnied version of perfection. He’s quick. Controlled. Focused. The way his legs move is ridiculous. He spins the ball like it’s attached to him by secret magnets.
Usually Amy’s on the bleachers, cheering him on with her friends. But today there were no signs of her being no where near this field. Strange. You wonder where she is. That should make you feel relieved. It doesn’t.
For once, James isn’t playing like you’re invisible. Because suddenly, he sees you. Actually sees you. His brows knit. His chest rises, pauses. And before you can process what’s happening, he jogs off the field. Then he’s running. Running toward you.
Panic detonates in your ribcage.
No. No no no no—
He stops way too close. Close enough that you smell him—clean, sharp, expensive. Something like cedar and citrus and everything you absolutely should not like.
“Hey,” he says, breath still catching from the run. “Y/n? Is that your name?” You freeze. He rubs the back of his neck. Looks down for a second. Then back at you.
“I see you watching the games sometimes and I, uh… got your note.”
Your heart stops. Literally stops. If a doctor checked you right now, you’d be declared clinically dead. “I just—” he swallows hard. He’s awkward. He’s never awkward. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring it.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the field like he wishes someone would rescue him.
“Listen… I just got out of a breakup. Like. Recently.” He laughs once, dry and not very funny. “And… I don’t even know you. So I can’t—it wouldn’t be fair. Or right. You know?”
“Then get to know me.” That’s what you want to say. Instead you nod slowly. Or maybe you physically malfunction. Hard to tell. He gives you this tiny, apologetic half-smile that somehow hurts worse than being stabbed.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. And then he jogs back onto the field like he didn’t just smash your chest open with his bare hands. You stand there frozen long enough that a stray soccer ball rolls by your foot and you don’t even flinch.
James looks even better up close. And yeah he smells like something expensive. Something that makes your stomach twist. You were never supposed to know that. You swallow, throat tight. It’s the start of the new school year and this day was- well... You’re not sure there’s even a word for it.
The next few days are awkward as hell.
You avoid his locker like it’s a landmine. You walk a little faster in the halls. How the hell did he get his hands on your letter in the first place? If your brain had a mute switch, you would’ve used it. Bella notices and gives you the exact look that says tell me everythingwithout actually making you talk.
You don’t tell her anything. Not about the letter, and about how your stomach clenches when he passes.
One afternoon you cut across the field and freeze halfway, because there they are, the once infamous couple arguing in that tense whisper that looks loud from a distance. Amy’s hands are animated, her face flushed in that way people get when they think they’re right and are also angry. James is calm but tight; his jaw works like he’s chewing on something heavy. You don’t hear words. You only see the body language: Amy stepping closer, James stepping back. The rest of the team keeps practicing around them like it’s normal to be emotionally shredded in the middle of drills. Maybe this happens a lot? Expect this time, they’re arguing as exes, not as a couple.
Three days later, you’re sitting with Bella like every other lunch school-day—salad in front of you, two conversations happening at once. “Hey,” Bella starts, “you think that I could fit three French fries up one nostril?”
You barely get two fries into your mouth before a shadow falls over your lunch table. Bella freezes mid-sip of her iced latte. Her eyes go huge. “Um… incoming.” You turn slowly, like your neck is rusted, praying it isn’t who you think it is.
James. Hands in pockets. Hair slightly damp from gym. Looking like a walking problem. You could recognize his cologne from miles away.
“Y/n,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk?” Bella nearly breaks her own neck nodding. You shoot her a warning look, but she just winks. Or tries to. It looks more like a seizure. You follow James out to the side courtyard, heart punching your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Did he see you eves dropping on him and Amy’s argument? Or even worse—he somehow got a hold of that piece of paper you wrote a whole entire smut scene of you and him on. No. There’s no way that’s possible. But the letter- shut up y/n.
Finally, he stops by a bench and shifts his body awkwardly. You brace yourself for whatever’s coming.
“Okay, so… about what I said a few days ago.” Deep breath. “I changed my mind,.”
You blink. Not once. Not twice. About twelve times. “I’m sorry—what?” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “Amy found out I talked to you the other day.” His eyes flicker to you. “And she’s… not handling it well.” You say nothing. Your brain is buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “So,” he continues, “she’s convinced I’m into you. And she’s trying to make me jealous by flirting with every guy in our grade. Which is…” He grimaces. “Annoying.”You’re staring at him, blank-faced, because what else are you supposed to do? “So if she thinks you and I are together,” he finally says, “she’ll calm down. And maybe she’ll want to get back together. It’s just… easier this way.”
Ah. There it is.
It’s not because he suddenly sees you. It’s not because your face lives rent-free in his mind the way his does in yours. It’s because you’re convenient and somehow read the stupid love letter you were going to keep to yourself and through away after a few days.
You swallow, throat scraping. “So you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend… so your get back together?” He nods, relieved you understand. “Yeah. Exactly.”
You take your time thinking—way longer than necessary, honestly. But you’re not stupid. Fake dating James? James, whose face makes your brain glitch? James, who already thinks you confessed some weird crush? Why the hell wouldn’t you?
“Fine,” you say eventually. “I’ll do it.” His whole body loosens like he’s been holding tension since August. “Thank you. Seriously. Okay, uh… we should follow each other on Instagram.”
Shit.
He pulls his phone out. You do the same—hesitantly. “It’s @y_notn?” He repeats, typing the username into Instagram, then clicking onto your page. You see his lips form a smirk. “You’re already following me I see.” You cheeks match the color of his shoes.
He types fast. “I’ll tag you in my bio. You can tag me in yours too.” Your pulse jumps but you nod in agreement anyways.
He pockets his phone again. “Meet me after practice today. Same field as always.” He gives you a small smile that’s entirely too soft to be legal. “I assume you know what time that is.” Like you haven’t literally watched every practice he’s had since school started.
You nod, trying not to implode. “Yeah. I know.”
“Cool.” He steps back, gives you a once-over that feels like a warm hand on your spine. “See you then, Y/n.” When he walks away, you realize you’re not breathing. You’re not sure you’ll ever breathe normally again.
Bella ambushes you before you even sit down. She’s practically vibrating with questions, textbooks forgotten in her hand.
“So spill. What did you two even talk about? Why is he talking to you when he has a—what is she—Amy? What the freak is going on?” Her eyes are all sharp curiosity and that ridiculous, fierce-protective thing only best friends get. You do the only mature thing you can think of: play it cool. “It’s nothing,” you say, which is still a lie and also technically not. You haven’t explained anything to anyone, not even to yourself.
Bella doesn’t buy it for one second. “Nothing? Y/n. You’ve been crushing on that guy ever since I’ve known you. Do you know how dramatic that was? Spill.”
You fold your fork over your lips. “He said some stuff. Nothing huge.” You focus on making your voice flat, unimpressed, as though your heart didn’t vault into your throat and refuse to come down two hours ago. She leans in until her face invades your space. “Did he… break up with Amy?”
You stare at her. The question feels like a live wire. “Yeah,” you say before you can stop it. “They—he said they broke up.”
Bella’s jaw drops so hard you’d think she swallowed a stone. “And you didn’t tell me? Am I not your best friend anymore or what?” She half-pleads, half-accuses. You laugh because panic tastes weird and small. “I didn’t know until this week, B. Chill. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be the person who screams and jumps on him or whatever you do when you’re extremely dramatic.”
She pouts, not actually mad. “Wait—so was he talking to you because he likes you or something and wants to move from Amy?”
It takes you a moment to respond. “It’s… complicated,” you say, and she deflates into a theatrical sigh. “I’ll keep you updated for sure.”
Later, after classes pretend to move slower than molasses. You go to the side courtyard like you promised. He’s there early, hands in pockets, looking like he walked out of a billboard and then stole your ability to breathe. He waves you over like he’s practiced casualness in a mirror.
“So,” he says, hands folded like he’s bracing for feedback as you two settle down on a nearby bench. “About us.”
You swallow. “About us.” Something you thought you’d never hear come out of his mouth, This is ridiculous. Then you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place.
He exhales. “I should make—uh—parameters. Boundaries. Whatever you want to call them..” He looks earnest. Which is both disarming and scalding.
“Okay,” you say. “No kissing. No… anything farther.” You say it like you’re filing a restraining order against your hormones. Your cheeks heat up right after you say it, like you’ve exposed your soul in public.
He gives you a genuinely confused look. “What’s so wrong with kissing?” You look at him and feel stupid and stubborn and painfully sincere. “I want my first kiss to mean something. I don’t want my first kiss to be a prop in someone’s plan. I want it to be because of… feelings. Real ones.”
He studies your face. For a second you think he’s scoffing. Instead he looks surprised, like he expected something else out of you entirely. “So you’re saying you’ve never kissed anyone? You don’t seem like a first-kiss kind of person,” he says, like it’s an observation, not an accusation.
You don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment. “I’m not,” you say. “I just… want one that matters.”
He nods slowly, and shockingly, he takes it in. “Okay. No kissing,” he repeats. “No making out. No—anything. Got it. I was looking forward to that part though.” That last sentence makes you look up immediately. He lets out a “oh look at you, you feel for it,” laugh. Of course he didn’t mean it.
“And pet names? Like, are we team ‘babe’ or are we staying sane?”
You sigh. “Pet names are allowed but No PDA that crosses boundaries. Hand-holding okay. Quick pecks on the cheek—fine, but only if it’s not humiliatingly dramatic in front of Amy.”
He snorts at that, and for a moment the tension loosens. “Dates?” he asks. James going on a date with you? You want to poke yourself to make sure this isn’t all just a dream.
“Sure.”
You actually grin, and it feels like a defect in your usual composure. This is insane. You’re literally negotiating love like it’s a group project. He hesitates, then asks, “Can I—uh—pick you up to school? Like, to drive you? Make things look… convincing.”
Your brain short-circuits. “I walk my younger sister to school,” you say. “So no.” He brightens, thinking on his feet. “I can drive her too. Drop them both off. Make it seem legit.”
You gape. “You’d drive my twelve-year-old sister to school?” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Less awkward than you explaining a fake boyfriend every morning.”
“Wow,” you say, simultaneously mortified and oddly touched. “That’s… actually kind. Okay, maybe.”
“And—if you want—I can drive you home now,” he adds. “Make it easier. Practical.” You almost laugh because this feels exactly like a dream for someone else and not like your actual life. But then you see his eyes dart—just for half a beat—toward the tree line at the edge of the parking lot. Amy.
He looks back at you and, without missing a beat, pulls you closer. His hand rests on the small of your back, which feels equal parts possessive and protective. His other hand ghosts over your arm, fingers light, claiming. “Smile,” he whispers into your ear, breath hot and soft and ridiculous.
His hands wander like they’re memorizing the geography of you—over your shoulder, along your ribs—nothing obscene, just bordering on intimate enough to make your teeth ache.
“Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.” He makes sure to emphasize on the baby part so it’s loud enough for Amy to hear. The pet name lands heavy in your chest.
He slides his fingers into yours and leads you toward the parking lot. Your sneakers scuff the concrete. Maybe the letter getting sent out wasn’t as bad after all. But then you remember this is all an act. James doesn’t actually like you. And once he’s back with Amy? You don’t even want to think about it.
You find the car before you recognize it. Low, polished, the kind of car that hums quietly like it was born rich. Leather seats. Chrome that catches sunlight like it’s showing off. You knew he was from money, but you’d never actually seen it up close like this.
He opens the passenger door for you with a theatrical little bow that somehow feels oddly considerate. “Hop in,” he says, and for a second the world narrows to leather and the faint plastic smell of air freshener and the rapid, stupid beating of your heart.
You climb in, and as the engine starts, you wonder which part of your life is a fever dream and which part, if any, is real.
James pulls up in front of your house like he’s done this a hundred times, like this is just routine for him now. The car quiets, he taps the steering wheel once, and turns toward you.
“Thanks for driving me,” you say, suddenly shy for no reason except he’s looking at you like that. You try to keep your smile contained, but it still slips out, tiny and embarrassing.
He catches it immediately. “Cute,” he says under his breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He clears his throat, hoping you didn’t hear him slip.
“So this is where y/n lives? Didn’t know you lived a couple houses down from me.” You smile and reach for the door handle, trying to act like a normal functioning human being, when he stops you with a soft, “Y/n—wait.”
You blink at him. “Yes?” He holds up his phone. “Can I take a picture of us holding hands? For my Insta so Amy can see.” You swear you felt something real between you two until he snapped you back to reality. “Like… right now?”
“Yeah.” He extends his hand, palm up, waiting. “C’mon.”
You place your hand in his because what else are you supposed to do? Say no? Die? Teleport? His fingers lace through yours, warm and soft, and your whole bloodstream turns into electricity. You feel your body heat up. This is your first ever physical contact with him.
He lifts his phone with the other hand and pulls your joined hands closer to the console where the lighting is better. Of course he knows his angles; he’s literally James.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. You do. He snaps the picture the moment you meet his eyes, like he wants you in the frame even if you’re only visible in the reflection of the screen.
After the photo is taken, he stares at it for a quick second. Call yourself delusional but you swear you saw him holding back his smile. After tagging you, he uploads it instantly. Your heart legitimately forgets how to beat.
“Great,” he says, dropping your hand slowly, almost reluctantly. “Text me when you’re inside.”
“S-sure,” you mutter, stumbling over your own voice like a clown. You climb out of the car. He waits until you’re at the porch before he pulls away, tires rolling smooth and silent like he didn’t just flip your entire life upside down.
You walk in, still clutching the warmth of his hand like an idiot who’s never known happiness before. Your dad glances up from the kitchen, eyes narrowing with that suspicious dad-squint. “Someone’s smiling.” You almost choke. “I’m not—I’m literally—I wasn’t—”
He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’m not interrogating you. How’d you get home so fast?”
Panic rushes through your veins. “Uh. Bella’s brother drove us. We were going the same way.”
Lie. Instant lie. Horrible lie. Bella doesn’t even have a brother. You want to fistfight yourself.
“Huh,” your dad says, not looking convinced but not digging either. “Alright, well—oh! Before I forget.” He stands, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smiles like he’s about to tell you something wholesome. Instead he says the single worst sentence you’ve heard in your entire life. “I forgot to tell you this but I saw that letter on your desk last week and helped mail it for you, honey.” Your stomach hits the floor. You swear your vision goes white around the edges.
“What—what letter?” You hear your own voice crack like a broken flute.
“The envelope under those textbooks on your desk thst was addressed to one of our neighbours? I figured it’d save you and I less time because I was stopping by the post office anyways,” He beams, proud of himself.
You cannot breathe. So that’s how James got your note. The letter that was literally your unhinged, handwritten, half-fantasy confession about James. The one you should have burned. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice tiny and hoarse.
You bolt up the stairs the second you’re free, close your bedroom door with the gentlest click ever because of course tonight is the night you suddenly care about door volume, and just… collapse. Face-first into your bed. You don’t even bother turning the lights on.
Your body is still buzzing, like James’s handprint is burned into your skin. Your heart keeps replaying the whole car scene at 8K resolution, IMAX, Dolby Atmos, every upgrade possible.
James and Amy? Over. James talking to you? Actually real. James fake dating you? Also real. You? Completely malfunctioning.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Because the thing is, it’s fake. He asked for to take the picture for Amy, not because he wanted it for himself. He’s James. He dates girls who look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial. You literally tripped over air in homeroom last week.
Still… your chest squeezes around this tiny, dangerous wish. You wish it wasn’t fake, how he meant the way he looked at you in the car, and the warmth in his hand wasn’t just acting. But whatever. That’s not your life. Guys like him don’t like girls like you. You know that. You’ve always known that.
Next morning starts off painfully normal, which is honestly rude given the way last night cracked your brain open. You drag yourself out of bed, brush your teeth while half-asleep, pull on a hoodie that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent and despair, and braid Annie’s hair while she wiggles like a caffeinated squirrel.
“Hold still,” you mutter, trying to tame the last strand. “I am holding still,” she says, not holding still. You finally get her ready, grab your bag, and step out of the building with her hand in yours. It’s quiet outside, cool enough to wake you up a little. The walk to her school is familiar, easy, predictable.
Your brain needs predictable right now. You’re three blocks down before a car honk breaks the morning calm—one sharp, deliberate beep.
You and Annie both turn at the same time.
James’s car is parked at the curb. Leaning slightly toward the window, one hand on the wheel, raising his eyebrows in a “Really? You forgot?” kind of way.
“Oh shit,” you whisper. Annie gasps dramatically and sprints toward the car like she’s starring in her own movie. “Did you just say a bad word?” she calls out over her shoulder. “Also who’s that?”
“My… uh…” You have nothing. No explanation. Just panic. “Just—wait—Annie!” But she’s already yanking open the passenger door. “Did you forget about stranger danger?!”
“Hiiiiii!” she beams at him. James grins back, all sunshine and dimples. “Good morning.” He looks cute when he smiles. You stumble up behind her, cheeks burning. “Sorry—she just—uh—”
“It’s fine,” he says. “She’s cute.”
Annie giggles like he handed her a scholarship. “My sister thinks cute! Her face literally turned red when she—” You quickly slap your palm on top of her mouth, nearly choke on your own tongue. “Annie! You can’t just—say things—!”
James laughs. “I can see that.” Fuck you. He nods toward the backseat. “You riding or walking?” Right. The whole fake dating thing. You climb in, mumbling, “I totally forgot you were picking us up.”
He shoots you a look in the rearview. Teasing. “Kind of figured.” Annie, meanwhile, is already telling him her entire life story. “So my sister woke me up late again, and Y/N didn’t let me have candy in the morning, so can you convince her t—“
“Annie,” you hiss, “personal space!” James glances at you, amused. “Your sister’s very bubbly.”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Runs in the family.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Haven’t noticed much of that in you.” You look out the window so he can’t see your face fall and combust at the same time. “Well… it takes me a while to open up.”
There’s a beat of silence—soft, not awkward. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t mind that. Your breath trips. Annie thankfully interrupts you before your brain melts. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” You and James say entirely different things at the exact same time.
You: “NO—no no no—he’s not—don’t—” James: “Something like that.”
You whip your head toward him so fast your neck protests. “What?!” He smirks. “Relax. Just keeping the story consistent.” “That’s not consistent, that’s— that’s—”
“Convincing,” he finishes, winking. You swear your pulse jumps like it’s trying to break out of your body. By the time he pulls into the school parking lot, your nerves are shredded.
“Wait.” His voice stops you again. You freeze halfway out. He gets out too. Walks around the car. And then extends his hand. Palm up, a silver ring on his index finger.
“Come on,” he says. “They’re already staring.” Your stomach drops to your knees. You place your hand in his, because apparently you’ve lost all brain function. His fingers lace through yours. Firm. Warm. Familiar already in a terrifying way. You wonder what if he uses hand cream—and if so, what kind?
You walk side by side, hands joined, through the courtyard. Every. Single. Person. Looks. Someone literally whispers, “Are you kidding me?” as you pass. Another girl stares like you committed a war crime. You try to keep your face blank, but your heart is doing parkour. Even his friends look at him weird. James leans toward you just slightly. “You good?”
“I’m—fine,” you lie. He squeezes your hand. A tiny squeeze. You nearly short-circuit. Then you turn down the hall. And there she is. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. Leaning against her locker with her friends, scrolling through her phone—Amy.
Until she sees you and James. Her entire expression freezes—then sharpens. Expression goes from neutral to knives-out in half a second.
It hits you so hard your stomach does a full gymnastics routine. You instantly look away, like you’re gonna be burned alive if you make eye contact for more than a microsecond. James actually glances. Quick, sharp, assessing—like he’s checking if she saw. And apparently she did, because he gives the smallest nod to himself and keeps walking.
Your palm is sweating in his, which is honestly humiliating, but he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t squeeze or slow down or look at you twice. He’s just walking. Playing the part. Cool. Unbothered. Like this is all just logistics. People are still staring, whispering, straight-up gawking as you pass. You keep your face forward. Try not to shrink… or die. All three are failing.
When you reach his locker, he drops your hand casually like he’s turning off a light switch. He spins his combo, grabs a book, and says, completely normal, “I saw her staring.”
Your heart is still in your throat. “It’s progress, I guess.” He nods once, satisfied. “Think it’s working.”
James doesn’t look at you again—just shuts his locker with a quick clack and tosses his bag over his shoulder like he didn’t just nuke your nervous system in the hallway.
“See you later,” he says, already turning away. And you’re left standing there, trying not to look like you’re about to dissolve into mist.
The rest of the week doesn’t calm down — it just mutates into this weird fever dream where James keeps doing things that make your brain short-circuit.
Like Wednesday morning, when you’re trying to open your locker and the stupid thing jams for the eighth day in a row. You mutter under your breath, “I hate this place,” and kick the bottom corner. Out of nowhere, James appears behind you, lean and warm and annoyingly tall.
“Move,” he says, voice low like he’s about to break into a safe.
“I’ve tried that,” you snap, not even looking up. “It doesn’t—” He slams his palm against the top left edge with one clean, confident hit. The locker pops open like it’s scared of him. Hot. “Are you—what? How—?!”
He shrugs, smirking. “You’re welcome.”
You roll your eyes way too dramatically, but you’re pretty sure your soul floats out the back of your head when he taps the top of your hair and says, “I’ll be here if you need help with anything else.”
You stare after him like a malfunctioning Roomba as he walks off.
Then there’s Thursday, when you’re walking through the courtyard with James and trip over absolutely nothing. Like, genuinely nothing. A single leaf. A shadow. Air. You go stumbling forward like a newborn deer. Before you can fall, James catches the back of your hoodie and pulls you upright by the hood like you’re a cat being relocated.
“I swear to God,” you wheeze, face on absolute fire, “the ground attacked me.”
“Yeah,” he deadpans, “the ground looked really hostile.”
You shove his shoulder because you can’t come up with a good comeback and also because you’re mortified. He lets out a quiet chuckle and it unlocks something sweet and dangerous in your chest.
Next it’s Friday morning. You and Annie are waiting for him outside, and your sister is bouncing around talking about how she wants to get a hamster named Bean. James comes out of the car, leans over the passenger seat, and gives Annie an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“Bean’s a great name,” he says, like he’s taking her dead seriously. “Very strong. Very intimidating.”
Annie giggles like she’s met a celebrity. You can tell that your sister likes him a lot. Too bad it might all end soon. You’re standing there blinking because why is he being sweet when no one is watching? There’s no audience at 7:53 AM on a suburban sidewalk. No reason to impress anybody. He looks at you for a beat too long. “What?” you say, defensive because your nervous system is fried.
“Nothing,” he says, that tiny smile tugging at one corner.
Later that same day, you’re at his soccer practice again, this time on mandatory fake-girlfriend attendance, apparently, but this time you don’t sit on the bleachers. You’re late, so you stand awkwardly by the fence, hugging your bag.
James sees you. Mid-scrimmage. He’s literally making it past two guys and still looks over like you’re a lens flare he enjoys catching. Amy’s on the far side of the field glaring daggers, and that’s probably why he does it, why he pushes a bit harder. For some reason, she started showing up again.
But then he smirks. And it’s not aimed at Amy. He jogs up after scoring, out of breath, flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. The kind of sweaty that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
Before you know it, his practice ends, the sun’s low, and the field looks like it’s glowing. You’re standing by the fence scrolling your phone, pretending you’re not waiting for him even though obviously you are.
They scrimmage one more play. James gets the ball. The field actually erupts. He slips past two defenders, cuts left, shoots—Goal. The boys yell and explode like he just cured cancer. And then he does something so stupidly cinematic you almost faint: He runs straight toward you. Like you’re his checkpoint.
He stops right by the fence, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, jersey sticking to him — black and green, drenched in sweat, clinging to every muscle that should not legally exist on an 20-year-old.
“Did you see that?” he breathes out, grinning like he’s half-drunk on adrenaline.
“I—I mean—yeah,” you say, but it comes out more like a squeak because you are absolutely staring. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his neck glistening, jaw sharp enough to slice your willpower in half. He smirks when he notices.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he teases, voice low. You immediately snap your eyes away. “I wasn’t—looking. I was—blinking.”
“I didn’t know blinking took that long,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to the fence. You nearly dissolve into the grass.
By the time he drops you off, your brain is a puddle. He taps the steering wheel, looks at you with that same unreadable-soft expression you’re starting to recognize. “Same time tomorrow?”
Before you could answer, your dad comes out on the porch at the worst possible moment, holding a mug and squinting into the driveway. “Is that the handsome guy Annie keeps talking about?”
Why oh why. “Wha—dad—I—no—?” James, traitor that he is, just smiles and waves like this is a barbecue and not the crumbling of your sanity. “Yes I am!”
Your dad lights up. “Well! Why don’t you stay for dinner?” You see James glance at you like he’s asking for permission—like you’re the deciding vote before he says, “Sure. If that’s okay.” Okay?? You’re already having an out-of-body experience. Inside, Annie is THRIVING. She pats the couch between her and James like she’s the host of a reality show. You sit, fully preparing to be normal. You fail immediately.
Halfway through the movie, James shifts closer—casual, smooth, evil—and drapes an arm behind you on the couch, feeling himself at your home. Not even touching you yet, just… there. Warm. Heavy. Loud in your peripheral vision. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage with a crowbar.
Then, out of nowhere, he reaches over and slides the scrunchie out of your ponytail. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s unwrapping a present. Your hair falls down your shoulders and you swear the air temperature spikes 40 degrees.
“Looks better like this,” he murmurs, barely audible over the TV.
You’re going to combust. Annie is too invested in the movie to notice you dying.
He loops it around his wrist, then pulling out his phone to check something. You assume he’s going to post something on his Instagram for Amy to see, but he checks the time instead. Strange
Your dad comes in once to ask if you all want snacks. James answers politely. You stare at the wall like you’re seeing God. He grabs a piece and feeds it to you. Even morestrange.
Eventually it gets late, and he stands, gives Annie a little salute, thanks your dad for the evening, and looks at you with this unreadable softness that makes your stomach flip.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
—
The night air is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t feel it. His whole skin is still warm from your house, your couch, your hair brushing his shoulder.
As he hopped into the car, shouldn’t be thinking about that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Getting out, he walks up his front steps, keys halfway out of his pocket, when he freezes.
Amy is sitting on his porch. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Wearing that perfume he likes.
“James,” she says, chin tilted, voice honeyed she knows works on most people.
He exhales, slow. “Amy. What are you doing here?”
She stands up, taking a step closer. “I wanted to talk. We haven’t really—y’know—processed everything. And I…” She lets the sentence trail off, fingers brushing his arm like muscle memory. “I miss you. We were good together.”
He should want this. He knows that. This was the whole point, wasn’t it? Proving he could move on, making her jealous, getting her to come back.
“We were,” he says quietly. It comes out flat. Even he hears it.
Amy leans in, confidence flickering back. “I mean… moving on to someone like her?” She smirks. “Convincing. I’ll give you that.”
He doesn’t say anything. She slides her hand down his arm like she’s done it a thousand times — because she has. Her voice drops. “You could’ve just talked to me, James. You didn’t have to pretend.”
Her eyes glint. She steps closer again, enough that her breath hits his collarbone. “What do you say? Are you up for a redo?” Amy reaches for his wrist, then stops at a certain spot.
“Oh.” Her voice shifts — sweet turning sour. “What’s this?” Her fingers brush the scrunchie. Your scrunchie. Still warm from your hair. She looks up at him, eyebrows lifted like she’s caught him with a crime weapon.
“Is that Y/n’s?” she asks, sickly sweet. His voice is small, quieter than he expects. “It is.”
Amy lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Wow. You’re really committing to the bit.” He doesn’t correct her.
She slips it off his wrist and ties her hair with it, steps back, arms folding. “Well,” she says, lips curling, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, James.”
She walks away without waiting for an answer. Her perfume lingers. But his wrist feels heavier than everything she tried to imply. He stands there a long time after she’s gone. And the scrunchie stays exactly where it is.
—
James picks you up like nothing happened, acting like he didn’t stand on his porch last night looking existential with your scrunchie on his wrist while his ex tried to crawl back into his life.
“Morning,” he says, voice warm, as you hop into the car.
“Good Morning.”
He glances over, tapping the steering wheel. “Tired?” You scratch your neck, letting out a soft groan. “Not at all.”
He actually laughs under his breath. “Liar.” Ugh. Of course he knows.
He drives for a bit, a comfortable quiet settling between you — or, well… almost comfortable. Then he says it. Soft. Almost shy. “I really like spending time with you.”
You freeze. Brain: 404 error. “Why?” you say before your filter can save you. He looks over. “Why not?”
“No, like—” you wave a hand, “you don’t have to do the whole… nice boyfriend act right now. No one’s looking.”
His brows pull together, confused, just a tiny bit hurt. “I know.” It’s nothing. It’s everything. You don’t know what to do with it, so you shove it into the mental junk drawer and slam it shut.
—
After your second class, Bella picks you up and you two walk to your lockers, minding your own business, when Amy appears like a horror movie jump scare, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes on you like target practice.
“You know James doesn’t actually like you?” She says sweetly.
It’s not like you didn’t know that. The thing going on between James and you is all for show. Bella stiffens beside you. You close your locker and keep walking.
Amy clicks her tongue. “Y/n—you forgot something.”
You turn just in time to see her toss your scrunchie. It hits the floor at your feet like a punchline. Bella’s eyes go HUGE. “Um. What—?”
“I’ll explain later,” you mutter, scooping it up with fingers that are absolutely trembling.
You don’t go to his practice after that. Screw that. Screw all of it. You go home, burrow under your blanket, and try to convince yourself you don’t care even though you obviously care so much it feels like a bruise.
Around six, there’s a knock downstairs. Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.
You hear your dad open the door.
“Oh! Hi James!”
“Is Y/n home?” he asks, and his voice is nervous. Nervous? Since when does James get nervous? “Yes, she’s upstairs in her room, doing whatever you teenagers do.”
“Can I— uh— can I talk to her?”
“…Sure, come in.”
You want to sink into the floorboards. Your dad calls up the stairs, “Y/n! James is here!”
Yeah, you heard.
A moment later, there’s a soft knock on your door. “Can I come in?” You don’t answer, and quickly pull the cover over you. He opens just enough to peek inside. “Hey.” You sit up, knees tucked to your chest. “Hi”
He steps inside, closes the door behind him, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hit CTRL+ALT+DEL on his own life. “Why didn’t you show up to my game? You always show up.”
You look at him for a long second, then ask the question that’s been chewing through your ribs all day.
“Did you… meet up with Amy last night? And then give her my favourite scrunchie?”
His head snaps up fast. “No.”
“No?”
“I mean—yes and no. It’s not what you think.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Then what happened?”
He sighs, shoulders dropping. “She just spawned in front of my house as I was driving home. I never asked her to come” Your chest tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Right. And when she took my scrunchie… you just let her take it?” He flinches a little — just barely, but you see it.
“Yeah, that’s my bad,” he says quietly. “But hey, at least you got it back.”
You stay quiet, jaw set as you look down at the scrunchie on your wrist.
“And it’s not a big deal,” he adds quickly. “It’s just a scrunchie y/n.” He stops himself. “Well — not just a scrunchie. Yours.” Your lungs betray you with a small inhale. He moves a little closer, hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Really. And… I wanna make it up to you.”
You tilt your head “How?” And because he’s him — chaotic, dramatic, inexplicably confident — he smiles.
“You heard of ‘Ski Slopes Nation?” The ski trip party my friend hosts every year. It’s, uh, kinda big. And really fun. I want you to come with me.”
You look down at yojr hands, unsure what to say. Strange, wouldn’t he have asked Amy? “James, I don’t even know anyone there.”
“Okay,” he says, shrugging, taking one small step closer. “So what? You’ll know me.”
“That’s not enough. You’ll be distracted by you know who.”
He sighs, walking towards your bed as he puts his finger under your chin, turning your head to face him. He tilts his head, smirk creeping back. “You’re the only distraction I need.”
Your stomach flips so hard you have to look away again. How can he say this when he doesn’t even like you?
“Think about it,” he murmurs. He reaches for the doorknob, pauses, glances back at you with that soft half-smile. “And for the record, I’ll buy you snacks for the whole time we’re there.”
Then he leaves you alone with your heartbeat trying to set a new world record.
“Wait… it was fake?!” Bella’s voice is a cartoon of betrayal—half screech, half wounded martyr. You’re sitting across from her at your usual greasy-spoon table, regretting your life decisions, and she’s dramatically clutching her phone like you’ve personally stolen her childhood.
“I thought he actually liked you,” she adds, scandalized. “I mean, everything! His stories, the way he looked at you—God, I practically had a panic attack of joy.”
You shrug, because what else do you do when your life is embarrassing and baffling at the same time. “It was the plan. To make Amy jealous. To get her to get back with James.”
Bella pokes your forehead with the end of a fry. “So you were a pawn? That is actually a geniu—horrible!”
You let out a sigh and then tell her about the ski thing—James’s invitation that felt suspiciously like a peace offering. Bella immediately goes into PR mode.
“Why aren’t you going?” she asks, all business now. “This could be huge. Honestly, go. I’ll totally come with you if that’ll change your mind.”
You almost say no. You almost say yes. You do say, finally, “Okay, but you cannot leave my side for once.”
She claps and picks up your phone from the table. “Text him now.” She demands while handing you her phone. Slowly, you unlock your phone and type in: “Ok, Ski Slopes Nation it is.” Sent.
Weekend flies. Saturday morning, you stand by the curb, heels tapping like a metronome, expecting Bella’s overzealous face any second. Typical you overpacked for a three night trip. James pulls up right on time, engine purring luxury. You get in. You do a full inventory of your nerves.
Ten minutes later you notice Bella’s text: one-line replies.
Bella: Sorry guys, mom lowkey got mad because I fumbled my test 🙁. Maybe next time?
You stare at the message like it physically hurt. She didn’t tell you before. This was her plan all along for you to go to the Ski Slopes Event alone with James. She was never going to come.
You turn to James, ready to explode with “where is she?” but the words scramble and bail right out of you. Your hand goes for the door handle. You’re doing the awkward petty-exit thing when he reaches over, still driving, and grabs your wrist gently.
“Wait,” he says. His voice is small, not demanding, just…earnest. “Please. Don’t go.”
You stare at his hand on yours. Your knee-jerk plan is to get out and walk, to reclaim dignity off the side of the highway, but the highway is suddenly very far away and his palm is somehow steadying.
“Why?” you ask, because why not make him explain himself.
He pulls into the next parking spot, kills the engine, and turns fully to you like it’s the thing he’s meant to do all day. The car becomes its own little island of breath.
“I wanted you to come,” he says, simple and flat, like it’s obvious and he’s been dying to say it. “Not because of Amy. Not to make her jealous. I… I actually like doing this with you. I like spending time with you.”
Your brain files that under “unreliable information” and simultaneously under “this actually matters.” You blink. “But—wasn’t this whole thing supposed to get Amy back?”
He hesitates, then answers honestly, the way people answer when the truth is awkward but necessary. “Yes that was the plan. At first. But I don’t know if I want to go back to that. I don’t know if I ever did. And the more time I spend with you—not pretending—it’s not the same. You’ve made me felt something no one else has ever made me feel. But what I know is that I like you. A lot.”
You roll your eyes because dramatic vulnerability is embarrassing even when it’s kind of endearing. And your body heats up. Your cheeks are probably tomato colored, but you try staying nonchalant. “So what, you just switched teams mid-game?”
He gives you one of those looks that’s half apology, half dare. “Sort of. Do you… do you wanna keep doing this? Not for Amy. For us. Keep this—whatever this is—going?”
You inhale, exhale, try to be sensible. “You know how this looks,” you say. “Welp, the love letter sure worked out—just now how I expected.”
He smiles, small and stubborn. “It sure did.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes—part incredulous, part hopeful. You tuck your hand back into yours under the dash. “Fine,” you say, because why be brave when you can be cautiously stupid instead. “But I’m watching you. One misstep and I will glare you into ashes.”
“Deal,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips that’s half triumphant, half relieved. “Also, I’m getting your scrunchie back. Properly next time.”
You look out at the highway ahead, and despite the chaos, despite the lying and the staging and the way your life currently reads like a badly edited montage, there’s a tiny part of you that answers before your brain can veto it.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s keep doing this—carefully.”
He squeezes your hand. The car pulls back onto the road, and the rest of the world sounds like muffled static for a second, just you and the hum of the engine and the very complicated possibility of something messy and real.
“Are you sure you have snow tires on?” You double check as more snow comes down while you guys drive up the mountain. The atmosphere in the car was not quiet, but soft. Not awkward anymore, not tense, just this gentle humming between you two—like the car has its own heartbeat now and it somehow synced to yours. James lets out a low chuckle, reaching for your hand, giving it a tight squeeze.
“I’m sure y/n.” The way he spoke your name was so attractive yet reassuring. Snow lines the trees like powdered sugar and the sky is a blue so obnoxiously pretty it looks edited. James keeps flicking quick glances at you like he’s checking if you’re still real. You’re still trying to get over the fact that you’re seated in Jame’s car that actually has feelings for you.
When he parks outside the lodge, you hop out and the cold instantly punches your lungs. He grabs the bags before you can even protest because he’s a show-off with biceps, apparently. Inside, the place is gorgeous—warm lights, crackling fireplaces, couples everywhere wearing matching sweaters like they’re in a Pinterest board.
James leads you down a hallway lined with wooden doors and stops at one. Unlocks it, then opens the door. You follow him in. And freeze.
There are multiple reasons why you freeze. First and most obvious reason, the scenery. You knew James and his friends were filthy rich, but this is on a next level. The place was small, but it felt so cozy and expensive at the same time. Second reason, the bed. Notice how it’s bed and not beds plural?
“…Hold on,” you say, voice thin. “Where’s—uh—the other bed?” There is one bed. One. Big, yes. Fluffy, absolutely. But still ONE BED.
James glances at it like it’s the weather. “Oh. Yeah. They ran out of doubles.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “Is that okay? It is pretty spacious so we can sleep on either ends.”
Is that OK??
Your soul: NOPE. SOUND THE ALARMS. EVACUATE THE PREMISES.
Your mouth: “Yeah it’s fine.”
Typical y/n. Always lying out of your ass crack.
He tosses his duffel on the floor and starts unpacking, casual as ever, while your brain is mapping out emergency escape routes and calculating the surface area of the bed to figure out how far you can sleep from him without dying.
“We’ve got, like, four hours until the big event,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “It’s basically a party with drinks and games. Then we go skiing. People kinda go all out.”
Skiing? You? “Is it bad that I don’t know how to Ski?”
He snorts—soft, fond. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you if you’re down. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.
He finishes unpacking and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You can talk, y’know,” he says, teasing. “You’re doing that quiet-stressing face again.”
“I’m not”—
“You are.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
“Stop being readable.”
You grab your water bottle just to have something to do. He watches you, amused. The silence stretches—not awkward, but charged. Like static in the air before lightning strikes.
You sit on the edge of the bed, rambling about something—how cold it is, how Bella tricked you, how the hallway smells weirdly like cinnamon. You don’t stop talking because if you stop, you’ll think, and if you think, you’ll panic.
Halfway through your rant about overpriced ski equipment, you notice he’s not responding. He’s just… staring. Not in a bored way. Or in a polite-listening way.
In a hungry way. In a memorizing-your-mouth-movements way. In a way no fake boyfriend should ever stare. No one has ever looked at you like that.
You clear your throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
James’s voice is low, a little rough. “I don’t know.”
You short-circuit. “I—what—you—you don’t know—?”
“Yeah.” He shifts closer—just enough for your knees to touch.
You swallow. Loudly. “Cute.”
“Mm.” His eyes drop to your lips like gravity dragged them there. “And distracting.”
Your heart is doing backflips. Your hands start sweating. You are ninety percent sure you’re about to ascend straight off the bed.
“James…” you whisper, though you’re not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation. He moves closer, slow enough to give you time to pull back. You don’t. You couldn’t even if you tried. His forehead almost touches yours, breath warming your skin. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer. You lean in. Never once in life were you expecting James to be your first kiss. Obviously in those little fantasies of yours, but never in real life.
His lips brush yours—barely, like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud—and your breath catches so hard your ribs ache. He tilts his head, closes the space, kisses you properly this time, soft but hungry, like he’s been holding this in for weeks.
He pulls back, breathless, eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name. Then suddenly he’s dragging you into his lap, steady hands guiding you, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear before pulling you in for another kiss. This one is hungrier—messy, frantic, almost starving.
A small moan slips out of you the second his tongue pushes into your mouth. He’s good—too good. And you were the complete opposite. Heat blooms low in your stomach, and you can feel him hardening beneath you, the realization sending a shiver through your whole body.
He chuckles against your lips, the vibration buzzing straight through you as his tongue keeps exploring your mouth.
“You like that?” he murmurs, fingers trailing up your thigh. You nod instantly, needy, like your body answered before your brain could catch up.
He leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs. You part your lips, but nothing comes out—you’re too wound up, too turned on from everything he’s already done.
“Tell me, baby.” The pet name makes your pussy clench around nothing.
“I—I don’t know,” you finally manage to whisper.
“You don’t know?” he repeats, eyebrow lifting in a teasing way. Embarrassment floods your cheeks as you shake your head and bring your hands up to hide your face.
“Hey,” he says softly, pulling your hands away. Your eyes meet, and he him unintentionally bitting his lower lips, his eyes now roaming all over your body.
Before you can even react, he’s kissing you again—deep, consuming, pulling you straight back into the heat of him.
“Do you know how to grind on me?” he asks when he pulls away again. You shake your head no.
“Here, let me guide you.”
His hands settle on your ass, gentle but sure, guiding your hips back and forth over his clothed cock as he pulls you back into the kiss. You both let out soft moans, the sound tangled between your mouths. It’s overwhelming, your fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another sound out of him.
“God, baby… you look so hot on top of me,” he whispers, his hands roaming over your ass again.
Before you know it, James’s hands slide down to the zipper of your jeans. He wants more—you can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his fingers hesitate there like he’s waiting for permission. You stop him, catching his hands before he can go any further.
He looks up at you immediately, eyes searching your face.
“Something wrong?” he asks softly, tilting his head just a little.
“I—I don’t want to go further than that,” you say, your voice small but steady. “Not right now.”
James searches your face like he’s trying to read every micro-expression you’ve ever had in your whole life.
“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” he asks quietly. You shake your head fast. “No, it’s not that. I just… don’t wanna do that right now.”
His shoulders loosen immediately. “Oh. Okay.” And the way he says it—soft, not offended, not disappointed—makes something warm twist in your chest.
He presses one last kiss to your forehead before sliding you gently off his lap. “I’m gonna go shower,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “then we’ll get ready for the party.”
When he disappears into the bathroom and the door clicks shut, the room feels too big. Too quiet. Too… loud inside your head. You flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again, because apparently that’s your hobby now. And, of course, your brain immediately starts being a menace.
Yeah, he used to do this with Amy. Plus, breakup wasn’t even that long ago. Maybe you’re just some transitional little detour while he untangles whatever is still left inside him.
You groan into a pillow. “Get it together,” you mumble at yourself. Your overthinking is doing parkour.
Then the bathroom door swings open—and your soul exits your body.
James steps out with a towel sitting dangerously low on his hips, droplets rolling down his chest like they were directed by a film crew. His torso? Toned. Defined. Absolutely from-the-cover-of-a-ski-lodge-soccer-player-romance-novel level sculpted.
His dyed dirty blonde hair is wet, dripping onto his shoulders, making him look unfairly good. You snap your gaze to the window like it personally offended you.
He grabs his bag and looks over at you. “You gonna get ready?” he asks casually, like he isn’t currently the hottest man alive standing half-naked five feet away.
“Uh—yeah. Yeah, I was just… thinking.” (About your sanity evaporating.)
You peel yourself off the bed and rummage through your bag, already annoyed at yourself because you did not pack for a fancy winter party. You pull out something normal, plain, safe—because of course you brought nothing special. James glances over with a soft smile. “Going casual?” You shrug. “I didn’t really bring, like… party clothes.”
His eyes drag over your outfit, then your face.
“You’ll look amazing,” he says simply.
The Ski Slopes Nation’s “big event” is already at full volume by the time you and James walk in. It’s loud. Like… loud-loud. Bass thumping through the floorboards, laughter coming from every corner, people yelling over each other like they’re competing for the Olympic gold medal in being obnoxious. James doesn’t even flinch. He’s been to a million of these. You on the other hand—feel like you just walked into a live-action TikTok POV.
James keeps a warm hand at the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd. “C’mon,” he says, leaning down so you can hear him, breath brushing your ear. “Gotta introduce you.”
His friends spot him immediately.
“AYYYY ZHAO YUFAN BOY!” A giant wasian guy—Martin—throws his arms up like James just scored a goal. He’s tall. Like… tree-level tall. The kind of tall that makes you physically tilt your head back to make eye contact. Next to him is Keonho—smaller, ridiculously handsome, annoyingly charming. Both of them stare at you for a beat, confused as hell.
James just grins. “Guys, this is Y/N.” Martin nods like he’s analyzing an alien species. “Ohhh… she’s the one.” Keonho elbows him. “Bro, don’t be weird.”
You want to evaporate. James squeezes your hand like he can tell. People around the room keep glancing. Whispering. Doing double-takes. James showing up with another girl this soon after Amy? Yeah. You can practically feel the gossip starting to ferment.
You clear your throat. “I’m, uh, gonna grab something to drink.” James nods, gentle. “I’ll be right here.” The second you leave, Martin leans in with that tall-guy nosiness. “Dude. She’s so different from Amy.”
James rolls his eyes. “Okay?”
“No, like… in a good way,” Martin says. “She’s calm. Doesn’t have that whole… I’m-influencing-the-room energy.”
Keonho smirks. “And you like her. It’s obvious.” James gives them a look but doesn’t deny it. Across the room, Amy is staring—hard. Snow-white expensive looking sweater that somehow makes her look like a judgmental snow angel. She watches James talk to his friends, then looks you up and down like you’re the clearance rack version of her.
You return with a drink—your first real drink ever—and try to pretend the room isn’t spinning from nerves. You take a sip. And another. And another. Warmth blooms in your chest, buzzing under your skin. James finds you instantly. “Hey.”
His brows pinch. “You good? You seem… off.”
You look at him. And your brain decides now is the perfect time to unhinge.
“You… used to have sex with Amy a lot, right?”
James chokes. Like, full cough-wheeze combo. “That’s what’s been bothering you?”
You shrug, trying to play it off. “It—doesn’t really matter. I mean… I know you’re with me right now, so that’s all that counts.”
James steps closer, hand cupping your jaw gently. “Y/N. She’s my past. You’re the one I’m choosing now. And every second with you feels… different. Better.”
Your chest squeezes so tight you forget how to swallow.
You look down at your shoes. “It’s just… I guess my first time with you would be your… I don’t know… however-many-th time with her.”
A breath leaves him—soft, understanding. “Hey. Look at me.”
“I’m not comparing you to her. I’m not thinking about her when I’m with you. I’m here, with you. And I like us. A lot.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.” And just like that, the tension melts a little.
The night blurs in the best way—laughter, games, James’s friends warming up to you, your drink going down way too easily. You’re not drunk, but definitely… pleasantly wobbly. James stays close the whole time, his arm brushing yours, hand grazing your lower back, fingers brushing your knuckles. Subtle, tiny things that keep your brain fried the entire night.
At one point Martin challenges James to some stupid game that involves taking shots and hitting a mini soccer ball into a trash can, and you swear the cabin shakes when everyone screams after he makes it. You’re laughing. Actually laughing. And your cheeks hurt in the happiest way.
Eventually, when you’re both a little tipsy and the cold outside feels way too sharp, James wraps an arm around your waist and walks you back to the room.
Inside, you both stand awkwardly over the giant bed again.
“Uh… I’ll sleep on that side,” you say, pointing to the edge like it’s a danger zone.
James nods. “Yeah. Sure.”
You settle under the covers, facing away, trying to breathe normally. James climbs in on the opposite end, careful, respectful, leaving a canyon of space between you. As you close your eyes, the coldness of your body was stopping you from falling asleep. After laying there for a few minutes, you finally resort to your last option.
“James?”
He replies immediately. “Yeah?”
“I’m cold.”
There’s a beat. A quiet little inhale. You could practically hear him breathing from the other side of the bed. Then the mattress dips as he moves closer, sliding an arm around your waist and gently pulling you back into him. Warm. Solid. Safe. You exhale without meaning to, your body relaxing instantly into his.
His breath brushes your neck. “Better?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
And just like that, wrapped in him, heartbeat syncing with his, you fall asleep.
The next night creeps in faster than you expect. The final night of the trip—the big skiing day. The sky’s already going dark-blue, that weird shade where you can’t tell if it’s late afternoon or 11 p.m., and the cold is sharp enough to pinch your nose.
James helps you zip up your jacket, his fingers brushing your neck, sending chills that have nothing to do with the weather.
“You ready?” he asks, all smug confidence.
“No,” you answer instantly.
He laughs. “You’ll be fine. I’ll teach you.”
Outside, the slopes glow under tall floodlights, making the snow sparkle like someone dumped glitter everywhere. Kids and pros and show-offs are zooming down the hill like Olympic qualifiers. You’re already planning your funeral.
James clips your boots in for you because he doesn’t trust you with anything involving gravity.
“Okay,” he says, stepping behind you, hands gripping your arms gently. “Lean forward a tiny bit. Just enough to not fall backwards.”
“Okay,” you say, immediately leaning like a malfunctioning tower.
He steadies you. “Not that much—unless you wanna eat snow.”
“I’m gonna eat snow regardless.”
“That’s fair.”
He teaches you slowly, patiently—how to stop, how to turn, how not to accidentally kill yourself. And you… kinda get the hang of it? Ish? You manage to go five whole meters without face-planting.
Every time you wobble, he’s right there catching you by the waist. Every time you mess up, he laughs—not mean, but soft, fond, like he likes seeing you try. Eventually, you’re actually skiing—well, sliding down at the speed of an elderly turtle, but still.
James skis backwards in front of you, because of course he can. His eyes are warm, cheeks flushed red from the cold.
“You’re doing good!” he calls out.
“You’re lying to be nice!”
“I am,” he admits.
You finally stop at the bottom and nearly fall, but he lunges forward, catching you. Your helmet bumps into his chest.
“Hey,” he breathes, smiling down at you. “See? You didn’t die.”
“Yet,” you mutter.
After a while, you both sit in the snow, helmets off, catching your breath. Snow somehow gets down the back of your jacket and into your gloves and probably your soul.
You shriek. “OH MY GOD IT’S IN MY SHIRT—” James bursts out laughing. “You good?”
You do the most logical thing: grab a handful of snow and yeet it at his face.
He freezes. Then smirks. “Oh, it’s on.”
Next thing you know, you’re in a full snowball war—screaming, laughing, slipping everywhere, James chasing you around trees with perfect aim while you miss every single throw like you’re allergic to accuracy.
By the time you both stumble back toward the lodge, you’re breathless and soaked and ridiculously happy. Right outside the hallway to your room, James bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey, uh… go ahead to the room. I need to tell Martin something real quick.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He kisses your cheek—quick, warm—before turning away.
You head inside. You shower, change, check your phone, sit on the bed, go through photos, scroll TikTok, stare at the ceiling, contemplate the meaning of life…
Forty-five minutes pass.
The door finally opens. James steps in, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s tired. “Sorry. Martin was being annoying.”
You smile. “It’s okay. I had fun these two days. Thank you for convincing me to come.”
His eyes soften. “I’m glad you did.”
—
The next morning is chaotic—bags everywhere, people rushing, doors slamming, winter air biting at your face. James looks exhausted, barely awake, stuffing clothes into his duffel like a zombie.
His other friend is waiting for him outside, yelling for him to hurry.
You zip your jacket and head into the hallway. Martin’s there, tying his boots.
“Hey, Martin?”
He looks up. “Hm?”
“What did you and James talk about last night?”
He blinks. “Last night? …We didn’t talk.”
Your stomach drops. “He didn’t see you?”
“No? I didn’t see him at all.”
Oh. Oh great. Fanfuckingtastic. A cold wave rolls through your chest harder than the mountain wind.
When you climb into the passenger seat of James’s car, he’s quiet—clearly tired. He yawns as he turns the engine on. The drive is silent for a long time. Like… too long.
Finally, he speaks. “Are you going to the match today?”
“No.”
He glances at you, confused. “Why not?”
You keep your eyes on the window. “Because I know you didn’t go see Martin.”
The air tightens.
“So who was it?” you ask. James doesn’t answer. Your heart beats loud enough to hurt. The coach starts calling him the second you guys pull into the parking lot.
“Look—” he starts, voice low, strained, “I can explain.”
The coach yells again. “FIVE MINUTES, JAMES!”
Your throat burns. “Am I just your second best?”
He winces—like the words physically hit him.
The coach yells again, sharper this time: “Last warning!”
James steps out of the car, but turns back, gripping the door.
“Please,” he says, eyes desperate. “Just come to the game. I promise I’ll explain everything after. Please.”
And then he’s gone, jogging off toward the field, leaving you sitting in the quiet car, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out.
—
The school library is quiet in that specific after-school way — soft humming lights, the vague smell of old pages, one kid coughing somewhere like he’s auditioning for a Victorian death scene. You’re still not sure about meeting up with James after his games. It has been a hell of a week,
You’ve been curled up in a corner armchair for about an hour or two with some random book you grabbed just to distract your brain from… everything. It’s working, sorta.
Until you flip the page and land on a quote that hits you like a truck:
“If someone chooses silence when they owe you honesty, let them go.
But if your heart aches louder than your pride…
you’ll find your way back anyway.”
You stare at it like it personally slapped you across the face. Why does everywhere you go have to remind you of James. And then you glance at the clock.
You are one hour late to the end James’s game.
Like — not fifteen minutes, not “oops my bad,”
but a FULL sixty minutes late.
“Shit.”
You jump up so fast the librarian gives you a death glare that could shatter glass.
You shove the book back on the shelf sideways (crime) and practically sprint out. It’s pouring outside — full dramatic movie thunderstorm pouring. The kind that soaks your socks instantly.
You take out your sad little umbrella and start the walk home, hugging your jacket to your chest like that’ll protect you from your own thoughts. But when you reach the edge of the outdoor courts—the ones the team cuts across after games—you pause,
Because there’s someone standing there. Alone. Soaked. Head down. Kicking at the gravel like he’s fighting ghosts. James.
He’s drenched top to bottom, rainwater mixed with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to him. And he’s… waiting. Still. Just standing there like he refuses to leave until something changes. Your chest does something stupid and painful, a mixture of guilt and anger.
You walk up quietly, stepping behind him, lifting the umbrella up on your toes so it covers the both of you. One tiny circle of dryness in a whole world of rain.
He tenses first—then turns slowly. The moment he sees you, his expression crumples in this soft, relieved way that knocks the breath right out of you.
“…You came,” he says, voice low, almost disbelieving.
You swallow. “Yeah. I— I was late. And then it started raining, so I was just walking home but…”
Your eyes flick to him.
“But you’re still here.”
You lower the umbrella slightly so you can see his face better. Drops of rain slide down his cheek, and he looks exhausted — not physically, but in that “I’ve been stressing about losing you for hours” kind of way.
“What made you come?” he asks quietly. You shrug, breath fogging the air. “I… read something. And it made me realize I wasn’t done. With us.”
His jaw clenches, and he looks away for a second like he’s overwhelmed.
You take a small step closer. “Who were you with, James?”
He lets out a breath that’s practically a sigh of defeat. “Amy.”
Your stomach sinks — until he lifts his head, eyes sharp, honest.
“But not for what you think.”
You don’t say anything. You just hold the umbrella and wait.
“I went to tell her to stop,” he says. “To stop showing up everywhere. To stop spreading shit about you. About us. To stop acting like I owe her something.”
His voice strengthens, anger threading through it.
“I told her if she messed with you one more time, I’d—” He stops, shaking his head. “—I’d actually lose it. I didn’t want things to blow up in front of you, so I waited until later. That’s it. That’s all it was.”
Your eyes sting. And your voice comes out smaller than you want.
“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He steps closer, rain dripping off his jaw. “Because when you asked, you already looked like I’d punched a hole in your chest. And then the coach was yelling at me, and I panicked.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”
The rain softens around you, or maybe you just stop noticing it.
You whisper, “I thought you were… choosing her again.”
His face twists — hurt, like the idea physically wounds him.
“Y/N.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist gently, like he’s asking permission.
“You were never my second best.” Your throat closes up.
“And I waited,” he adds. “For an hour. In the rain. Just in case there was even a 1% chance you’d show up.” You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “That’s really dumb of you.”
He smiles, soft and crooked. “Yeah. But I’m yours, so… it tracks.”
You look at him—really look—soaked, shivering, but eyes warm like he never doubted you’d return.
You step forward and tuck yourself against him, arms looping around his waist. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole day and pulls you in, umbrella tilting awkwardly over both your heads.
His chest is warm even though his clothes are freezing. His chin rests on your hair. His heartbeat is steady and loud.
“Hey,” he murmurs into your ear.
“What?”
“Thanks for coming back.”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Don’t make me chase you through a storm again,” you mumble.
He chuckles, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then don’t leave me behind.”
You shrug playfully. “No promises.”
He leans down, forehead touching yours, breaths mixing in the cold air.
Warm and close and full of everything you’ve been too scared to say.
“Let me walk you home,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go home.”
He takes the umbrella from you, threads his fingers through yours, and the two of you walk out of the storm together — matching steps, matching heartbeats — leaving every misunderstanding behind on the wet pavement.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
You don’t feel like you’re someone’s temporary choice. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. With him.
MDNI!!! i mean your choice but i’d rather if you are 18+
after work he wanted to relieve some stress with you
missyangkim’s note- hope you like it also partly for my bae @yourtesoro ALSO HE DEFO DIRTY TALKS DEPENDING ON HIS MOOD -if you have an issue with this post please dni!
해설 y/n has reached an inexcusable amount of fame. when chosen for a cameo in a cortis music video, she finds one member catches her eye more than the others, and the internet notices.
warnings fluff, tension, use of y/n
for some reason, before meeting cortis, you imagined the members would be reserved and overly polished the way idols usually seemed in interviews.
you were very wrong.
the second you walked onto set, martin nearly knocked over a lamp trying to bow to you too fast.
keonho immediately started apologizing for him while laughing.
“this is so embarrassing,” somebody muttered.
“you’re literally making it worse,” martin shot back.
you liked them almost instantly. the entire group was very polite and kind, but one member caught your eye. james.
he stood slightly behind the others at first, hoodie sleeves pushed over his hands while everyone else talked over each other.
he smiled when you introduced yourself.
“nice to finally meet you,” he said casually.
like you were just another person walking onto set instead of someone whose face had been on billboards for the last year.
that was the first thing you noticed about him. he didn’t act impressed. throughout the first day of filming, you mostly stayed around the whole group.
between takes everybody crowded around the monitors together arguing over scenes and making fun of each other’s expressions on camera.
you learned quickly that the five of them never shut up.
at one point seong and keonho started debating whether one of them looked taller in a specific shot. they kept dragging you into the argument like it was life or death.
“be honest,” keonho said dramatically, pointing at the screen. “does he look taller than me there?”
“absolutely not,” you answered immediately.
the room exploded.
“THANK YOU.”
“she’s lying.”
“you’re insecure.”
“move.”
in the middle of all the yelling, you looked over and caught james laughing quietly to himself near the back of the room.
when he noticed you looking, he grinned slightly.
that was the second thing you noticed about him.
he paid attention to everything.
after that, little things started standing out.
like how he naturally moved aside so staff could get through crowded spaces first, how he always noticed when you looked cold between takes and silently handed you hand warmers without making a thing out of it, or how he looked directly at whoever was talking even in chaotic conversations, like he actually cared about listening.
the mv itself only made things worse. the concept was supposed to be dark and cinematic, which meant your scenes with james ended up being the most tension heavy.
the first time the director asked james to pull you closer during a scene, he did it easily and naturally, with one hand settling lightly against your waist that you could tell was a little shaky.
“perfect,” the director called out immediately. “that’s exactly what i wanted.” the members behind the monitors started yelling instantly.
“holy shit!”
you laughed, stepping away once the cameras cut, but when you glanced over at james he was already rubbing the back of his neck with a small smile. after that, everyone started noticing. especially the members.
noticing how you somehow always ended up beside james during breaks even when the whole group was around. how james started looking at you first whenever something funny happened on set. how you asked him questions more than the others without realizing it.
one night during filming, the five of them and you were crowded around a tiny table eating takeout while staff reset equipment.
you sat down beside whoever had left an empty chair open.
james.
martin immediately smiled and put down his fork.
“crazy coincidence.”
james threw a balled-up napkin at him instantly.
“shut up.”
by this point, the entire group was amused.
“i didn’t even say anything.”
“you were about to.”
“because you’re acting weird.”
“i am not.”
you looked down at your food to hide your smile while the group started losing their minds around him.
james just shook his head, muttering something under his breath while everyone laughed at him. that was probably the moment you realized the attention between you wasn’t one-sided.
then came the hotel.
filming wrapped late and everybody was exhausted. managers wanted everyone leaving separately because the teaser photos had already started going viral online.
you were halfway through the lobby with the group when security suddenly sped up. camera flashes exploded through the glass doors outside.
“seriously?” keonho groaned.
everything became loud fast. security talking over each other., staff rushing people toward exits, cameras already pointed directly at the doors. you hated paparazzi, you always had.
james cursed quietly under his breath while martin tried joking to lighten the mood, but the second the doors opened the yelling started instantly.
without really thinking, you moved closer toward whoever was nearest to you, which of course, was james, who glanced over immediately.
“y/n, you okay?” he asked.
you nodded and looked down, pulling your sunglasses down over your eyes as you walked out of the hotel. his expression shifted slightly, his hand pressed lightly against your back while guiding you through the crowd toward the suv waiting outside.
the cameras went insane. your hand gripping james’ sleeve for balance while security rushed everyone forward.
“oh my god,” martin muttered under his breath behind you.
“not now,” james shot back instantly.
the second you all got into the car, martin shot his eyes toward james. “they’re gonna think you guys are dating.”
“oh lord.” you covered your face with both of your hands, slumping forward and sighing.
“we didn’t even do anything,” james shot back.
“you two were literally glued together.”
by morning, the whole universe would think you’re dating james.
content warning — smut, p without plot, short fic, small age gap, f!reader, unexperienced n horny james, yearning james.
rutting his hips against you, you couldn't help but smile at the scene developed in front of you; james looked so sensitive when he was dry humping you. you could see it in his face how the only thought he was having was about kissing you and cumming on your panties.
the friction between your pussy and his dick would always be his favorite thing; he was a whimpering mess when he heard your wet panties squelching- or he was just going crazy with no intention of sanity coming back.
his soft moans were filling your eardrums and your senses to the point that you were genuinely just as excited as he was. you could feel your clit ache when his leaking tip rubbed against it.
"noona," he cried out, sucking on your nipples as you caressed his hair. "i love you so much" he muffled, noticing how your cunt throbbed with those few words.
"i know baby," you said, kissing his temple and his lips in a comforting way. "i love you too."
he moaned against your neck, fingers playing with your nipple as he tried to - and failed - not to cum on his pants. he looked up at you, a pout on his pretty lips as he frowned, upset with how sensitive he was when it comes to you.
"can we do it again?" and how could you not say yes to him?
Juhoon isn’t very familiar with aftercare. He’ll tell you how good you were for him and give you a nice cuddle session, but most times he won’t think about really cleaning up or having a praise session unless his partner asks. He’s shy about the topic, since showing affection isn’t exactly easy for him. He’s always been more kept to himself before getting into a relationship and is still learning how showing affection consistently can be important for the relationship to last. He does his best, especially when it comes to romance.
B = Body part [their favorite body part of theirs and their partner's]
His favorite body part of his own are his lips. They’re used for lots of things. Kissing, eating his lover out, speaking, etc. He likes when people comment on them even if he acts like he doesn’t, he knows they’re pretty and he knows how much you love them.
His favorite body part of his lover’s is their neck. He LOVES to mark, and he’ll always make it known that you belong to him and him only. Biting, leaving hickeys, doodling with markers, anything. He absolutely loves your neck. It doesn’t even have to be marking, just reaching up to hold your neck in his hand to feel your pulse while you ride him makes him absolutely lose his mind.
C = Cum [anything to do with cum]
Juhoon doesn’t really know what to do with cum, he’s never thought about it. He thinks about it as just another bodily fluid. He doesn’t necessarily like to cum inside, he prefers to pull out and cum on his partner’s ass/stomach. He’ll occasionally lick it off if he’s feeling freaky enough but other than that he has no idea what to do with it.
He doesn’t cum very much, he shoots cute little ropes while his legs tremble and his eyes roll into the back of his head. His cum couldn’t fill a shot glass in one load, that’s how little he cums. But it’s still cute to watch him cum all over his little tummy.
D = Dirty secret [pretty self explanatory]
He absolutely adores sucking on his lover’s nipples. He can’t help himself, he just gets so desperate and needy to suck on something because of his oral fixation. He’ll only bite if he’s feeling bratty, but never hard enough to hurt.
E = Experience [how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?]
In Juhoon’s head, watching enough porn means experience, but that’s not at all true. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, he goes off instinct or what his partner asks for. He follows commands, and he doesn’t do anything he’s not told to. Sex to him is purely about what his partner wants or needs, never about him since he never really craves sex in the way other people do.
F = Favorite position [this goes without saying]
Juhoon loves cowgirl, mostly because he can see every part of his lover on top of him and he likes the view. He always lays there and drools like a feral dog at the sight, unable to control his lips falling agape and saliva pouring out of the corner. His hands always rest right on your hips like they belong there and his eyes always rake over you with each movement, his eyes never leave your figure. He does like other positions like missionary or sideways occasionally, but it always leads back to doggy eventually because that’s the position he feels the most comfortable in.
G = Goofy [are they more serious in the moment? are they silly?]
Juhoon is 100% serious in the moment, never cracking a joke unless prompted. He’s too focused on making his partner feel good to make a joke, too focused on trying to do everything right. Occasionally, while teasing, he’ll crack a stupid joke just to hear your giggle that he loves so much. Outside of that, he’s always serious because he doesn’t wanna ruin the mood or vibe for his partner in any way shape or form.
H = Hair [how well groomed are they?]
Juhoon usually keeps himself well trimmed, not necessarily clean shaven but smooth enough that he won’t get irritated when it rubs on fabric. It’s like when a guy has stubble on his face, he has stubble on his pelvis. He gets frustrated with the feeling whenever it gets too long, so he shaves every so often just so it won’t overstimulate him during concerts or even just walking through the house. However, body hair doesn’t really bug him as a whole, down there just seems to be a bit of a sensitive area.
J = Jerk off [masturbation headcannon]
Juhoon jerks off, but not for pleasure. He does it when he’s trying to practice his rhythm and angles, fucking into his fist and desperately trying to hit that angle that you so desperately beg for. He gets frustrated sometimes and ends up calling you just to hear your voice while he does it as if that’ll help him get more experienced with his hips. It’s cute to listen to him grunt and whine while he’s desperately fucking into his hand while imagining you’re under him.
K = Kink [one or more of their kinks]
Juhoon has a few kinks.
Hair pulling. He loves when you grab his hair and tug it just hard enough to pull his head back, it makes his cock throb so fucking hard. He doesn’t know why, but the subtle sting turns him on quicker than getting flashed. He also enjoys you just gripping at his hair from the sheer amount of pleasure flushing through both of you, the need to find purchase on something to control yourself. The idea of you holding yourself back makes him really hard.
Crying. Juhoon is an absolute dacryphiliac. He loves to see tears streaming down his partner’s face while he’s teasing them, and loves to hear the sweet sobs that escape their lips. It's one of the main things that turns him on during sex—knowing he’s good enough in bed to make his partner cry from the amount of pleasure.
L = Location [favorite place to do it]
Any place where he can sit down and lean back against something, he’ll do it. He doesn’t care where. As long as you’re riding him and you both feel good, it doesn’t matter to him. If his partner has a preference, he’ll stick to that preference to make them happy.
M = Motivation [what turns them on?]
Whispering turns Juhoon on like no fucking other. He loves when you sit on his lap and lean in to whisper in his ear or whisper as you’re walking past. It doesn’t have to be sexy, it could just be affirmation and he’ll be hard as a rock in his jeans needing to run to the restroom before a music bank. Ear biting/licking too, it makes him unimaginably horny. Whenever you bite on his ears while you’re making love, a shiver runs down his spine and he lets out the cutest whimper ever.
N = No [turn offs]
Juhoon does not like being physically overpowered, it makes him feel trapped and he absolutely despises that feeling. He won’t get into anything that has to do with him being tied up, pinned down or physically restrained in any way. It scares him knowing he couldn’t get out in case of emergency.
O = Oral [preferences]
Juhoon doesn’t really care for head, it’s not his favorite thing in the world. He’ll occasionally ask for a quick blowjob or for you to just lay back and let him eat you, but outside of that he never really has a preference. Giving or receiving, he’s just happy that his partner is happy.
P = Pace [are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?]
Juhoon always starts off slow, grinding his cock in and out of you just to make sure you feel every inch and vein on his cock. He loves to make you whine for it, he thinks you look so beautiful whenever you do. He keeps a slow, steady rhythm until he can’t handle it anymore and picks up his pace. He slams up into you faster and faster, chasing his release while his hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise.
Q = Quickie [their opinions on quickies]
Juhoon doesn’t like quickies. Cumming too fast makes him lightheaded, usually causing him to panic a bit—not that his nonchalant ass will show it. It’s a really big turn off for him, if he’s that needy he’ll ask for head. He also doesn’t like having sex if he doesn’t have time to appreciate his partner’s beauty because to him that’s important to help him get off.
R = Risk [are they game to experiment? do they take risks?]
Juhoon prefers to keep a sexual routine, he doesn’t like going outside his comfort zone when it comes to sex. It can be a sensitive topic for him. He’s bold, always voices opinions. But when something sounds too dangerous or uncomfortable for him in bed, he backs out and makes a strong point that it won’t happen.
S = Stamina [how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?]
Juhoon does NOT last long at ALL. He can last maybe two. MAYBE. He’s all talk, teasing until you’re both vibrating with need, whispering in your ear while you ride him. But the moment he’s blown a load, he’s tapped. He can’t usually handle cumming more than once because he doesn’t like to have sex often, so his stamina isn’t very high. He admires high stamina, and encourages you to keep riding him even if he does end up falling asleep.
T = Toys [do they own toys? do they use them?]
Juhoon doesn’t like to use toys because he feels it’s unfaithful. In his opinion, fucking a toy is the same as cheating. He’s absolutely loyal to your hole and it’ll never change. Why use plastic when he has a perfect partner to please him? It just sounds absurd in his head. He can’t help but wanna glare at the silicone every time you two go into Spencer’s for graphic tees, just to let you know how truly loyal he is.
U = Unfair [how much they like to tease]
Juhoon LOVES teasing. He’s horribly unfair. His favorite thing is to lay you back on the bed and lick from your ankles to your jaw, then trail his fingers down the middle of your body. He’ll nip at his favorite spots, ghost his breath where he knows will make you shiver the most, brush his lips just over your hole then pull away. He’s cruel when it comes to teasing, and he’ll smirk down at you if you whine about it then cup your face.
“What’s wrong, doll? You can’t handle it?”
He’ll whisper, dragging his fingers over your stomach and to your little hole. He can’t help himself, you just look so adorable when you squirm and beg for it.
V = Volume [how loud they are, what sounds they make]
Juhoon isn’t very loud, but he does whimper. He’ll whine and occasionally ask you to do the work, but he always whispers how much he loves you and how happy he is to have you. He keeps himself relatively quiet, wanting to preserve every silent moment for your inevitable moans.
W = Wild card [a random headcannon for the character]
Juhoon loves back hugs. Whether giving or receiving, it’s something that makes him extremely happy. He doesn’t know why—nor does anyone really—it’s just something that’s always comforted him with partners, friends, and family.
X = X-Ray [let's see what's going on under those clothes]
Juhoon isn’t very long—average at best—around 5 inches but boy is he GIRTHY. He’s thick as hell and can stretch you wider than a dildo ever could, that’s why his cock is so addictive. It takes a lot of prep to get in, and he loves to grind his girth up against your hole just to make you shiver. The way you arch for him makes his cock throb.
Y = Yearning [how high is their sex drive?]
Not very high. Juhoon prefers to let sex happen naturally rather than ask for it or think about it too much. He prefers romance over sex. Little things make him happier than consistent sexual activity, mostly because he isn’t used to being seen the way he needs to be. He only ever gets really needy when he’s away for concerts and can’t watch you sit on his cock at least once over the two weeks or however long he’s gone.
Z = Zzz [how quickly they fall asleep afterwards]
Juhoon is quick to fall asleep, always knocking out after whispering praise in your ear about how good you did and how pretty you looked. Right before he falls asleep, he whispers up at you.
