I’m extremely shy but I wanted to make a request. The POV either Quincy jones daughter or Michael’s manager’s daughter or maybe bill’s daughter who is secretly falling for Michael behind their dad’s back, and they are enjoying the private love life sneaking around but eventually it becoming taxing being each others secret,they get caught and their dad doesn’t let her see Michael anymore and eventually it ends with the dad being okay with it and Michael asking to marry Y/N Smug, angst, fluff, etc. I just wanted to say I really enjoy your writing, you are extremely talented and detailed. 🥹🤍🫶🏻
pipe dream
Authors Note: hey @cass0419 ty so much for your request, I hope you are happy with it :* it took me a lil while to find a groove with this one, as i didn't know if writing it as a oneshot would do it justice. hopefully it makes sense!
Pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem!reader
Summary: Michael Jackson is breaking records and your father is managing every moment of it — and neither of you can tell him that the thing Michael wants most right now has nothing to do with music. Tags: 18+, Bad era! Michael, smut, public sex, forbidden relationship
Word Count: 4364
if anyone else would like to make a request, please do so :) Literally anythiing, i am down for literally whatever. the dirtiest you got - throw it my way! (within reason oop)
The fluorescent buzz of the Epic Records office was the soundtrack to your double life. To the other interns, you were Frank DiLeo’s shy, quiet daughter, getting a foot in the door thanks to nepotism but eager to prove you belonged.
To the security guards, you were a polite ghost who stayed late filing press clippings for the Bad campaign. To Michael, you were the secret he kept closest to his heart, the only thing in his whirlwind existence that felt truly, completely his.
You’d been together for six months. It started in this very building, a collision of loneliness and understanding.
He’d been stressed about lack of promotion, you’d brought him a tea he didn’t order, and the way he’d looked at you; not through you like every other famous who graced the hallow halls, but truly at you. It had made the hairs on your neck stand on edge.
Since then, it was a map of stolen moments: his hand brushing yours under a conference table, whilst you took notes for your father, a shared smile across a crowded listening party, the dizzying, illicit thrill of a kiss in the back of his Rolls Royce, the tinted windows protecting you from prying eyes.
You lived for the moments the world fell away and it was just you and him, Michael, not the icon, but the man, who was vulnerable, funny, intense, quirky and yours for those moments.
Today, the tension was palpable even through the walls. Michael was in the main conference room with your father and the other Epic brass, reviewing promotional materials for the upcoming tour.
You could hear the low, agitated rumble of your dad’s voice, a stark contrast to his usually happy self.. He wasn’t happy. Michael had discussed it with you prior, that the “Bad” image was being pushed too hard, too angry, not enough of the ‘magic’ he wanted to convey.
You kept your head down at your cubicle, organizing fan mail that had been sent to the office, feeling the friction crackle in the air.
The meeting bled past five o’clock. One by one, the other employees packed up, calling out goodbyes. Only a few stragglers remained: Eleanor from accounting, who was always late, and Ben, another intern, who was pretending to work hard on a timesheet for a one time stylist Michael used for an award show.
The conference room door finally burst open. Your father emerged first, his face a storm cloud, followed by two other men in suits who looked like they’d been through a war. Then came Michael and his bodyguard Bill.
He looked exhausted, beautiful in his frustration. He wore a black and white leather jacket over a simple white t-shirt, black pants, and his hair a perfect cascade of curls. His eyes scanned the bullpen and landed on you with a force that felt physical. Without breaking stride, he walked right past your father, past the lingering executives, and stopped at the entrance to your cubicle.
Cynthia’s typing halted. Ben subtly turned his chair.
“Hey,” Michael said, his voice carrying that unique, breathy cadence, but layered with a new, deliberate authority. He didn’t smile. He looked at you with an intensity that made your stomach swoop. “I need your assistance. Right now.” You could sense the sarcastic tone.
Your father paused near the elevator, turning back with a frown. “Michael, we’re not done, we will need to go to meet with the lawyers. The car’s downstairs.”
“This is pressing Frank,” Michael said, not taking his eyes off you. “It’s about the charity we have paired up with for the stadium tour. It’s urgent.” You assumed he was glaring to ensure you’d follow along with any story he come up with.
Michal spun around to acknowledge your father and Bill who were standing, clearly waiting on him. “You go on my behalf, Bill. You know my stance on things, and then we can reconvene at some point mid morning tomorrow to discuss.”
He swiveled back around on his feet, not even waiting for their reactions. Your dad waved his hand dismissively, clearly in a fit of rage that Michael would not join him.
It was a flimsy, ridiculous excuse. You knew it. His eyes narrowed, darting between you and Michael. But Michael’s demeanor brooked no argument; it was the same tone he’d just used to shut down a million-dollar marketing plan. He’d been pitched a press junket where he’d have to answer the same 6 stupid questions about his chimp ‘bubbles’, and the whole hyperbaric chamber he supposedly slept in and whether or not he was dating certain starlets in the media.
Michael wanted to be mysterious, but as much as this continued, the rumours continued to swirl. He knew he needed better promotion for the tour, as Bad had not climbed to the extravagant sales Thriller had.
“Fine. Good evening, then” Frank grumbled, stabbing the elevator button. Bill gave you both a nod and followed Frank to the elevator.
The moment the elevator doors closed, the atmosphere shifted. Michael’s intense expression didn’t soften. He simply crooked a finger that said ‘Come with me, now.’
You stood on trembling legs, aware of Cynthia and Ben’s burning curiosity. You followed him out of the bullpen, not towards the executive suites, but down the quieter, narrower hallway that led to the storage and supply rooms. The moment you rounded the corner, out of sight, his hand shot out and clasped yours. His grip wasn’t romantic; it was possessive, urgent. He didn’t walk; he pulled you, your feet stumbling to keep up, until he reached an unmarked door marked ‘Utilities.’
He shoved it open, yanked you inside, and locked the door behind you with a decisive click.
The closet was larger than you expected, but cramped with shelves of paper, boxes of toner, and cleaning supplies. A single, bare bulb cast harsh shadows. He turned to you, his back against the door, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The professional frustration was gone, replaced by something wilder, more primal.
“You,” he breathed, his voice airy and light. It felt like both an accusation and a prayer. “All through that meeting, all I could think about was you sitting out there, in your sultry little office garm. It’s all I ever think about when I am here.”
Before you could reply, his hands were on your face, tilting it up, and his mouth was hot on yours. It was a hungry, devout, and devouring kiss, a direct transfer of all the pent-up creative tension and public pressure into raw, physical need. A soft moan was swallowed from your lips.
His leather jacket was making a lot of noise in the quiet space, as he pressed you back against a shelf, the metal digging into your shoulder blades.
His hands slid down, bunching the fabric of your sensible work skirt, hiking it up around your waist. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your tights and panties, dragging them down your thighs in one, impatient motion. The cool air of the closet kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps.
“Michael,” you gasped, breaking the kiss. “The door… someone could…”
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice dark with want. He fumbled with his own belt, the jangle of the buckle obscenely loud. “I just need you right now.”
You melted at the tone in which he delivered that to you, already feeling yourself slick due to the whole encounter. It felt naughty to be doing this in such a… weird spot. Michael was usually a romantic, only wanting to be with you intimately in soft places; wanting to make you feel extremely comfortable. He’d ask a billion questions about his angle, and what you liked and what you wanted. This was another side, a frustrated side of him you’d never seen. But one you liked nonetheless.
He freed himself, hard and eager, and lifted you effortlessly, your back scraping against the shelves as he settled you where he needed you. There was no gentle preamble. He pushed inside you in one deep, claiming stroke, burying himself to the hilt. A sharp cry was torn from your throat at the sensation of being filled like that. He was bigger than most, and I think the passion in him made him forget that.
He covered your mouth with his hand, to silence you completely. His eyes, inches from yours, were black, swirling pools of intimacy. “Shhh, baby… We gotta be quiet… but not too quiet. I do wanna hear you sing.”
He began to move, a hard, relentless rhythm that shook the shelves. A stack of binders wobbled precariously. Every thrust was a punctuation to his earlier frustration, a reclamation of control. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. You were going to get caught. The thought sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through you, the nerves in your abdomen involuntarily clenching.
“We… we’re going to get caught doing this,” you whispered, the words a choppy breath against his jaw.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound. Unnh. “I know.” He drove into you harder, his hips snapping. “That’s what makes it so good, so different. That’s what makes it real.” He took your hand and pressed it flat against the cold metal of the door. “They’re right out there. Your dad is downstairs. And you’re in here… coming undone for me.”
The vulgarity, the danger, the sheer illicit reality of it pushed you over the edge. You came with a muffled shout into his shoulder, your body convulsing around him, your fingers clawing at the leather of his jacket. The intensity of it, the fear and the pleasure fused, was blinding. After the past 6 months, Michael had learned what could make you cum in a really short amount of time. He was a quick and dedicated learner; always looking to impress. Even when his brow was furrowed, thinking about the rhythm of his thrusts, his eyes were searching for context clues from your face. What you liked; what made you tick over sooner.
He never let himself teeter over the edge until he knew you had been satisfied wholeheartedly; it was a perfectionist at work.
Despite the muffling of the noise around you during the comedown from your climax, you could hear him, still going ‘yes, yes – yes, I am going to come– I want to–inside but I can’t–” His large, warm hand was on the back of your head, cradling you from not hitting the upper shelf, as he rocked himself into your body.
Your climax triggered his. He stiffened, his whole body bowing into you and then he quickly let you down and pulled out, and with a broken, breathy escaping his lips, his release came hot and endless over your bare bottom half. He slumped against you, his forehead damp against yours, both of you panting in the dusty, chemical-scented air.
For a long minute, you just stayed like that; both of you. Taking in what just happened – neither of you quite understanding how you both got there.
Slowly, he started sweetly fixing your hair, and then peppering kisses all over ryour face.
Your legs were so weak, you had to grasp his arms to stand. He gently pulled your clothes back into place, and cleaned you up with a handkerchief he pulled from his leather jacket pocket, his fingers surprisingly tender now. He tucked himself away, fastened his belt, and smoothed his hair.
He cleared his throat with a joyful awkwardness. There was sweat at his hairline, he looked a bit wrecked, but still intensely handsome.
Then he looked at you, his eyes soft but burning with a new intent. He cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your flushed skin. “That,” he said, his voice back to its normal, whispery softness, but laced with steel, “was part one.”
Your brain, still swimming in endorphins, fuzzed. “Part… one?”
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. “Part two is in my bedhome. I’m going to take my time making you feel good.I’m going to make sure that we go about things nice and slow. I want to savor you before I have to start going to back to back rehearsals for this tour” He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. “We have to leave. Now.”
“The service exit,” you breathed. “The cameras…”
“Come on, no one will be looking at ‘em”
He led you out of the closet, back into the empty hallway. You moved quickly and silently, slipping past the darkened bullpen, down a flight of concrete stairs, and into the back loading area.
The cool night air hit your face. His black Rolls-Royce was there, idling quietly, his driver a silent silhouette inside.
Just as Michael opened the car door for you, the world exploded in white light.
POP-POP-POP-POP!
A van you hadn’t seen screeched around the corner. Three men with cameras leapt out, lenses like cannons aimed directly at you. The blinding flashes froze you in place; Michael, holding the car door open, you, halfway in, your work clothes disheveled, your face a mask of stunned guilt.
“Michael! Over here!”
“Who’s the girl, Michael?”
“Is that your new assistant?”
“Looks like Frank DiLeo’s daughter! You're hiring family now, Mike?”
Michael’s face hardened into a mask of icy calm. He didn’t shield you this time. Instead, he placed a firm, protective hand on the small of your back and guided you fully into the car, sliding in beside you. “Go,” he said to the driver, his voice flat. The car pulled away, leaving the shouting and the flashes behind in the darkness. You sat in the plush silence, trembling, the scent of him and the supply closet still on your skin, the ghost of the flashes imprinted on your eyes. He took your hand, squeezing it tightly, but didn’t speak. You knew it would be front page news the next morning.
⋆˙⟡
The storm broke in your father’s home office at around 11am. The tabloid was on his desk, the photo clear as day: you and Michael, caught in the intimate act of him helping you into his car, your faces close, the context damning. The headline screamed: BAD ROMANCE? MICHAEL’S CLOSE AID FROM MANAGER’S DAUGHTER.
Your Dad ordered you to stay in your room – after the ordeal last night, Michael thought it best you be at home for when the stories broke. He wanted to come over and speak to your dad, ‘like man to man’, he said ‘no more hiding. You deserve more’
You heard the phone calls, the slammed doors. Then, the summons. Michael arrived at your Hollywood home, not as a guest, but like a defendant.
You crept to the top of the stairs, listening, your heart a trapped bird beating against your ribs.
“What in the ever-loving hell were you thinking?” your father’s roar shook the ceiling. “My daughter, Michael? My daughter? Were you even thinking at all, or just thinking with your—”
“Don’t,” Michael’s voice cut in, quiet and light but sharper than a blade. “Don’t finish that sentence, Frank. Don’t you dare cheapen what this is.”
“What it is? It’s a headline! It’s a scandal! It’s you using a naive girl who works for you, for me, because she’s convenient and she looks at you with stars in her eyes! And when you’re done, you’ll discard her and I’ll be left picking up the pieces… pieces of my child, you insolent boy!”
There was the sound of a chair scraping back violently.
“You think that’s what this is?” Michael’s voice was rising now, trembling with a passion you’d never heard in any recording.
“You think I’m using her? Frank, look at me. Look at me! Have I ever, in all the years you’ve known me, brought anyone into my space like this? You have no idea what goes on behind closed doors, but the fact that most nights I allow her to share my bed, be with my family. How could you wrongly assume that I could be using her?”
“It’s an infatuation! It’s the thrill of the secret!”
“It’s love!” Michael shouted, the word echoing in the high-ceilinged room. A stunned silence followed.
“I’m in love with your daughter.” He said quietly now, with even more conviction. “I have been for months. She’s the only real, true thing in this entire insane circus of my life. She sees me, Frank. She doesn’t care about the money, or just see the fame, and certainly not the damn record sales. Me? I see her for who she is too. I see how brilliant she is, how kind, how strong she is trying to be playing meekly in your shadow.” Michael’s voice broke off a bit, like he was moving further into the room.
You strained to listen further;
“I’m not discarding anything. I’m trying to build something. With her.”
Your father’s voice, when it came, was lower, shaken. “The world will eat her alive, Michael. You know that. The press, the fans, the pressure… it will crush her.”
“Then I’ll stand between her and the world,” Michael said, his voice firming again, resolute. “Just like you’ve always stood between me and it. That’s what you do for someone you love. You protect them. You don’t lock them away. You fight for them. And I am fighting for her. Right now. With you.”
He took a deep, audible breath. “I’m not asking for your permission to have a fling. I’m telling you, as a friend, you as her father, mostly… I am in this. I am serious about her. And I am asking you… please. Don’t make me choose between the career we built together and the woman I want to build a life with. Because I know what my choice will be.”
The silence that descended was absolute, thick and heavy with the weight of a world tilting on its axis. From your perch on the stairs, you held your breath, tears streaming silently down your face, not from fear anymore, but from a hope so fierce it felt like pain. The secret was out. The fight was on. And for the first time, it wasn’t just you two against the world, standing in the dark. He was fighting for you, in the light.
The heavy, carved door to the study closed with a soft but final thud. The silence that followed in the grand hallway of your hollywood home was more deafening than any shout. You stood frozen at the top of the stairs, your fingers curled around the polished banister, listening to the absence of sound. Then, footsteps—not your father’s heavy tread, but the lighter, quicker pace you knew so well.
Michael appeared at the foot of the staircase. He looked up at you. In the dim evening light filtering through the tall windows, he seemed both younger and older than his years.
The defiant, passionate man who had just declared war for you was gone, replaced by someone visibly drained, the adrenaline seeped away, leaving a subtle tremor in his hands.
He gave you a small, weary smile that didn’t reach his eyes and began to climb the stairs.
Wordlessly, you turned and led him down the hall to the private guest wing, to the room that had become his sanctuary here, and yours together. You closed the door behind you, sealing out the lingering tension from downstairs.
He walked to the center of the room and just stood there. He’d dressed himself in a teal Disneyland shirt, with dark blue denim and some old black beat up chucks. He looked so youthful and innocent like this.
“Take your shoes off and we can chill in bed, and just cuddle. That was rough” You said, and then you took his hand.
You led him to the massive, canopied bed. He sat on the side and kicked his shoes off and then climbed in, and you followed, pulling the thick duvet over both of you.
You propped pillows up against the headboard and he settled against you, his back to your chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
You could feel the rapid, rabbit-like flutter of his heartbeat slowly beginning to steady. You reached for the remote on the nightstand and flicked on the large television mounted across the room, scrolling until you found an old print of The Wizard of Oz, his comfort film, just starting on a classic movie channel. The familiar, sepia-toned Kansas scenes filled the room with a soft, benign glow.
For a long while, you just watched, your arms wrapped around him, your chin resting on his curls. Dorothy was just meeting the Scarecrow when he spoke, his voice muffled against your skin.
“He showed me the tabloids.”
You stiffened slightly. Michael never looked at the papers.
He had people—your father chief among them—to shield him from the worst of it. “You didn’t have to look.”
“He made me. Said if I was going to drag you into my world, I had to see what that world does.”
He took a shaky breath. “They called you… names. Made it sound sordid. Like I was corrupting you. They had ‘sources’ saying you were just a phase. That I’d be bored in a month.”
His body trembled against yours. A hot tear landed on your arm. “They take something beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with pain and longing, “and they make it ugly. They try to make me feel ugly for wanting it.”
You held him tighter, your own eyes burning. “They don’t know you. They don’t know us.”
“Frank does,” he said, the anguish raw. “And he still looked at me today like I was something that could hurt you. Maybe I am.”
“No,” you said, firm, turning his face gently towards you. In the flickering light from the screen, his cheeks were wet. “You stood up for us. You fought for me. No one has ever done that. No one.”
You kissed his temple, his closed eyelids, tasting the salt of his tears. “What you said downstairs… about loving me…”
He opened his eyes then, and the look in them stripped away all the glitter and the fame and the fear. It was just him, terrifyingly vulnerable. “I meant it. Every word. I’m in love with you. It’s the truest thing I know, even if I am being silly at times and boyish, or even a tad too forward…”
The words, spoken aloud in the quiet dark, without an audience, without a fight attached to them, landed sweetly in your heart.
“I’m in love with you, too, Michael.”
Something shifted then. The distress didn’t vanish, but it transmuted, melting into a different kind of intensity; a deep, aching need for connection, for affirmation, for the physical proof of the truth that you both were trying to convey.
You shifted, gently guiding him to lie back against the pillows. You moved to straddle his hips, looking down at him. The blue-and-white light from the television played over his features—the elegant arch of his brows, the full curve of his lips, the dark pools of his eyes fixed on you with intense focus.
You slowly peeled your own sleep shirt over your head, letting it fall to the floor, revealing your breasts in the ambient light. His breathing hitched, and he bit his lip. Clearly trying to stop himself from reaching out and touching you so soon.
This wasn’t like the time you had together the prior night. There was no frantic hunger, no fear of discovery. This was slow, deliberate, almost a silent conversation. You leaned down and kissed him, a deep, exploring kiss that spoke of belonging, not just passion.
He responded with a soft groan, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
You broke the kiss, sitting back up, and took his hands, placing them on your waist. His touch was reverent. You began to move against him, a gentle, rocking motion over the denim of his jeans, feeling him stir and harden beneath you. A low, breathy sigh escaped him.
You gently put your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his aching cock. After pulling your panties to the side, you then guided him to your entrance, already slick and ready for him. You sank down, taking him inside you with a slow, inexorable glide that made both of you gasp.
Oh…
There was no frantic pace. You settled fully onto him, feeling him fill you completely, and just stayed there, joined, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. The movie’s soundtrack swelled—Somewhere Over the Rainbow—a bittersweet counterpoint to the profound intimacy of the moment.
You began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about friction and more about communion. Each slow rise and fall was a silent vow. His hands slid from your waist to your hips, not guiding, just feeling, his touch feather-light. His eyes never left yours, wide and shining in the semi-darkness.
“I’m not letting you away that easy, don’t be fooled” he whispered, the words a broken thing of wonder.
“Yeah, I am not going anywhere,” you affirmed, leaning down to kiss him again, swallowing his soft, hitched breaths.
The pleasure built not in a frantic race, but like a tide, slow and immense, rising from the very core of where you were joined. It was in the feel of his heartbeat against your chest, the scent of his skin, the absolute trust in his gaze.
You moved together, the world locked outside. You both knew this was sacrosanct. There was only this room, this bed, this man, and the love that was too real, too big, for any headline to contain.
Your climax approached less like a crash or explosion, but more as a swell, a warmth. A golden wave that started deep within and radiated outwards until it claimed every part of you. You cried out softly, a sound of pure release, as the waves pulsed through you, your inner muscles fluttering around him.
The feeling of your release, so intimate and trusting, tipped him over the edge. He arched beneath you, a beautiful, tense line, his mouth falling open in a silent cry before a long, trembling groan vibrated through his chest and into yours.
He spilled into you, his own release drawn out and shuddering; his grip on your hips and fingers tangled in the hen of your panties you had not even fully removed. He pulled down, anchoring you to him as he rode it out his orgasm.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, spent, still joined. His arms came around you, holding you so close there was no space left between you. You hadn’t realised much time had passed, but on the screen, Dorothy was clicking her ruby slippers, repeating, “There’s no place like home.”
You felt his lips move against your hair. “This,” he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and satiation and something like peace. “This is my home.”
You didn’t answer. You just listened to his breathing deepen and slow, his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm against your ear.
The movie played on, casting its harmless, colorful dreams across the room, but the real magic, the defiant truth, was right here with the blinds drawn, in a tangle of limbs and shared, slowing breath. It was so painstakingly normal - not glitz nor glamor.
The fight wasn’t over, but for today, in this lazy moment, in a sanctuary they had built between them, they had won each other.
⋆˙⟡
apologies for any spelling errors or grammatical errors I am only a lil human
synopsis: getting sexually involved with an attending wasn't a big deal, it was all in good fun-good fun that was contained to a very specific place, and that place wasn't the hospital. when working, you two were simply individuals who worked at the same place. but, should you cross that line, what would happen? (characters included/mentioned: j.shen, m.diaz, & p.ellis)
cw/s: explicit content w/plot (18+), implied age gap (but nothing creepy. reader is an adult. both parties consent), implied & descriptions of vulvar/vaginal anatomy, implied consent, slight manhandling/possessiveness, jealousy play, condescension, subtle brat taming, fingering (reader receiving, no described physical barriers), injuries (patients), care of injuries (patients), allergic reaction (patient), descriptions of blood draw (tourniquet, needles), potential medical inaccuracies.
a/n: set during s2 (2026), just not the same day (july 4th). no use of y/n, y/l/n, y/n/n, but terms like 'vampire' and "bloodsucker' are used. absolutely zero use of ai to write/edit. searching the pitt set floor plan is recommended if you'd like (extremely helpful with visualizing paths characters take and the layout of the rooms). reblogs are always welcome and appreciated! very nervous yet excited to be publishing a new type of fic. this is my first time writing and introducing smut into my writing, i hope you enjoy;) and as always, thank you. indulge.
"Lay down."
Jack was a playful man at heart, but when it came to sex? That could fade away real quick.
"You pissed me off tonight. Why should I lay down?" You retorted. If you didn't know the sun was beginning to rise on the way to his place after your shift, you would've thought it was night right now.
Jack's blackout curtains made the room nice and dark. Intimate.
He smirked at your argument, smug as ever and you wanted to slap and kiss it off of him all at once. "You need a reminder on how I can make you feel?"
You held your breath as his hands snaked down your waist, rounding your back before gripping your ass. Everything about him was firm, solid. He leaned in, ghosting his lips over yours before he spoke.
"Because I'll oblige. Lay down."
You held his eyes, unwavering in your fight. One that you didn't want to win in the first place.
"Oh." He cooed, cocking his head. "We're playing that game now, are we?"
"I'm not playing a game. That's all you, Jack."
He grinned, almost in awe at your attempts to throw him off. He wasn't buying what you were selling, not one bit. “Lay down."
You shook your head and his hands moved to cup your face, gentle yet firm. Not rough but not exactly coddling, either.
"Lay down."
"I'm not a dog."
He hummed in amusement, hiking your legs around his hips as he laid you down on his bed. The second your back hit the mattress, you began to giggle.
Giggles turned into breathy moans as Jack kissed and nipped at your neck.
"Don't be like that." His voice was nearly a purr.
"Like what?" Your eyes fluttered shut as you spoke.
"I don't know, you tell me."
You smirked. "I'm not being bad."
He spoke against your neck. "Mm, maybe not bad, but not good, either. You're being a brat."
"In the name of the game." Your smirk widened.
"Thought we weren't playing a game?"
"We aren't, you are. I'm just pushing your buttons. You're an easy man to rile up, Abbot-"
Your playful insult was cut short as his hand slid beneath your pants, settling over your underwear.
At your silence, he tutted. "I didn't tell you to stop."
You let out a breath.
"Go on, keep telling me about myself." He kissed your neck, fingers simply resting where you wanted him most. "You can do that, right? I think you can.”
Swallowing, you did as he said. "You're easy to antagonize, to get going-"
Yet again, you were cut off by him. This time, his fingers no longer hovered. They made teasing circles over you. You moaned.
"What was that?"
"Fuck you."
"Now or later?" He huffed out a small laugh. "Keep talking, or I stop."
"Jack, come on-"
"Ah-ah, don't start complaining now. You accused me of playing a game, now I actually am. What's your move tonight, hm? Continue being defiant or...?"
"Touch me."
He lifted his head, meeting your eyes. "Giving up so soon?"
You shook your head, lazily. "This little game you're playing calls for you to touch me when I talk about you. So, get to it, because I have a lot to say."
He almost looked proud, but he tried to hide it. He took his lower lip between his teeth as you began.
"You doubting my ability to find the veins of that patient earlier really pissed me off," You sucked in a breath as you spoke, Jack meeting your clit with more force this time.
"Yeah? Why's that?" He began to kiss at your neck again between words.
"Because you doubted me. I am best at finding the tricky veins, everyone knows it. They call for me specifically anytime other phlebs can't do it, and if you guys had it your way? I'd be the only one working."
"I know, I'm so sorry, baby." His voice was full of tantalizing mockery.
"Oh, fuck off. You doubted me in front of Shen-"
"Quit it." He interrupted, hand stopping its movements as his head rose from the crook of your neck to meet your eyes.
"What? Don't like the truth?"
"No, I can handle that. But I don't want to hear another man's name come out of your mouth when you're soaked because of me, do you understand?"
His little fit of possessiveness just handed you a perfect card to play.
"Hm, but his name is so relevant. He hasn't doubted me, he actually told me he knew I had it in me—that handling blood is in my blood."
Jack said your name with warning.
"And any time he had something to say about my performance? He told me in private. Such a gentleman."
"We're both gonna be pissed off now, stop."
You sat up, supporting the movement with your forearms behind you against the mattress. "Give me something else to talk about then."
He shook his head in disbelief, hand retreating as he rose to his knees in a manner that was mindful of his prosthetic. Moving off the bed, he rounded to the end, standing as he took your calves into his hands—which nearly disappeared into his grip. He began slowly pulling your lower half towards him and the second you were close enough, his hot hands found your hips, beginning to play with the waistband of your pants.
"Is this supposed to work? Because so far, I'm not impressed." You feigned indifference.
He didn't speak, working them down, then snaking them off.
His eyes focused on your clothed cunt, a hunger slicing through his gaze. Tonguing his cheek, he moved his eyes to meet yours as he looked down upon you, one of his hands atop your abdomen applying the faintest amount of pressure while the other traced your thighs. You played an unfair card, one that wasn't allowed, so now the weight of the situation was all yours to carry. He made sure of it.
"Uh-oh, looks like someone's bothered." You challenged him, hoping he would take your brattiness and turn it into his domineering solution.
"You're mean tonight." His voice was low as he spoke, cocking his head. "Are you asking for me to be mean back?"
"I told you, you pissed me off tonight-"
Your words ceased, courtesy of the gasp that escaped your lips. His fingers didn't dance over you anymore, they slipped past your underwear and inside of you. Two thick, hooked fingers that were glued to your most sensitive and reactive internal part.
"Keep talking about him."
Your brows etched together, suddenly breathy.
"What?"
"Talk about Shen." He ordered, free hand applying more pressure on your lower abdomen.
Through breathy moans, you did just that. "He's laidback, calm and collected. He trusts my abilities, apparently more than you do, and- fuck, Jack."
"That ended fast, didn't it?" He leaned forward, fingers not leaving you as his other hand dragged up your torso and to your face, covering the majority of your lower jaw as his grip sank into the plush of your cheeks. Again, not rough but firm. He wanted to ensure you were looking right at him. "See whose name comes out when you feel good?"
You nodded the best you could, given both his internal and external grips distracted you.
"Remember that."
The following night, you entered the ER with an increased air of confidence, ready for whatever the night would throw your way. Biting back a smirk as you saw Jack and John talking amongst themselves, you brushed right between them.
"Well, hello to you too." John spoke nonchalantly as he bit at the straw of his coffee.
"Nothing personal, Shen, I'm just ready to start."
"Okay Dracula, eagerness looks good on you. Hoping for some chaos?"
"Safe chaos, of course. Wouldn't wish any ailment or injury on anyone for a hit of adrenaline." You got enough from playing cat and mouse with Jack, anyways.
John raised a hand and you gave him a high-five. "Alright, let's get this party started, then. Got a mandible fracture coming in, ETA's five minutes but that was three ago." He informed as he walked off.
"Alright, heard. You know the drill, call me if you need me." You replied.
Not once since the second you walked in here have you looked Jack in the eyes or spoke to him, and that's because you often didn't speak much beyond anything to do with patients or the ED. You'd only been messing around with one another here and there for almost a month now, and in that month you learned how rule-oriented Jack could be, when he wanted to be. The moment you two kissed for the first time, he began to lay down the laws of the arrangement, a new variable every time he stripped a new piece of clothing from you. Maybe it's the veteran in him, but you didn't mind.
When you walked into PTMC, anything you two did together was left outside. You were no longer people who had sex together, you were colleagues. Not friends, colleagues.
Same applied for when you left work and walked into his house, anything you two did at work was left in the hospital. Last night, you broke the second part of that rule for the first time. It was bound to happen at some point. Did you have minor anxieties about what that meant for your casual escapades? Certainly, but, the first part remained intact. You brought work to bed, not bed to work, and you wouldn't start now. So, no thinking about it. Not here. All that would be on your mind was patients, patients, patients. That conversation would have to happen later, once your shifts were over.
Turning to leave, you were met with Jack's eyes on you. So intent, so obvious. Clearing your throat, you walked past him, stride faltering as you felt his hand brush against yours. You were always focused on keeping a safe distance between the two of you when at work, only close when vital like during an intense moment in a trauma room when you worked at an emergency blood draw was while he relentlessly worked to keep the patient stable. So, you knew for a fact he had to have reached out slightly to touch you.
Resuming your stride, you glanced back at him over your shoulder. His lips had the faintest grin on them, a grin that showed itself more in the creases around his eyes than the ones around his lips.
What was the point of that? Not that you didn’t like it, because you did, but you were curious.
John, Mateo, and Parker enter a trauma room with a seven year old girl. Mateo immediately began performing CPR while Parker bagged her.
"Can't you just shock her?"
"Unfortunately, not when a patient doesn't have a pulse. That's only in the movies." Mateo informed the mother, not wavering in his performance.
"So then what can you do?"
"On top of him doing CPR, we administer three-hundred micrograms of epinephrine, given her age." John answered, doing just that.
"I-I would've done that at home, but we can't afford it." The mother continued to cry.
Mateo looked at her. "What's your name, ma'am?"
"Marilyn. Marilyn Yacavone. And that's my girl, Briar."
"Okay, Miss Yacavone, we will send you home with some EpiPens, alright?" Parker reassured her and the woman nods, grateful.
"Hold compressions." John instructed, eyes glued to the monitor for stats. No improvement. "Resume compressions."
"Oh, my God, my poor girl."
"We're doing the best we can, I assure you." John did some reassurance of his own before checking the patient's airway, clicking his pen light on and peering down as Parker backed away, taking the BVM with her. The girl was still continuing to swell up, which wasn't good. Putting his pen away, Parker stepped in and resumed bagging her.
Jack passed by, having just finished up with the mandible fracture patient. He quickly began retracing his steps and entered the room. "What do we have here?"
Parker looked up from the BVM. "Anaphylaxis caused by eating a Reese's cup. Peanut allergy."
"No response to first dose of epinephrine, airway still swelling." John added.
"When and how much was the first dose?" Jack asked, snapping on gloves.
"About a minute or two ago, three hundred micrograms." John answered.
"Move that, let me see."
Parker moved away, taking the BVM with her yet again. Jack clicked on his own pen light, looking into the patient's mouth.
"Hand me a sixty mm OPA, please."
John moved fast, retrieving one and handing it to him. Jack immediately began inserting it into the girl's mouth, stopping once it advanced properly before turning his attention to Mateo, whose head began to bob with exhaustion. "Okay, swap with Ellis and call for her."
"Alright." Mateo responded, only moving once Parker was ready to replace him.
Sighing in relief, he exited the room, intent set on you. Jack didn't need to get specific, nobody ever really had to. Nine times out of ten, they meant you.
"She's on her way." Mateo announced as he reentered the room a couple minutes later.
Nodding in acknowledgment of Mateo's words, Jack continued to communicate with Parker and John.
"I'm going to hold compressions in exactly one minute, and if she's still asystole, we're administering another three hundred of epi."
"Aye, aye, Captain." John interjected as he grabbed the second EpiPen in preparation, should it be necessary.
Marilyn had gone quiet at this point, tucked away in a corner with a tissue help up to her mouth as she watched in subtle horror. Moving away from the gurney as Mateo took over bagging, Parker walked over to her.
"We're doing our best, we still have the second dose to administer and we may not even have to do that. We're not out of options, okay?" She gave Marilyn a small smile of reassurance before meeting the bedside again, just in time.
Jack held compressions, and there was still no pulse. He looked to John, giving him the go ahead.
"Second round of epi going in now." He poked the pen into her thigh.
Everyone's gaze went to the monitor, and after thirty seconds that felt like forever, there it was. Her pulse. Weak, but present.
Parker put her stethoscope on, checking the girl's breath sounds. "Still a minor wheeze, but otherwise good. Should we remove the airway now so she's not uncomfortable or?"
As she asked, you entered the room, walking to the patients bedside with a tiny bin of supplies in hand.
"I see we got a pulse back, that's great." You said, eyes fluttering up to Jack.
He swallowed, throat bobbing as he took you in. You and those damn wine-red scrubs, a sight for sore eyes. And the fact that you were looking up at him just then reminded him of other...circumstances.
Parker shifted, peering at Jack. If nobody was going to answer her about the airway, she wasn't going to sit and wait in a room full of people who were capable of removing it as well. "You still need me here?"
"No, we're all good here. Good work."
"About that airway, I vote removal, but what do I know." John interjected.
"Knock yourself out." Jack patted him on the shoulders. glancing over at you just as you began to speak.
"Hey, can we wait until after I draw her blood to remove the OPA, please? I don't want her waking up already afraid, the needle won't help." You plea, palpating both of the girl's arms for vein visibility.
"Fine by me, won't hurt to wait a minute more." John shrugged. "But then it's on you, too busy out there to wait."
Jack waved him off. "I got it."
"Can we steal Mateo, too? It's hectic out there."
"Yes, Ellis, you can steal Mateo. Things are...taken care of in here."
At Jack's words, the three excused themselves.
"Thanks for the confidence." You mumble to him, eyes finding the woman in the corner. "Is this mom?"
Marilyn nodded, coming over.
"Hi," you introduced yourself. "I'm a phlebotomist, solely here to draw your daughter's blood for confirmation on the trigger of the allergic reaction and basic labs to ensure everything else is good. Do I have your consent?"
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps."
"Perfect. Does she have any allergies to latex, alcohol, or any kind of adhesives that you know of?"
"No, she doesn't. Just peanuts."
Once she finished answering, you began to respond to her as you turned to face the little girl. "If you'd like to stand by, I can walk you through the process.”
She nodded and you moved to the girls right arm, bumping into Jack. His hands moved to your waist, stabilizing you before quickly removing them as if you were hot to the touch.
"Shit, sorry."
"Watch your mouth." He joked, backing up. "I was in your way, actually, so don't be sorry."
Feeling your cheeks heat up at his playful demand, you returned your focus to the mom, trying to ignore the way his words went right down to your core.
"She has better visibility on this side, just at first glance, which is good. I'm going to start by applying a tourniquet to help those veins become more visible and raised so I can perform the draw."
She moved closer, nose in the air as she peered over your shoulder where Jack once was.
"And as you can see, we got some volunteers." You joked as her veins began to rise. "Now, I'm cleansing the site with an alcohol wipe, letting it dry before I begin the draw."
As it dried, you put the wipe away and grabbed the needle, working at opening the packaging and putting it together once out.
"I'm going to take three tubes, first one being a waste tube to ensure no air, second one red and third one gold. Both for the purposes I told you about, so no need to worry." Beginning to insert the needle, blood began to return as you stabilized it. At the sight, you grabbed the waste tube and popped it on the bottom, setting it on the bed and allowing it to fill as you released the tourniquet with your free hand.
"Now, I'm taking the gold one." you added, removing the waste tube and replacing it with the gold before repeating the same process with the red. Once finished, you hovered gauze over the needle but made sure not to press down on it during removal. The second the needle was free, you popped the safety on it with one hand while the other held pressure on the draw site.
"Doctor Abbot, would you mind throwing this in sharps? Or hold pressure on her arm while I do it, either works for me."
He'd been so enamored by watching you work that you addressing him caused the slightest flinch as he was brought back to reality. "Yeah, of course."
He took the needle and tubing attachment from you, disposing of it. You bit back a smirk, something so gentle in the way he moved.
Moving back to the job at hand, you turned to the mom. "Okay, she's stopped bleeding so now I'm going to leave the gauze and use this Coban wrap as an adhesive to keep the site protected."
He stood by the sharps bin, watching you wrap her arm as you told her mother about what to expect, offering to get a snack in for the girl for when she woke.
"That'd be nice, thank you."
"No problem at all." You smiled, keeping in mind to communicate the request with one of the nurses.
Grabbing your bin, you exited, but not without a small glance at Jack.
Snapping his gloves off as he exited the trauma room, having finished up with the anaphylactic patient, he looked up and saw you exiting six. You were constantly bouncing from room to room, performing draws with the grace of a swan. It was cute.
"Hey, bloodsucker."
Your eyes immediately worked to find his voice, and there he was, walking over to the hub. As you approached, meeting him in the middle, he glanced at you for a brief moment and then you were at his side, neck craned up to look at the trackboard.
"You're acting different." you spoke quietly.
He bit back a grin. "Me? No way."
"I'm not saying it in a bad way, it's just...different.
Not typical."
He pursed his lips, showing indifference. "After our little conversation this morning, I got some things to consider."
You looked at him, but he quickly corrected it.
"Eyes on the trackboard, don't be obvious."
Averting your gaze, you felt yet another jolt shoot down to your core.
"Work and home life? Separate."
"Yes, I know." You agree, "Blurring the lines could compromise focus."
"A talk here and there wouldn't hurt. Won't be anything obvious, just subliminal, if that. I'm a doctor before anything when I'm here, I wouldn't suggest anything interactive. Just maybe less zombie-like. Y'know, friends. And if we find it does compromise focus, we'll just go back to our usual scheduled programming."
"You make it sound like the morning news."
He shrugged, lazily. "Happens around the same time."
"Dick." you muttered, beginning to walk off. "Seems like you're the one who struggles with behaving. I'm off to do 'bloodsucker' things, bye."
"Yeah, bye." He said. "See you later." He added in a mumble to himself.
"See who later?" Parker entered the hub, meeting his side.
"My sanity, hopefully. Need me in six?" He gestured to the room.
"How'd you know?" She grinned, voice thick with sarcasm.
ooh ooh could you write for p1h where the reader is dating one of them but another member is her brother so they gotta be sneaky and imagine if they found out hehe🤭
pairing: P1Harmonyx reader
warnings: secret relationship, reader being Piwons sister, some suggestive stuff, fluff, forbidden Love
disclaimer: not my pic!
Keeho (Theos Sister)
The dorm felt louder than usual, even though nothing special was happening. Controllers clicked, someone yelled at the screen, and a truly stupid movie played in the background, the kind no one actually watched. You sat on the couch next to Theo, your shoulder barely brushing his, legs tucked in comfortably like you had done a hundred times before.
Keeho sat on the floor right in front of you, back against the couch, fully focused on the game. Too focused. You watched the way his shoulders moved when he laughed, how his head tipped back when someone lost badly. Every now and then, he glanced over his shoulder, quick and careful, just enough to check if you were looking.
You were.
You shifted slightly and let your foot reach out, brushing the small of his back. Just a touch. Barely there. Keeho stiffened like he had been shocked, then adjusted his position, pretending nothing happened. You hid your smile by leaning back into the couch.
A minute later, you did it again. This time your foot lingered, toes pressing lightly against him. Keeho inhaled sharply and laughed too loud at something that was not funny. He paused the game and stood up fast.
“I’m gonna grab a drink,” he said, casual but rushed.
No one questioned it. You counted in your head, heart thumping. One minute. Maybe a little more. When you stood up, Theo barely looked at you.
“Kitchen,” you said, and he hummed in response.
Keeho stood by the counter when you entered, hands braced on the edge, head lowered. When he looked up and saw you, he broke into a nervous laugh.
“Oh god, you...,” he said quietly, pointing at you like you were the problem. “You are fucking dangerous, you know that right?”
You chuckled and stepped closer, not answering with words. You kissed him before he could say anything else. Keeho froze for half a second, then melted into it, hands finding your waist like they had been waiting there all evening.
He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Theo’s literally right there.”
You rolled your eyes and grabbed the collar of his hoodie, pulling him back in. The kiss deepened, all pent-up tension and stolen glances finally crashing together. Keeho kissed you like he had been holding his breath all night. His hands tightened, careful but desperate, like he wanted more but knew better.
“Fuck, he's gonna kill me,” he murmured against your lips, half laughing, half serious.
“Relax,” you whispered back.
You were still kissing when footsteps echoed down the hall. Panic hit instantly. Keeho jumped back like the counter was on fire, grabbing a random cup and filling it with water at record speed. You turned away, pretending to inspect the fridge like it held the secrets of the universe.
One of the members passed by without stopping. The moment the steps faded, Keeho exhaled hard and leaned his forehead against the cabinet.
“I swear,” he said softly, looking at you with wide, fond eyes, “one day we’re getting caught.”
You smiled, stepped close, and brushed your fingers against his hand. Then you walked back to the living room like nothing had happened, heart racing, lips still warm, leaving Keeho behind with his water and a grin he could not get rid of.
Theo (Jiungs sister)
The club buzzed like a living thing. Lights pulsed, music thumped deep in your chest, and Jiung’s birthday banner hung crooked above the booth like it had already given up. Everyone was loud, laughing, drinking, pressed together in celebration.
You arrived late.
Theo noticed instantly. He always did.
But what made his stomach drop was not just you. It was the guy beside you, hand resting casually at your lower back, leaning in to hear you over the music. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
Theo smiled when you greeted everyone. He always smiled. It was automatic.
Inside, his thoughts tangled like wires.
You looked good. Effortlessly so. And worse, you looked relaxed. Happy. Like you belonged exactly where you were, exactly with who you were standing next to.
Theo tried to focus on Jiung, on the birthday shots, on Keeho yelling something incoherent. But his eyes kept drifting back to you. To the way your date leaned close to speak into your ear. To the way you laughed and touched his arm.
It took him nearly half an hour to find a moment. When your date went to the bar and the others got pulled into a conversation, Theo stepped closer.
“Hey,” he said, voice calm, like this was nothing.
You turned, surprised, then smiled politely. That smile hurt more than anything.
“Who’s the guy you came with?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing just enough.
You tilted your head, eyes wide with fake innocence. “A friend.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “A friend.”
You nodded. “A date, technically.”
He let out a quiet chuckle before he could stop himself. “Didn’t expect you to move on that fast.”
You leaned back slightly, studying him. “That’s funny,” you said. “Last time we talked, you told me we couldn’t be together. Because I’m Jiung’s sister. Remember?”
The words landed clean and sharp.
Theo swallowed. “Yeah...I remember.”
You grinned then. Triumphant. Dangerous. “So,” you asked lightly, “are you like....jealous?"
Theo took a deep breath. He glanced past you to where Jiung laughed with Soul, completely unaware. Then he looked back at you, eyes softer, conflicted.
“I don’t get to be,” he said quietly.
Your smile faded just a bit. You sighed, picked up your drink, and straightened. “Right. Well, I should get back then”
As you stepped past him, your hand brushed his chest. Not an accident. Just enough contact to send heat straight through him. Theo sucked in a breath before he could stop himself.
You didn’t look back.
Theo stood there, unmoving, watching you return to your date. Watching the way you leaned in, the way you smiled again, the way your body language shifted back into something intimate.
His jaw tightened.
This was not over.
Not even close.
Jiung (Intaks Sister)
The club wrapped around you in heat and sound. Lights cut through the dark, music rolling through your body like a second heartbeat. You were on the dance floor, moving with the rhythm, hips swaying slow and deliberate. You knew exactly what you were doing.
Jiung watched from a distance.
He stayed near the table with the others, drink untouched, posture controlled. Anyone else would have thought he was just observing the crowd. You knew better. Every time you turned, every time you let your head fall back or your hips roll a little deeper into the beat, his eyes followed.
You caught his gaze and held it.
You smiled.
Jiung looked away immediately, jaw tightening. His fingers curled around his glass like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He told himself to breathe. To be normal. To remember that you were Intak’s sister. His friend’s sister. A line he had promised himself not to cross.
But you crossed it for him, again and again, without ever touching him.
You danced like you were alone, but your eyes kept finding his. You spun slowly, letting the lights catch you just right, letting the music guide you. You saw the moment it became too much. Jiung stood abruptly, chair scraping back, and without a word he turned and pushed through the crowd.
You stopped dancing, confusion flickering through you. After a second, you followed.
Outside, the night air was cool and sharp, a relief after the suffocating heat inside. Jiung stood a few steps away from the entrance, hands on his hips, head tipped back as he stared at the sky like it might offer answers.
“Hey, you okay?” you asked softly.
He laughed, short and dry, and looked at you. “No,” he said honestly. “I’m really not.”
You stepped closer. “Oh?”
Jiung ran a hand through his hair. “How do you think I’m supposed to be okay,” he said, voice low, “when you move like that? When you look at me like that?”
You smiled, slow and warm.
His expression shifted, conflict written all over it. “This is hard,” he continued. “Intak is my friend. I care about him. I don’t want to mess things up. I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” you said gently.
Jiung inhaled, steadying himself. “But...” he started, then stopped.
You waited. “But what?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward suddenly, hands coming up to grip your jacket, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His lips crashed against yours, all restraint gone. The kiss was deep and urgent, like everything he had been holding back finally snapped.
You kissed him back without hesitation.
Jiung pressed you closer, one hand firm at your waist, the other sliding up your back. His kiss was passionate, desperate, nothing like his calm exterior. He kissed you like he had already lost the battle and decided to surrender completely.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.
“This,” he murmured, “is exactly the problem.”
You smiled, fingers curling into his shirt, knowing full well neither of you wanted to stop.
Intak (Soul's Sister)
Japan at night felt softer than expected. Neon lights reflected off wet pavement, the air cool and buzzing with leftover laughter. The others were gone in a tangle of giggles and bad directions, drunk and happy and completely useless. Somehow, you and Intak ended up walking alone.
He was the only sober one.
You teased him about it, bumping his shoulder as you walked.
“Someone had to be responsible,” he said, smiling down at you. “You’d all get lost without me.”
You laughed, a little louder than necessary. The city hummed around you, footsteps syncing, conversation easy. Too easy. Every glance lingered a second too long. Every joke landed closer than it should have.
By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had wrapped tight between you, like a string pulled to its limit.
You stopped at your door and turned to face him. “You know,” you said casually, keys dangling from your fingers, “I always liked you the best.”
Intak blinked. “Me?”
You nodded, amused by his surprise. “Shota used to talk about you all the time. About the group, about practice, about tour. He always said you were a really good friend.”
His ears turned pink instantly. “He did?”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “And I thought the same.”
Intak scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “You’re… kind of amazing too, you know that?”
The hallway fell quiet. No music. No laughter. Just the sound of your breathing and the way his eyes searched your face like he was memorizing it.
Neither of you moved.
Then you both did.
Intak stepped forward at the same time you did, hands finding each other clumsily before his lips met yours. The kiss was warm and eager, like it had been waiting for permission. You backed into the door, keys forgotten, his hands bracing on either side of you as the kiss deepened.
It was messy. Laughing between kisses. Soft sighs. The kind of making out that felt like relief.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you smiled up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
Intak froze.
He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “That’s… not a good idea.”
You nodded immediately. “Yeah. You’re right.”
You kissed him again anyway. Slower this time. Softer. Like agreeing without wanting to.
He pulled back with a quiet groan. “We really shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Another kiss. Short. Dangerous.
Intak laughed under his breath, stepping back like he was trying to save himself. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once in the narrow hallway. “Soul would kill me.”
You shrugged lightly. “Probably.”
He stopped, looked at you again, then at the door. His jaw tightened, decision written all over his face.
“Fuck it,” he muttered.
Before you could react, he stepped inside with you, the door clicking shut behind him.
Soul (Jongseobs Sister)
The dorm was quiet in the way only late nights could manage. Lights were off, hallways dark, the air still carrying traces of laughter from earlier. You had stayed over because it was too late to go home and everyone had agreed it made sense. Jongseob had insisted you take his bed. He said it like it was nothing.
He took the couch.
You lay awake longer than you meant to, staring at the ceiling, listening to the low hum of the building and the faint sounds of breathing through the walls. Your thoughts kept circling the same place. The same person.
Soul.
You slipped out of the bed slowly, careful not to make a sound. The floor felt cold under your feet as you padded down the hall. His door was closed, but not locked. You eased it open and stepped inside, heart pounding like it might wake the whole dorm by itself.
Soul lay on his side, hair messy against the pillow, blanket pulled up to his shoulders. He looked peaceful. You hesitated for just a second, then climbed into the bed with him, careful and quiet. The mattress dipped and he stirred slightly.
You leaned in and kissed him.
Soul woke instantly. His eyes opened and focused on you, confusion flickering for half a second before melting into a soft smile. Then concern followed just as quickly.
“Y/n” he whispered, voice low and breathy. “What are you doing?”
You chuckled quietly and tugged the blanket up, pulling it over both of you until the world shrank to whispers and warmth. “I couldn’t wait,” you murmured. “I had to pretend all day. I hated it.”
Soul’s hand came up to your arm, fingers gentle but sure. He pulled you closer, forehead resting against yours. “I know,” he whispered back. “Me too.”
His smile was small but full, like it was meant just for you. Still, his eyes flicked toward the door. “We have to be quiet,” he said. “If Jongseob wakes up…”
You nodded, understanding, heart racing anyway.
You kissed him again, slower this time, careful but no less intense. Soul kissed back just as passionately, like he had been holding himself together by a thread. His hand slid to your waist, thumb brushing lightly like he was grounding himself.
Every sound felt louder than it was. Every breath mattered. You could feel his smile against your lips, the way he tried to laugh silently and failed, pressing his face into your shoulder for a second.
“I missed this,” he whispered.
“I was right there all day,” you whispered back.
“That’s the worst part.”
He kissed you again, deeper, more certain. The world outside the blanket disappeared. There was only warmth, quiet laughter, and the way he held you like he had been waiting for this moment all night.
Somewhere down the hall, Jongseob shifted in his sleep.
You froze for a heartbeat. Soul stilled too, eyes wide, then relaxed when nothing happened. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Stay,” he whispered.
You did.
Jongseob (Keehos Sister)
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the city sneaking through the curtains. You were tangled together on the bed, knees brushing, hands warm, kisses slow and familiar. Jongseob laughed quietly against your mouth when you leaned in again, like he could not quite believe this was happening. Again.
“You know,” you murmured, fingers sliding into his hair, “last time you told me we couldn’t keep doing this. Because of Keeho.”
He chuckled, breath soft. “I remember.”
“And yet,” you teased, pulling him closer by his shirt, “here we are.”
Jongseob sighed like he had lost a battle he never really wanted to win. “You’re just… too irresistible,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “That’s the problem.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
He laughed, low and fond, before kissing you again. The kiss deepened easily, like neither of you needed instructions anymore. His hand settled at your waist, careful but certain, like he was grounding himself there. You kissed him back with intent, with history, with all the things you did not say out loud.
Then his phone rang.
You groaned softly and leaned back. “Ignore it.”
He reached for it anyway, glancing at the screen. His smile vanished instantly. “It’s… Keeho.”
Your lips twitched. “Of course it is.”
Jongseob swallowed and answered, putting the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
Keeho’s voice spilled out, loud even through the speaker. Jongseob listened, nodding, trying to sound normal while his other hand still rested on your hip. Keeho talked about schedules, about rehearsals, about something that definitely could have waited.
Then Keeho sighed. “Hey, did you talk to my sister today? She seems kinda pissed at me.”
You let out a quiet chuckle before you could stop yourself.
Jongseob’s eyes widened in panic. He slapped a hand over your mouth, stifling the sound, even as a grin betrayed him. “She’s… fine,” he said quickly into the phone. “Probably just tired.”
You kissed his palm, slow and deliberate.
Jongseob inhaled sharply.
Keeho kept talking. And talking. Jongseob tried to respond with short answers, nodding even though Keeho could not see him. You took full advantage, kissing along his hand, then his wrist, then the side of his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening as he fought a losing battle.
“Hyung, I really gotta go,” he said, voice strained.
Keeho did not stop.
You kissed his neck again, lingering this time. Jongseob finally cut in, rushed and desperate. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
He ended the call before Keeho could respond.
The room fell quiet.
Jongseob stared at the phone for a second, then dropped it onto the bed and turned to you. “You’re a devil,” he said, half laughing, half breathless.
You smiled sweetly. “Your devil.”
He did not argue. He leaned in and kissed you again, all hesitation gone, like he had already accepted the trouble waiting on the other side.
synopsis; a 23-year-old writing major living off campus with her older sister avia and avia’s boyfriend, simon “ghost” riley, has spent months overhearing their sex through thin walls while feeling stuck as the last virgin in her friend group.
wc; 14k
a/n; i think.. this is one of my best work. idk.. its a love & hate relationship with this, because i just kept deleting it & redoing it because it wasn’t making sense & isn’t that interesting but i gave up.
warnings; explicit content, age gap (23/28), cheating/infidelity, virginity loss, virgin!reader, deception/lying, unintended pregnancy, unprotected sex, rough sex, power imbalance, degradation, humiliation, oral (female and male receiving), orgasm denial, forced overstimulation, spit play, face fucking, body ownership, crybaby!reader, squirter!reader, substance use, manipulation. ᴹᴰᴺᴵ! ᴹᴵᴺᴼᴿˢ ᴰᴼ ᴺᴼᵀ ᴵᴺᵀᴱᴿᴬᶜᵀ! ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴬⱽᴱ ᴮᴱᴱᴺ ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴱᴰ!
the first thing you learn about thin apartment walls is that they do not care about your deadlines.
your laptop screen glows with a half-finished short story and a blinking cursor that feels like it is judging you personally. you are supposed to be writing about intimacy in a tasteful, literary way, something your professor called “earned tenderness,” and all you can think about is the way your sister sounds when she is not trying to be tasteful at all.
avia has always been loud. her laughter, her music, her phone calls that she takes on speaker with her friends like the rest of the world has agreed to be background noise. it should not surprise you that she is loud in bed too, but surprise and embarrassment do not always listen to logic. sometimes you just sit there, frozen in your desk chair, cheeks hot, listening to your sister say his name like it is a prayer and a dare.
simon riley does not say much in return. when he does, you only catch pieces of it through the wall, low and rough like gravel dragged slow. it is the kind of voice that makes your skin feel too small. it does not matter that you have never seen him do anything more scandalous than wash dishes with his sleeves pushed up and his forearms flexing. your body hears the sound and fills in the blanks anyway.
you delete a sentence and type it again. you stare at the word “touch” until it looks wrong.
your phone buzzes with a text from avia.
avia: i’m going out w the girls. don’t be boring. also put on something cute tonight. you never know.
you exhale through your nose, a small laugh that has no joy in it. cute, tonight, like your virginity is a loose bill in your pocket that you keep forgetting to spend.
you type back with one hand.
you: i’m literally doing homework.
avia: homework don’t hug you at night. be serious. you 23 and still acting scared. you need to let somebody do something to you already.
your fingers hover. you can feel your own irritation and your own fear braided together, tight as a knot.
you: i’m not scared. i just don’t want it to be random.
avia: you say that every time. and every time you let the moment pass. you gonna be 30 talking about “i’m waiting for the right one” like this a movie.
you drop your phone face down on the desk before you can start an argument you do not have time for. your stomach tightens anyway, the familiar ache of being watched by people who love you too loudly. the friend group jokes about it at brunch, about you being the last one. you laugh because you know how to laugh. inside, it feels like being the only person at a party who does not know the song.
from the living room, you hear the soft click of the front door and the heavy, measured tread of boots. simon. he comes home at strange hours, leaves at stranger ones, and when he is in the apartment he moves like he is trying not to announce himself. it is almost polite.
almost.
a moment later, avia’s voice rises from the hallway. “babe, i’m going out. don’t wait up.”
simon answers, low and calm. “i won’t.”
you hear her kiss him, noisy and affectionate. you hear her say something you cannot quite make out, then her laugh. it is easy, careless, like she has never had to second-guess a thing in her life.
then the door shuts again. her heels clack down the stairs and away. the apartment quiets into its usual hum. your laptop cursor keeps blinking.
you tell yourself you are relieved.
you are not.
after a few more minutes of pretending to work, you give up and wander out of your room, partly for water, partly because being alone with your thoughts is worse than being alone with him. you have lived with simon for months now, long enough that you know his habits. he keeps his keys in the same bowl. he folds his clothes with military edges. he does not waste motion. he does not waste words.
in the living room, he is exactly where you expected him to be, stretched on the couch like he owns the shape of it. the television throws cold light over his face, making him look carved. he wears a white ribbed tank that clings to his shoulders and chest, and grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips like they do not know they are being disrespectful.
a cigarette rests between his fingers, smoke curling up slow. his eyes stay on the screen, but you feel the shift when he registers you. like a sensor tripping.
you are in a cropped top and soft shorts, bare legs, hair up messy because you were supposed to be alone tonight. you stop in the kitchen doorway, suddenly aware of every inch of skin you are showing. you have worn less at the pool. none of it has ever felt like this.
“you’re up,” simon says without turning his head.
“yeah. i couldn’t focus.” you open the fridge, letting cold air spill over your face, and grab a water bottle. it crackles in your hand. you can feel his gaze now, finally landing.
“your focus is a choice,” he says.
you huff a little. “okay, professor.”
his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “not a professor.”
you shut the fridge and lean back against the counter. “do you want anything to drink?”
he glances toward you then, eyes dragging once, quick and clinical like he is checking for bruises. his gaze catches on your shorts. it holds there a beat too long.
“beer,” he says.
you grab one from the fridge, not thinking, and toss it his way. it is an easy underhand throw.
he catches it one-handed without looking, like he has done it a thousand times. the movement makes his bicep tighten. the cigarette stays balanced between his fingers like he was born with it.
you hate that your body notices. you hate it and you do it anyway.
you take your water and, instead of going back to your room, you drift toward the couch. there is space at the end, but you sit closer than that. you sit next to him, shoulder almost brushing his. the air around him smells like smoke and clean soap and something sharper that makes your mouth feel dry.
simon’s eyes flick to you again. “what’s this?”
“i live here,” you say. it comes out softer than you intended.
he takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling. “avia’s out.”
“i know.”
“so you’re keeping me company,” he says, like he is testing the words.
you shrug, but your heart is beating too loud in your ribs. “you always just… sit out here.”
“i’m watching telly.”
“it’s a military show.”
“yeah.”
you glance at the screen. men in uniforms run through a staged firefight, music swelling like it is trying to impress someone. simon’s face stays blank, unimpressed.
“you think it’s accurate?” you ask.
he finally turns his head toward you, slow. his eyes are pale in the tv light, sharp and tired. “no.”
you laugh under your breath. “why are you watching it then?”
he takes another drag. “background noise.”
you nod, sip your water, then hesitate. “do you… ever smoke anything else?”
his eyebrow lifts slightly.
you lift your chin, trying not to look like a kid asking for permission. “like. weed.”
he stares at you for a moment, and in that stare you can feel him weighing you. not judging, not mocking. measuring.
“sometimes,” he says.
your mouth goes dry again. “i don’t smoke much. but… i kind of want to right now.”
“why?” he asks.
you swallow. the honest answer is because you can still hear your sister in your head, because your body has been buzzing with questions you do not have anyone safe to ask, because the air between you and him feels tight. instead you give him the version that sounds normal.
“because i can’t focus,” you say again, like if you repeat it enough it becomes true.
simon’s gaze drops to your hands, to the way your fingers twist the water bottle label. “you’re wound up.”
you stiffen. “am i?”
“yeah,” he says simply. then, after a pause, he shifts forward and reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants. he pulls out a small tin, a lighter, and a neatly rolled joint like it has been waiting.
your breath catches. “you just have that.”
he looks at you like you asked why the sky is up. “yeah.”
you lick your lips. “can i?”
he holds it out between two fingers. you take it, careful not to touch him, even though you want to. the paper is warm from his pocket. you bring it to your lips and he leans in with the lighter, shielding the flame with his hand. the way his hand cages the fire is practiced, steady. the flame kisses the tip. you inhale.
you cough on the first pull, a humiliating little choke. simon’s mouth twitches again.
“easy,” he says, voice lower. “slow.”
you glare at him, eyes watering. “i am.”
he watches you take another pull, slower this time. the smoke fills your chest, thick and sweet. you hold it, exhale. you hand it back.
simon takes it, his fingers brushing yours for half a second. the contact is nothing. your body reacts like it is something.
he inhales like it is air, not smoke. when he exhales, it rolls out of his mouth in a steady stream, and you catch yourself watching his lips.
you look away fast, heat rising.
minutes pass in a quiet rhythm. joint, tv noise, smoke. you start to feel it behind your eyes, a softening of edges. your shoulders drop. your limbs feel warmer, heavier.
simon glances at you, noticing the change. “there you go.”
“what?” you mumble.
“relaxing,” he says.
you let your head fall back against the couch. “it hits me fast.”
“because you don’t do it,” he says.
“yeah.”
silence stretches. it feels different now. less sharp, more thick, like honey.
your thoughts drift to the thing you have been trying not to think about all week. the sounds through the wall. the way avia talks about it like it is a hobby. the way your friends look at you like you are a puzzle they want to solve.
you turn your head, looking at simon’s profile. his jaw is set, his attention half on the tv, half on you. his throat moves when he swallows. you watch it like you are studying a character for a story. except this character is real and sitting close enough that you can smell his skin.
“can i ask you something?” you say.
he looks at you fully now. “go on.”
your tongue feels thick. “how does it feel?”
his brow furrows. “what.”
“sex,” you say, the word landing in the room like a dropped glass.
simon’s eyes hold yours. the tv light flickers between you. he does not look surprised, exactly. he looks… thoughtful, like he saw this question coming from a mile away and still has to decide how to answer it.
“depends,” he says.
you let out a soft laugh, embarrassed. “that’s not helpful.”
“it’s the truth,” he replies. “feels different with different people. different moods. different… intentions.”
you swallow. “but like. physically. what does it feel like?”
his gaze drops again, down your body, slow enough that you feel it like a touch. it lands on your mouth.
“warm,” he says. “tight. messy. loud, sometimes.”
your thighs press together without you meaning to.
you stare at the tv like it can save you. “i wouldn’t be loud.”
simon huffs a quiet laugh, barely there. “everyone says that.”
you glance back at him, a little offended. “i’m serious.”
“so am i,” he says, and something in his tone makes your stomach flip. “you don’t know until you do.”
your mouth opens. you close it. you take the joint when he offers it, inhale, exhale, and the smoke makes you bolder.
“i want to,” you admit, voice small. “i just… i don’t know. i get scared.”
simon watches your face like he is reading a map. “scared of what.”
“of it hurting. of being bad at it. of… picking wrong.” you swallow hard. “of feeling stupid.”
his eyes soften, almost imperceptibly. “everyone feels stupid the first time.”
you blink. “did you?”
he pauses. “yeah.”
that should make you feel better. instead it makes you curious in a way that is dangerous. you shift closer without thinking, your thigh brushing his. you feel the heat of him through the fabric.
simon’s eyes flick down to the contact. then back up. “you’re getting friendly.”
“i’m high,” you say.
“mm,” he hums, unconvinced.
you stare at his mouth again. you have kissed boys before, pecks at parties, polite little things that felt like checking a box. none of them have ever felt like this, like the air itself is waiting.
your voice drops. “you kiss avia a lot.”
simon’s jaw tightens. “yeah.”
“she says you’re good at… everything,” you say, hating yourself for saying it and not stopping anyway.
his gaze sharpens. “avia talks too much.”
“i know,” you whisper. “i can hear.”
the words hang there. you realize what you just confessed. your face burns.
simon’s eyes narrow slightly, not angry. something else. “you’ve been listening.”
“i didn’t mean to,” you say quickly. “the walls are thin. she’s loud.”
“yeah,” he says, and his voice goes rougher. “i know she’s loud.”
the way he says it makes your stomach drop, like you stepped off a ledge and did not fall yet.
you try to laugh it off. it comes out shaky. “she’s not shy.”
“no,” simon agrees. he takes the joint from your fingers, stubs it in the ashtray, and then he sits back, turning his body more toward you. the movement is small but it shifts the whole room.
his eyes sweep over your face. “what do you want, then.”
you blink, slow. “what do you mean.”
“you’re asking about sex. asking about me.” his voice stays calm, but there is an edge now, like a blade still in its sheath. “avia’s out. you’re sitting close. you’re looking at my mouth like you want to bite it.”
your breath catches. “i’m not.”
he leans in a fraction. “you are.”
your lips part. you do not deny it again. you cannot.
simon studies you for another long moment, then says, almost casually, “want me to teach you how to kiss properly.”
your heart kicks hard. “what.”
he tilts his head. “kissing. you asked. you want to learn. i can show you. no harm in that.”
your mind stutters. “avia would…”
“avia’s not here,” he cuts in, quiet. “and you’re an adult.”
your hands go cold. your body goes hot. you stare at him like if you stare long enough you will see the line you should not cross.
simon’s gaze does not move. he is still, waiting. it makes the choice feel like it belongs to you.
you nod.
it is not a big motion. it is not dramatic. it is just your chin dipping once, like a door unlocking.
something shifts in simon’s face, subtle. approval, maybe. hunger, maybe. he reaches out and cups your jaw with his hand, rough palm warm against your skin. his thumb presses lightly under your chin, tipping your face up.
“look at me,” he murmurs.
your eyes flick to his and hold. your breath trembles.
“good,” he says, and then he leans in.
his mouth covers yours with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your head go empty. it is not a peck. it is not polite. it is a kiss that claims time, that takes your breath like it belongs to him. his lips are warm, slightly dry from smoke. he keeps it steady, giving you a chance to adjust, to follow.
you make a small sound, surprised by how much you feel, and his hand tightens at your jaw like he heard it and liked it.
“easy,” he whispers against your mouth. “relax. open.”
you obey without thinking. your lips part and he slides his tongue in with a controlled, patient stroke that makes your toes curl. you taste smoke and beer and him. he kisses you like he is teaching, like every shift of his mouth is a correction.
you try to mimic him, unsure, and he makes a low sound in his throat that feels like approval.
“there,” he murmurs. “that’s it. follow me.”
your hands hover, not knowing what to do. simon takes one of them and places it on his shoulder, guiding you. his shoulder is solid under your palm, muscle moving when he breathes.
you inhale shakily. “i’m not good at this.”
“you’re fine,” he says, voice soft. “stop thinking.”
he kisses you again, deeper, slower. his tongue sweeps, then retreats, then presses back in. he nips your lower lip gently, then sucks it, and the sensation shoots heat straight down your spine.
you whimper, quiet, involuntary.
simon’s eyes open, watching you as he does it again. “that sound,” he says, rougher. “you can make it louder.”
your face burns. your body does not care.
his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair tie. he tugs, not hard, just enough to tilt your head back and give him access. he breaks the kiss and drags his mouth down your cheek, along your jaw, to the side of your neck.
the first press of his lips there makes you shiver.
“simon,” you whisper without meaning to.
he hums against your skin. “yeah.”
his mouth opens, tongue warm on your throat. he sucks lightly, then harder, and you gasp. the sound fills the room, louder than you expected. your thighs clamp together.
“told you,” he murmurs.
you grip his shoulder tighter, nails pressing through his shirt. your breath comes in quick, thin pulls. the high makes everything feel magnified. his mouth on your neck feels like a spotlight.
he lifts his head and looks at you, eyes sharp. “still just kissing, yeah?”
you nod fast, desperate.
his thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing it. “you’re shaking.”
“i’m fine,” you lie.
“no,” he says quietly. “you’re scared and you’re turned on. that’s different.”
your eyes sting with something you hate. embarrassment, maybe. frustration. you blink hard and shake your head like you can shake it off.
simon watches you, then shifts forward, crowding you into the couch. the movement is smooth and controlled, but it makes you feel small. his knee slides between yours, forcing your legs apart, and you inhale sharply.
his gaze drops to the space he created, then back up. “you’re wearing these shorts like you want attention.”
your throat tightens. “i was just… comfortable.”
“mm,” he murmurs. “comfortable.”
his hand slides down your side, fingers tracing the bare skin where your crop top ends. you flinch at the touch, not from fear, from sensitivity. his hand is rough, calloused. it makes your skin feel soft in comparison.
he watches your reaction closely. “you want me to stop.”
it is not a question. it is a statement, like he is offering you the exit without making you feel weak for taking it.
you shake your head, quick. “no.”
“say it,” he murmurs.
you swallow. “don’t stop.”
something dark and satisfied flickers in his eyes. “good girl.”
the words land heavy. your body melts around them.
he kisses you again, harder now. his tongue pushes in, stealing your breath. he angles his mouth, deepening it, and you find yourself keeping up, your lips parting obediently, your tongue meeting his. he makes a low sound, pleased, and you feel it in your core like a tremor.
his hand slides up your ribs, then cups your breast over your top, squeezing. you gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. his thumb rolls over your nipple through the fabric and your hips jerk.
“sensitive,” he murmurs.
you are. you hate how obvious you are.
simon’s mouth moves to your neck again, teeth scraping lightly. his hand slips under your crop top, palm flattening against your stomach, then gliding upward. his fingers hook under the hem and lift, exposing your skin to the cold air.
your breath stutters. “simon.”
“yeah,” he says again, and his voice sounds like he is holding himself back. “you want to learn. i’m teaching.”
he pushes your top up higher, then pauses, eyes on you. not asking out loud, but watching for your body to pull away.
you do not. you lift your arms a little, letting him. your cheeks are on fire.
simon drags the shirt over your head and tosses it aside like it is nothing. your breasts rise with your breath, bare in the tv light. you feel exposed, suddenly aware of everything, and your eyes sting again with that unwanted emotion.
“look at you,” he murmurs, and his tone is a mix of admiration and something more possessive. his eyes sweep down your body like he is memorizing it. “pretty.”
the compliment makes your stomach twist. you should not want it. you do.
his hand cups your breast properly now, thumb flicking your nipple. you whine, quiet, and his mouth curves in a faint, dangerous smile.
“there it is,” he says. “that’s the sound avia makes too.”
your eyes widen. humiliation and heat crash together. “don’t.”
“don’t what,” he murmurs, leaning in until his mouth brushes your ear. “don’t remind you. or don’t make you feel it.”
your whole body trembles. “don’t compare me.”
he pauses. then his voice drops softer. “alright. no comparing.”
his lips press to your jaw, gentler. “this is you.”
the sweetness makes your throat tight. you nod, almost dizzy.
his hand slides down your stomach, over the waistband of your shorts. he presses his palm there, right above where you are aching, and you gasp like he touched your raw nerve.
“this is what you wanted to know,” he murmurs. “how it feels. you want me to show you.”
you nod, helpless.
simon’s fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. “lift.”
you lift your hips automatically, and he drags the shorts down your thighs in one smooth motion. you kick them off, clumsy. your underwear is small, flimsy, and suddenly you feel ridiculous in it. you cross your arms over your chest instinctively.
simon catches your wrist and pulls your arms down. “don’t hide.”
your breath catches. you stare at him.
his eyes are steady. “i’m the one looking. not them.”
your stomach flips at the possessive edge. you drop your arms.
simon’s gaze dips to your panties, the damp patch already forming. his jaw tightens.
“you’re soaked and you’re telling me you’re scared,” he murmurs, like he finds it fascinating.
“i am,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he says. “but you’re here.”
his hand slides between your thighs, palm pressing over your underwear. the pressure is firm. you jerk, a sharp inhale turning into a shaky moan.
simon’s eyes darken. “louder.”
you bite your lip.
his hand presses harder. “louder.”
a sound escapes you, higher, broken. your face burns. your body does not care.
“good,” he murmurs, and then he shifts down, sliding off the couch to kneel between your legs.
the sight of him down there makes your head spin. simon is big. even kneeling, he fills the space. his shoulders are wide, his arms thick, and the way he looks up at you from that angle makes you feel exposed in a way that turns your stomach to liquid.
he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and pulls it down, slow. the fabric drags over your slickness and you flinch.
“sensitive,” he repeats, almost amused.
your panties fall to the floor. you are bare. you try to close your legs out of reflex, and simon’s hands clamp on your thighs, spreading them wider with ease.
“no,” he says, calm and firm. “stay open.”
your breath shakes. you nod, and your legs stay where he put them because your body is already learning that his hands decide.
simon leans in and exhales over you, warm breath fanning your slickness. you jolt. your hands fly to the couch cushion, gripping. the sensation is too much, too intimate.
he watches your face, then lowers his mouth and presses a slow kiss to your inner thigh. another. then he bites gently, teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp.
“that’s not where you want it,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.
you swallow hard. “please.”
his eyes flick up, sharp. “please what.”
your throat tightens, humiliation building. “please… here.”
he makes a low sound, satisfied. “good.”
then he spits.
it is not a casual thing. it is deliberate. warm spit landing on your cunt, sliding down over your slickness, mixing. the shock of it makes your whole body jerk, and the sound you make is half gasp, half whine.
simon’s mouth curves. “dirty little thing,” he murmurs, and the words should make you recoil, but they make your core clench hard. “you like that.”
you cannot answer. you can only breathe, quick and shaky.
he lowers his mouth and licks, slow, broad. his tongue drags through the wetness, tasting everything, and you cry out, louder than you meant to. your hips jerk up.
simon’s hands clamp harder on your thighs, holding you down. “stay.”
you whimper. “it’s… a lot.”
“yeah,” he says, voice low, and then he pushes his tongue deeper, pressing into you, and you practically sob at the sensation. your hands fumble, gripping his shoulders. he feels solid, unmovable.
he eats you like he is unhurried, like he has all night, tongue working steady patterns that make your body lose track of itself. he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back arches hard, a strangled moan spilling out.
simon hums, pleased, the vibration making you jolt. “that’s it. let it out.”
your thighs tremble. the pleasure builds fast, too fast. you panic, a tightness in your chest. “i’m gonna…”
his mouth lifts slightly. “gonna what.”
you shake your head, eyes squeezing shut. “i don’t know.”
“yes you do,” he murmurs, and then he pulls back, just as your body starts to tip over the edge.
the sudden loss is cruel. you gasp, hips chasing his mouth.
simon’s hands hold you down. “not yet.”
you stare at him, wide-eyed, breath ragged. “why.”
“because i said so,” he replies, calm. “and because you’re too quick. you need to learn to hold it.”
your stomach twists, frustration and need tangling. “please.”
“mm,” he hums, and his eyes rake over your face, taking in the watery eyes, the parted lips, the way you look wrecked already. “you’re a crybaby.”
you flush. “i’m not.”
he leans in, kisses your clit once, sharp, and you yelp. “you are.”
your legs try to close again. he spreads them wider. “stop running.”
“i’m not running,” you whimper.
“you’re trying,” he says, and there is a dark amusement in his tone. “stay put.”
he resumes, slower now, more controlled. his tongue circles your clit, then drags down, then back up, teasing. he keeps you right at the edge, then pulls away again, letting you fall.
each time he denies you, your body gets more desperate. you start to babble, incoherent little sounds. your hands clutch his shoulders, then the couch, then your own thighs like you do not know where to put them.
simon watches it all, patient and relentless.
“look at you,” he murmurs. “already drooling. eyes gone soft. and i haven’t even started.”
your mouth falls open. you do not remember opening it. your tongue feels thick. you swallow and it does nothing.
he slides one thick finger into you, slow. you gasp, eyes rolling back for a second.
“tight,” he says, and his voice goes rough. “yeah. i can feel it.”
your body clamps around his finger like it is trying to hold it. he pumps once, twice, then adds a second finger, stretching you. you cry out, tears pricking your eyes.
“hurts?” he asks, gaze sharp.
“no,” you lie, then immediately whimper when he curls his fingers and hits something inside you that makes your whole body jerk.
simon’s mouth curves. “that’s the spot.”
you make a sound that does not feel like language. your hips lift. he holds you down.
he spits again, this time into your mouth.
it is sudden. warm spit landing on your tongue. you freeze, shocked, then swallow instinctively.
simon watches your throat move. “good,” he murmurs. “take it.”
your face burns. your body clenches around his fingers.
he leans in, kissing you, mouth tasting like you. his tongue pushes in and your mind goes foggy. you kiss him back, needy, messy. you do not know how to be graceful. he does not seem to care. he likes the mess.
he pulls back and stands, towering over you. he looks down, eyes dark, and then he grabs your hips and yanks you toward the edge of the couch like you weigh nothing.
you squeak, startled. “simon.”
“hands,” he says.
you blink. “what.”
“hands on the backrest,” he repeats, tone leaving no room. “ass up.”
the command makes heat rush through you, sharp. you obey on instinct, clumsy from the high and the pleasure. you lean forward, palms pressing into the couch back, knees on the cushion, ass raised.
you feel exposed, open, vulnerable.
you also feel eager in a way that scares you.
behind you, simon’s sweatpants rustle. you hear the zipper. you hear him pull his cock free, heavy and thick, and your stomach drops.
you glance back despite yourself.
he is big. not just big, but thick in a way that makes your mind stutter. the head is flushed, veins running along the length. his hand wraps around it and it still looks like too much.
you swallow hard. fear spikes. “that’s… that’s big.”
simon’s gaze pins you. “yeah.”
your breath trembles. “i can’t…”
he steps closer, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you look at him over your shoulder. his voice drops, calm and brutal. “you can.”
your eyes sting. you nod even though you are terrified.
he releases your hair and spits into his hand, stroking himself slow, coating his cock. then he drags his hand between your thighs, spreading slickness over you, pressing his thumb to your clit once, making you jolt.
“you’re ready,” he says, like it is a fact.
he positions the head at your entrance and presses, slow. the stretch is immediate, sharp enough that you gasp and your hands grip the couch harder.
simon pauses. his hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “breathe.”
you try. the inhale shakes.
he pushes again, inch by inch. the burn is real. tears spill without you meaning to. you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood.
“that’s it,” he murmurs, and his voice goes unexpectedly soft, almost tender. “you’re doing good. keep breathing for me.”
the sweetness makes you cry harder, which is humiliating, and which also makes your body loosen a fraction.
simon takes that opening and slides in deeper.
you sob, a broken sound, and your body trembles around him. he is stretching you in a way you have never felt, a fullness that makes you feel like you are being filled up, claimed.
“fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking for the first time. “so tight.”
you are halfway impaled and your mind feels like static. your thoughts scatter, replaced by sensation. his hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in.
he holds still, letting you adjust. the pressure eases slightly, becoming an ache that is almost… good. you gasp, blinking through tears, and you feel your body start to accept him.
simon leans down, mouth near your ear. “you alright.”
you nod, frantic. “yeah. yeah.”
“good,” he murmurs. “don’t run.”
you do not understand what he means until he pulls out slightly and your body instinctively tries to retreat from the stretch.
he holds you in place. “there. that’s you trying.”
you whimper. “i’m sorry.”
“don’t apologise,” he says, and his tone goes darker again. “take it.”
then he thrusts in, deeper, and you cry out loud enough that it bounces off the thin walls. your cheeks burn with the thought of neighbors.
simon does not slow. he starts to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, stretching you open a little more. the burn fades into pleasure, a deep, heavy pleasure that makes your legs shake.
your moans slip out, messy, high, then broken into little gasps. you hear yourself and it feels unreal, like someone else is making those sounds.
simon’s hand slides up your back and grabs the base of your neck, forcing your head down, pressing you into the couch. “stay.”
the word hits like a collar. you obey, forehead near the cushion, ass still raised, taking him.
his pace increases. the couch creaks. his balls slap against you. the sounds are obscene in the quiet apartment.
“that it,” simon growls. “you wanted to know what it feels like. this what it feels like.”
your mouth opens and a string of drool slips out onto the cushion. you do not even register it until you taste salt. your eyes roll back. your arms tremble.
simon’s grip tightens. “look at you.”
he pulls your hair, yanking your head back, making you arch. his thrusts get harder, deeper, and the new angle makes your vision blur.
“simon,” you sob. “it’s… it’s a lot.”
“yeah,” he says, almost gently. “and you’re taking it.”
he slaps your ass, sharp. you yelp.
“mine,” he murmurs, voice low and brutal. “right now. you understand.”
you do not know what to say. you can only nod, whimpering.
he thrusts harder, the pace turning rough. your body rocks with each impact. the pleasure starts to build again, fast and unstoppable, and panic flares because it is too much, too soon.
“i’m gonna…” you gasp.
simon pulls out abruptly.
you cry out, a broken, desperate sound, hips chasing him. “no, don’t.”
he grabs your hips and holds you still, cock resting at your entrance, wet and glistening. “not yet.”
you turn your head, tears on your cheeks, glaring weakly. “why are you doing that.”
“because you need to learn,” he says, calm, as if he is explaining a drill. “and because i like watching you fall apart.”
your body trembles with frustration. you whine, pathetic. “please.”
simon’s eyes narrow slightly. “use your words.”
your mind is fog. your tongue feels heavy. “please let me… come.”
his mouth twitches. “that’s better.”
then he pushes back in and fucks you hard enough that you scream, the orgasm slamming into you like a wave you cannot outrun.
your body clenches around him, pulsing. your legs shake. your hands slip on the couch. your moan turns into a sob.
simon rides it, thrusting through your climax with controlled brutality, making it last longer than you can handle.
“good girl,” he growls. “that’s it. squeeze me.”
your eyes roll back. your mouth hangs open. you feel stupid, blissfully stupid, thoughts dissolving into wet heat.
and then it happens. the pressure inside you snaps and you gush, liquid spilling, soaking the couch, dripping down your thighs. the sensation is shocking, intense, and you cry out again, louder, voice breaking.
simon stills for a split second, then lets out a low, rough laugh. “there it is.”
humiliation burns through you. “oh my god.”
“don’t,” he says, tone sharp. “don’t get shy now.”
his hand slides down between your legs, fingers spreading the mess, making you feel it. you sob, overstimulated, and he keeps going.
“you’re a squirter,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “look at the mess you made.”
you shake, whimpering, trying to squirm away. your body wants escape.
simon grips your hips and yanks you back. “nah. you’re not running.”
“i can’t,” you cry, voice high and wrecked. “it’s too much.”
“yes you can,” he says, and his voice goes soft in a way that makes you feel safe even while he is being merciless. “breathe. take it.”
he pulls out and flips you with startling ease. one moment you are bent over the couch, the next you are on your back, legs hauled up, knees near your chest. the movement makes you dizzy.
simon stands over you, chest rising, cock wet and shining. he looks down at you like you are something he owns for the night.
your eyes are glassy. your lips are swollen. you can feel drool at the corner of your mouth. you wipe it instinctively, ashamed.
simon catches your wrist. “leave it.”
your throat tightens. you stare at him.
he leans down and spits into your open mouth again, slower this time, like he is rewarding you. you swallow, eyes fluttering. your body clenches.
“good,” he murmurs, and then he presses two fingers to your lips, pushing them in. “suck.”
you do, obedient, cheeks hollowing. your eyes roll back at the taste of yourself on his fingers.
simon watches, jaw tight. “pretty mouth.”
then he pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock, tapping the head against your lips.
your eyes widen. fear flickers. you have never done this. you do not know how.
simon’s hand slides into your hair, gripping. not gentle. controlling. “open.”
you open.
he pushes in, thick head filling your mouth, and you gag on instinct. tears spring to your eyes again. simon holds still, letting you adjust, then pulls back and pushes forward again, slow at first.
“breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. “that’s it.”
your hands fly to his thighs, gripping. he is solid, unyielding. the cock in your mouth makes your jaw ache, makes you feel small.
simon’s eyes hold yours. “look at me. don’t close your eyes.”
you obey, blinking through tears. the eye contact is humiliating, intimate. your throat works around him. your saliva slicks his cock, drooling down your chin.
“good,” he says, voice rough. “you’re learning fast.”
then he starts to thrust.
it is controlled, but it is rough. he uses your mouth, sliding in deeper, pulling out, then pushing back in until the head bumps the back of your throat. you gag, choke, tears spilling. your hands claw at his thighs.
simon’s grip on your hair tightens. “that’s it. take it. stop fighting.”
you are not fighting. your body just reacts. you try to relax, try to open your throat, and the moment you do, he pushes deeper, making you choke again.
your moans come out muffled, vibrating around him. it is obscene. it makes your cunt clench hard even though you are already sore.
simon’s voice drops, sweet and cruel at once. “you wanted to know what avia’s been screaming about.”
your eyes widen, a fresh wave of humiliation. your body clenches harder.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “you like being used. don’t you.”
you make a sound that might be “yes” but it is mostly a sob. your head feels light, floating.
simon slows suddenly and pulls out, leaving your mouth empty. you gasp, drool dripping down your chin. he wipes it with his thumb and smears it across your lips like he is marking you.
“pretty,” he says again, softer.
then he moves, hauling you up by your arms and turning you so you are on your knees again, facing the couch. he pushes you down, chest to cushion, ass up.
your body jolts with anticipation and fear. you whimper.
simon spits onto your cunt again, then spreads it with his fingers, slicking you up with your own wetness and his. the touch makes you shudder.
“you’re still leaking,” he murmurs, like he is pleased. “good.”
he positions himself and thrusts back into you in one hard push.
you scream, loud, voice cracking. the fullness is overwhelming again, but now your body is looser, more accepting. the pain is sharp then fades into a deep, brutal pleasure.
simon’s hands clamp on your hips and he starts to pound. no slow build now. he sets a rhythm that shakes you, makes the couch slam against the wall with each thrust.
your moans turn into sobs. your face presses into the cushion. drool smears. your eyes roll back. your arms go weak.
“there it is,” simon growls. “limp for me. let me do the work.”
you barely have the strength to nod. your body becomes sensation, nothing else. each thrust hits deep, bruising in the best way, dragging pleasure out of you even as you whine that you cannot take more.
“you can,” he grits out. “you’re taking it right now.”
his hand slides up your back and grabs your throat from behind, not choking, just holding, grounding you. the possession of it makes your mind go blank.
“mine,” he repeats, voice low.
your pussy clenches around him at the words, and he lets out a harsh breath.
he pulls out again.
you sob, a broken sound, hips chasing. your body feels empty and desperate.
simon smacks your ass hard. “still needy.”
“please,” you cry.
“shut up,” he murmurs, and it is not cruel, it is commanding. “listen.”
you go still, trembling.
“i’m going to make you come again,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “but you’re not going to run from it. you’re going to stay open and take what i give you. yeah.”
your brain is mush. you nod.
simon’s hand slides between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles while his cock presses at your entrance, teasing.
you whine, shaking. “simon…”
“yeah,” he murmurs. “say my name. sounds good on you.”
your voice breaks. “simon.”
he pushes in, hard, and starts to fuck you again while his fingers keep rubbing. the double stimulation is violent. your body convulses, pleasure spiking too fast.
you try to squirm away. he yanks you back by the hips, forcing you to take it.
“nah,” he growls. “stay.”
your orgasm hits like lightning. you cry out, sobbing, and you gush again, soaking his cock, the couch, your thighs. the wet sound is loud, obscene.
simon does not stop. he keeps pounding, thrusts snapping your body forward, making you take it through the peak until the pleasure turns into overstimulation.
“too much,” you sob. “too much.”
“yeah,” he says, voice rough but strangely gentle. “and you’re still here.”
your legs shake so hard you think they might give out. your arms collapse. you end up face-down, limp, body trembling. your mouth opens, drool sliding out again. you cannot stop it.
simon slows, then pulls out and grabs your hair, lifting your head enough to make you look at the mess under you. cum and slickness and your own release, shining in the tv light.
“look,” he commands.
your eyes flutter. you force them open. shame burns.
simon’s hand slides down, scooping some of the wetness and smearing it over your cunt, over your thighs. “you see that.”
you nod weakly.
“that’s you,” he murmurs. “you did that.”
your lips tremble. you whisper, barely audible, “i’m sorry.”
his grip tightens in your hair. “don’t apologise for being a good girl.”
the words hit like warmth. you sob, soft.
simon pulls you up again, turning you so you are slumped against the couch, half-sitting. your legs are spread, trembling, and he kneels between them. he looks up at you, eyes sharp, and you feel like prey and worship at the same time.
he presses his mouth to your cunt again and licks, slow, cleaning you, tasting you, making you whine. the overstimulation makes it almost painful. you try to close your legs and he holds them open with one hand like it is nothing.
“stay open,” he murmurs against you. “take it.”
you shake, eyes rolling. your hands fumble for his shoulders, clutching like you are drowning.
simon lifts his head and kisses your inner thigh, softer. “breathe,” he repeats. “you’re alright.”
you nod, tears streaking down your cheeks. you feel wrecked, raw.
he stands and pulls you up, guiding you toward the hallway. your legs wobble. you cling to his arm instinctively, and he steadies you without comment.
he leads you to his and avia’s bedroom.
the room smells like them. clean sheets, faint perfume, cologne. your stomach twists at the reality of where you are.
simon shuts the door behind you and turns. he looks at you like he is deciding something. then he reaches out and cups your cheek, thumb wiping a tear.
“you still with me,” he murmurs.
you nod, breath trembling. “yeah.”
“good,” he says.
then he pushes you onto the bed, not gentle, but careful in the way he controls you. you bounce on the mattress, hair messy, eyes glassy.
simon strips his tank off in one motion, tossing it aside. his torso is broad, muscled, scars faintly visible in the soft light. he looks like a man built for violence who learned how to be quiet about it.
he crawls onto the bed and presses his weight over you, heavy and warm. you gasp at the press of him, at the feel of his cock against your thigh.
he kisses you again, deep, messy, swallowing your breath. his hand slides under your head and lifts it, angling you. he controls everything, the pace, the pressure, the air you get.
you moan into his mouth, soft and broken. it sounds wrong and right at once.
simon pulls back, breath rough. “you’re going to take it again.”
your eyes widen. your body clenches.
he taps your cheek lightly, not unkind. “don’t look scared. you’ve done it now.”
your lips tremble. “i’m sore.”
“i know,” he murmurs, and the softness in his voice makes your chest ache. “i’ll make it good.”
his hand slides down between your legs, fingers spreading you, feeling how wet you still are. he hums low.
“still ready,” he says.
you whine. “you keep saying that.”
“because it’s true,” he replies, and then he pushes into you again, slow this time, letting you feel every inch, letting your body open.
you gasp, tears pricking again. simon kisses your forehead, surprisingly gentle.
“breathe,” he murmurs. “that’s it. i’ve got you.”
your body relaxes around him in small increments. the pain fades into a deep ache, then into pleasure as he fills you completely.
simon stills, watching your face. “you want me rough again.”
the question hangs. your body answers before your mind can. your hips lift, seeking him. your hands claw at his back.
simon’s eyes darken. “yeah. thought so.”
he pulls your legs up higher, folding you. the angle is obscene, makes you feel exposed. then he starts to thrust, slow and deep at first, then harder.
the bed creaks. your moans rise, unfiltered. you do not have the pride to be quiet anymore. you only have sensation.
simon leans down, mouth at your ear. “you’re going to come when i tell you.”
your eyes flutter. “i…”
“yeah,” he murmurs. “you will.”
he fucks you harder, the rhythm turning rough again, his hips snapping. each thrust hits deep, dragging pleasure out of you in sharp waves. your body starts to chase it, desperate, and your mind goes blank, replaced by heat and pressure.
“please,” you sob.
simon’s hand slides to your throat again, holding. “not yet.”
you whine, shaking. your eyes roll. drool gathers again at your lower lip.
“look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “pretty and dumb on my cock.”
humiliation and heat collide. your cunt clenches hard. simon groans low.
“yeah,” he says. “you like that.”
you cannot answer. you can only moan, breathless.
he reaches down and rubs your clit again, rougher now, and the sensation tips you toward the edge.
your whole body tenses, desperate for release. “simon, please, i’m…”
he stops moving.
the sudden stillness is torture. you gasp, eyes wide, hips jerking, trying to force friction.
simon holds you down by your hips, voice calm and brutal. “stay still.”
you whimper, tears spilling. “i can’t.”
“you can,” he says, and his tone turns sweet, almost gentle. “hold it. good girl. hold it for me.”
your body trembles, hovering at the edge, denied. it feels like being held underwater with your lungs full.
simon watches your face, fascinated. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “i can see it. you’re right there.”
you sob, helpless. “please.”
“say it properly,” he says, voice low.
your mind is mush. you force the words out. “please let me come.”
simon’s mouth curves. “there you go.”
then he starts moving again, hard, fast, and the orgasm crashes into you so violently you choke on your own moan.
your body convulses. your back arches. your legs shake. you gush again, soaking him, the sheets, everything. the mess spreads, warm and obscene.
simon keeps fucking you through it, thrusts relentless, making you ride the wave until it turns into overstimulation again.
you cry, voice breaking. “i can’t, i can’t.”
“yes you can,” he growls, and his control slips, more raw. “take it. take all of it.”
his breath goes harsh. his thrusts turn erratic, deeper. you feel his cock twitch inside you.
simon pulls out at the last second and jerks himself, stroking fast. he kneels between your spread legs and comes over your cunt and thighs, thick spills landing hot, mixing with your wetness. some drips down toward your ass. it is messy, shameless.
you stare, dazed, watching it run. your mind feels far away.
simon watches you watch it, eyes dark. “look at that.”
you swallow, throat bobbing.
he scoops some with his fingers and smears it over your clit, making you jolt and whine. “that’s mine,” he murmurs.
your body clenches, oversensitive. you try to squirm away and he catches your hips, holding you still.
you whimper, exhausted. “i’m tired.”
something soft flickers in his face. he releases you and shifts up, hovering over you again. his hand brushes your cheek, thumb wiping away another tear.
“yeah,” he murmurs, calmer now. “i know.”
he gets up and disappears into the bathroom. you lie there, chest heaving, legs trembling, staring at the ceiling like it might explain what just happened. your body feels used and cared for at the same time, and it makes your brain ache.
when simon returns, he has a warm washcloth and a bottle of water. he sits on the edge of the bed and gently wipes your thighs, your cunt, cleaning the mess with a methodical care that feels almost intimate in a different way.
you flinch once from sensitivity and he pauses immediately, eyes on your face. “too much?”
you nod, weak.
he softens the pressure, wiping slower. “alright.”
you take the water when he offers it, hands shaking. you sip, throat dry.
simon watches you, then says quietly, “you did well.”
the praise hits harder than the degradation. your eyes sting again. you look away, embarrassed.
simon catches your chin, turning your face back. “don’t look away.”
you meet his eyes, glassy.
his voice drops. “you still scared.”
you swallow. “i don’t know what i am.”
he studies you for a long moment. then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, brief and grounding.
“you’re alive,” he says simply. “and you learned.”
you let out a shaky laugh that turns into a small sob. “that’s not…”
he huffs a quiet laugh. “yeah. i know.”
you lie there while he finishes cleaning you. then he pulls a blanket over you, tucking it around your shoulders with an unexpected gentleness that makes your chest feel tight.
you blink up at him. “why are you being nice.”
simon’s jaw tightens slightly. “because i’m not a monster.”
you swallow. “avia…”
his gaze sharpens. “don’t.”
the word is quiet but final. it makes you go still.
he looks down at you, eyes tired. “she’s my bird. you’re her sister.”
your stomach drops. shame spikes.
simon’s hand cups your cheek again, thumb brushing. “and you’re an adult who wanted something. i gave it to you.”
you stare at him, heart pounding. “so what now.”
simon’s eyes flick toward the door, like he can hear time moving. “now you breathe. you drink your water. you don’t make noise. and you don’t say a word about this.”
the possessive edge returns, controlled. it steadies you.
you nod.
simon’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. he glances at it, then at you.
“she’s on her way back,” he murmurs.
your heart lurches. panic rises, sharp. you sit up too fast and wince, sore.
simon’s hand presses gently to your shoulder. “easy.”
“i can’t be in here,” you whisper, voice shaking. “she’ll know.”
“she won’t,” he says, calm. “listen to me.”
his tone makes you obey before you realize you are obeying.
he helps you up, steadying you when your legs wobble. he hands you your shorts and top. you pull them on with clumsy fingers, cheeks burning.
simon wipes the sheets quickly, practical, then tosses a blanket over the wet spot like it belongs there. he opens a window slightly, air shifting.
he grabs your chin again, tilting your face up. “look at me.”
you meet his eyes, panicked.
his voice drops, low and steady. “you’re going to your room. you’re going to shower. you’re going to act normal. you can do that.”
you swallow. “yeah.”
“good,” he murmurs. “and if you can’t, you come to me and i’ll fix it.”
the words make your stomach flip in a way that is not purely fear.
you nod again, then slip out of the bedroom and down the hall on shaky legs. your body aches. your thighs feel sticky. you feel like everyone can see what happened just by looking at you.
in your bathroom, you turn the shower on hot and step under it, water pounding your skin. you wash slowly, careful, wincing when you touch yourself. you stare at your own face in the fogged mirror afterward. your eyes look different. softer. wrecked.
you dress in an oversized t-shirt and crawl into bed, heart still racing. you try to steady your breathing like simon told you. you stare at the ceiling, listening.
you hear the front door open.
avia’s voice floods the apartment, loud and bright. “i’m home!”
your stomach knots. you hold your breath, listening like your life depends on it.
you hear simon’s voice, calm from the living room. “alright.”
avia laughs. “why you sound like that. you miss me or what.”
“yeah,” he says, and it is so normal it makes you dizzy.
you hear her toss her purse down. you hear her heels kick off. you hear her chatter, words blurring.
you press your hand to your mouth, swallowing a shaky sound.
and then, in the middle of her talking, there is a brief pause, like the apartment takes a breath.
you feel it before you hear it. footsteps. slow, measured. approaching your door.
your heart slams.
there is a soft knock. not loud. not demanding.
you freeze, eyes wide.
the door cracks open just enough to show a sliver of simon in the hallway light. his hair is slightly messier. his face is calm, unreadable. his eyes find yours immediately.
he does not speak. he just looks at you.
it is not the look he gave you when he was teaching you to kiss. it is not the look he gave you when he was pinning you down and calling you his for the night.
it is quieter. heavier.
his gaze drops, just once, to your mouth. then back to your eyes.
a message without words: stay calm. stay quiet. remember.
you swallow and nod, tiny.
simon’s eyes narrow in approval. then he closes the door without a sound.
in the living room, avia laughs again, loud enough to fill the whole apartment, and you lie there in the dark, body aching, mind buzzing, realizing something you did not want to realize.
you are not the same girl who was staring at a blinking cursor a few hours ago.
and somewhere out there, in the space between thin walls and careful footsteps, simon riley is still moving through the apartment like nothing happened, like he is made of control.
except you know how he sounds when he loses it.
and you know, now, that he knows how you sound too.
the door clicks shut, soft as a secret, and the apartment keeps breathing like nothing happened.
for a while you lie there listening to avia’s voice bounce off the walls, bright and careless, and simon’s low replies threaded through it like calm stitching. you hold your own breath until your lungs ache, then let it go in a slow, silent spill, staring at the ceiling like it might rearrange itself into an answer.
it does not. it just stays there, plain and white, while your body hums with the echo of hands and teeth and weight, while your skin remembers pressure like it is a language you never learned until tonight. you blink until your eyes burn, then you roll over and press your face into your pillow, trying to bury the memory under cotton.
it does not bury.
sleep comes in pieces. when you wake up, sunlight pours in like it owns the room. your body is sore in ways you have never been sore, and even the smallest movement reminds you of what happened, of how big he was, how close the line came to snapping.
you lie still, listening.
you can hear avia in the kitchen, humming while she makes coffee. you can hear simon in the bathroom, water running, the soft clink of his belt buckle. normal noises. normal morning. your stomach twists like it wants to crawl out of your throat.
then you feel it, sharp and unavoidable, when you shift your legs. tenderness. a dull ache. the kind of proof you cannot hide from yourself.
you sit up slowly, staring at your knees. you are not bleeding, not like in the horror stories people tell when they want you to be afraid. you are just sore, swollen, and deeply, embarrassingly aware.
when you finally step into the hallway, your sister looks up immediately, eyes bright. “hey, sleepy.”
you force a smile. “morning.”
avia’s gaze drops from your face to the way you move, the careful way you set your feet, the slight stiffness in your hips. her eyebrows lift, then her mouth falls open like she just got handed a gift.
“hold on,” she says, setting her mug down. “no way.”
your stomach drops. “what.”
avia’s grin spreads, almost feral with delight. she leans on the counter, eyes scanning you like she is reading a headline. “girl… don’t play with me. you look… different.”
you swallow. “i’m just tired.”
“no,” she says, pointing at you like she has caught you committing a crime. “you got that soft little limp. and your face is all…,” she waves her hand, searching for the word, “dreamy. don’t lie.”
you laugh, too sharp. “avia, stop.”
she steps closer, lowering her voice like she is being respectful while still being avia. “did you finally do it.”
heat floods your face. you glance toward the bathroom door, heart racing. you can hear simon moving in there. the sound makes your stomach tighten.
you do the first thing your brain offers you. you lie.
“yeah,” you say softly. “i did.”
avia freezes, then squeals, actually squeals, grabbing your shoulders. “i knew it! i knew you was gonna stop playing with your life.”
“avia,” you hiss, trying to pull back, but she is already bouncing on her toes.
“who,” she demands. “who is he. don’t say nobody. i want a name.”
your mouth goes dry. you scramble, mind snagging on the safest thing, the thing that sounds believable. “a boy from my writing class.”
avia’s eyes widen. “a writing class boy? okay, miss romance novel.”
you swallow hard. “we’ve been talking.”
“for how long,” she presses, eyes glittering.
“a little bit,” you say vaguely, because specifics feel like traps.
avia studies you for a moment, then nods like she approves of your vagueness. “alright. and was it… good.”
you hesitate, remembering a heavy body, a low voice, hands that decided everything. your throat tightens. you force yourself to keep the lie simple, clean.
“he was,” you clear your throat, “big. and it was good for my first time.”
avia’s face goes soft in a way that surprises you. she squeezes your shoulders gently. “okay. i’m happy for you. for real.”
you manage a small smile. “yeah.”
“i’m not gonna press for details if you don’t want,” she says, though you can tell it costs her. “but i do want details eventually.”
you nod, grateful and guilty at once. “i’ll tell you later.”
“good,” she says, brightening again. “i’ll wait. but i’m proud of you, okay. you did it when you felt ready. that’s what matters.”
your throat burns. you nod again, unable to speak.
then the bathroom door opens.
simon steps out like he belongs to the air itself, hair damp, face calm. he is already dressed, black shirt, dark jeans, boots. he looks the same as he always does. that steadiness makes you feel unsteady.
his eyes flick to you.
just once.
it is not a lingering look. it is not anything avia could catch if she wasn’t already turned toward him. but it is enough. it lands on you like a hand.
you freeze.
simon’s expression does not change. he looks away, walking to the kitchen like you are not standing there with your skin buzzing under your clothes.
avia turns and wraps her arms around him from the side. “morning, babe.”
“morning,” he replies, voice low.
she kisses his cheek, then looks back at you, mouth full of secrets. “my sister finally out here living.”
simon pauses, beer-bottle posture without the bottle, the slightest stillness.
“yeah,” he says, and his voice is even. “good for her.”
the words should feel like nothing.
they feel like everything.
a month passes like that. not in a straight line, not clean, but in days that stack up quietly until the calendar changes and your body still hasn’t forgotten.
simon never touches you again.
he does not corner you. he does not look at you the way he looked at you that night. he does not let his hands linger when you pass him in the hallway. he does not say your name like it tastes good. he becomes, if anything, more careful. more silent. more normal.
it should make you feel relieved.
instead it makes you feel like you are carrying a live wire under your skin.
your mind keeps replaying moments you did not ask it to replay. the way he sounded when he lost his control. the way his voice went soft when you were shaking. the way he took care of you after, practical and gentle, like he could be cruel with his body and kind with his hands in the same breath.
and the worst part is what happens to you now, when you are alone.
you have always known what desire was, in a theoretical way. you have written it. you have read it. you have watched it from a distance like a person standing outside a club, listening to the bass through the walls.
now it lives in you.
it wakes up in the morning with you. it follows you through campus. it sits next to you in lecture, pressing against the inside of your thighs while your professor talks about narrative structure and you try not to squirm in your seat.
you find yourself thinking about simon in the smallest, stupidest ways. his hands on a coffee mug. his neck when he tilts his head to listen to avia. the way his sleeves ride up when he washes dishes. the sound of his boots at the door. the smell of smoke when he walks past you.
your body reacts like a traitor. nipples tightening under your bra. heat pooling low in your belly. slickness that comes too easily, too fast, like your body is eager to embarrass you.
you start touching yourself more than you ever have, not because you want to be wild, not because you want to be reckless, but because you feel like you are going to split open from the need if you do not.
it is not romantic. it is not pretty. it is sometimes desperate and silent, your hand muffled by the blanket, your teeth clamped down on your bottom lip so you do not make noise through thin walls again. when you finish, it never feels like enough. it never feels like that night. it never makes the ache go away.
and it scares you, a little, how quickly your body learned to want.
you try to write about it. you try to put it on the page like it will become manageable if you can turn it into prose. you fill paragraphs with metaphors and sensory details, then delete them because none of it feels honest enough. the real thing is too blunt. too hungry.
one night, after you’ve been tossing in bed for hours, you hear avia walking around in the living room, phone pressed to her ear, laughing. you hear simon’s voice in the background, low, barely there. you hate how just hearing him makes your body tense.
you sit up, breathing hard. the high-strung edge of your own need makes you angry. at yourself. at him. at the fact that he can go back to normal like you were never under him.
you get out of bed and walk to the living room on bare feet, hair messy, eyes tired. avia looks up mid-sentence and grins. “what’s up.”
you wait until she hangs up, then you sit on the other end of the couch and stare at your hands.
avia’s grin fades a little. “okay. something up.”
your throat tightens. you pick the lie again, because it is already built, already standing.
“it’s my body,” you say quietly.
avia’s eyes soften. she scoots closer, her voice dropping. “what about it.”
you swallow. “after… after i did it. i feel… different.”
avia nods, calm. “yeah. that happens.”
“i think about it a lot,” you admit, cheeks burning. “like, all the time. and i feel…,” you search for words that won’t make you sound like you’re losing your mind, “i feel like i want it again. but it’s not like i can just… do that.”
avia leans back, studying you with the kind of seriousness she usually saves for family emergencies. “you talking about that boy.”
you nod, because you have to.
avia makes a sympathetic face. “mm. okay. that makes sense.”
you stare at the floor. “it’s annoying.”
she laughs softly. “yeah, it is. welcome to being grown.”
you huff, embarrassed. “i’m serious.”
“i know,” avia says, reaching out to rub your shoulder. “listen. your first time can kind of… unlock something. your body gets familiar with the feeling, and it starts craving it. it don’t mean you crazy. it means you human.”
you swallow. “so what do i do.”
avia shrugs. “if you and him still talking, you can do it again. simple.”
your stomach flips. “what if he doesn’t want to.”
avia’s eyebrows lift. “if he had you once, he probably want you again. but you gotta communicate.”
you look away, heat flooding your face. “i don’t know how.”
avia leans in, voice gentle but still her. “baby, you a writing major. you literally majoring in words. use them.”
you laugh weakly, then sigh. “it’s just… i don’t want to look desperate.”
avia rolls her eyes. “desperate is calling him forty times. asking a man you like for something you both want is not desperate. it’s adult.”
you nod slowly, pretending it helps more than it does.
avia bumps your shoulder lightly. “and if it was good, don’t punish yourself by acting like you got to pretend you don’t want it again. just be smart.”
be smart. you almost laugh at that, because you have been trying to be smart for weeks and your body keeps voting against you.
the next day you do something that is both smart and stupid. you start making the lie more real.
you pick a boy from your writing class who has been looking at you for a while, the kind of look that is hopeful and nervous instead of hungry. his name is jamie. he is tall in a gentle way, with kind eyes and an earnest smile. he has ink stains on his fingers sometimes. he laughs at your jokes like they are worth hearing.
you tell yourself it is for the story. to make it believable. to make avia stop asking. to get your mind off simon.
you do not tell yourself the truth, which is that you want to see if your body will react to someone else the same way.
jamie asks you out after class, stammering a little. “do you… want to get coffee. or something.”
you say yes because you are tired of being haunted by a man you cannot have.
the coffee turns into a few dates. jamie is sweet. he listens when you talk. he asks questions about your writing like he means it. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t press his hands into your skin like he owns it. he kisses you gently, like he is afraid of messing up.
the gentleness should feel good.
it just feels like nothing compared to the memory you keep swallowing.
when you finally go back to jamie’s place, it feels like you are stepping into a scene you wrote, not one you are living. his apartment smells like laundry detergent and instant ramen. he’s nervous, hands shaking a little when he touches your waist. he keeps checking your face.
“you okay,” he whispers.
you nod, because you are too far into the lie to stop.
jamie is careful. he goes slow. he kisses you like he wants to be respectful, like he thinks tenderness is the whole job. it would have been perfect for the girl you were before.
now you keep waiting for the moment your body sparks the way it did with simon.
it doesn’t.
you feel pressure, movement, warmth, but it’s muted, like someone turned the volume down. jamie whispers sweet things, praise that is soft, and you nod and make sounds you know you’re supposed to make. you arch when you’re supposed to arch. you breathe harder when you’re supposed to breathe harder. you keep your face angled away so he can’t see the blankness.
when he finishes, he does it quietly, a shaky exhale against your shoulder. you don’t even realize what happened until later, when you’re in the bathroom and you feel the slick heaviness and you stare at yourself in the mirror with your stomach sinking.
you tell yourself it’s fine. you tell yourself you’ll handle it. you tell yourself you’ll never do it again.
a week later you start throwing up.
it happens in the morning at first. then it happens at random times, sharp nausea turning your stomach like it’s being wrung out. you blame stress. you blame cafeteria food. you blame everything except what your gut already knows.
you count days on your phone calendar with trembling fingers. you stare at the screen until your eyes blur.
you do not tell avia. you do not tell your friends. you move like a ghost in your own life, swallowing bile in bathroom stalls between classes, chewing mint gum until your jaw aches.
finally, you go to the clinic alone.
the waiting room smells like disinfectant and stale air. you fill out forms with shaky hands. you keep your eyes on the floor, like if you don’t look up, nobody can read your guilt.
when the nurse calls you back, your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.
the test is quick. the confirmation is quieter than you expected. the nurse’s voice is gentle, almost rehearsed.
“it’s positive,” she says.
your stomach drops anyway, like you weren’t braced for it.
“how far along,” you whisper, because you need a number like you need oxygen.
she gives you an estimate and a small pamphlet, talks about next steps. your ears ring. you nod like you’re listening. you’re not. you’re counting backward again, the timeline slicing through your mind until it lands on jamie’s apartment, on the quiet softness, on the way you didn’t even notice.
you walk out of the clinic with your hands clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms.
you sit in your car for a long time staring at the steering wheel, breathing like you just ran a mile.
jamie’s baby.
you know it. you know it with a kind of cold certainty. you remember simon pulling out. you remember the way he was careful at the end, controlled. you remember the mess, yes, but you remember the way he didn’t finish inside you.
your stomach churns again, partly nausea, partly disgust at your own panic.
two days pass and you keep the secret like a stone in your mouth.
then it happens in the living room, on an evening that should have been nothing.
avia and simon are on the couch. avia is sitting sideways in his lap, arms looped around his shoulders, laughing at something on her phone. simon has a cigarette in his hand, smoke curling up slow. he looks calm, distant, the way he always does.
you sit on the other end of the couch with a throw pillow against your stomach, trying to hide the nausea that keeps rolling through you. the tv is on low. the apartment smells like smoke and avia’s perfume and something fried she brought home.
you are upset in a way that feels unfair, because nothing is happening. simon isn’t doing anything wrong. he’s kissing your sister’s cheek, letting her cling, letting her be loud. you’re the one sitting here with your body full of secrets, with your skin still remembering hands that haven’t touched you in a month.
simon doesn’t glance at you once.
not once.
your throat tightens. your eyes sting. your stomach flips with nausea and jealousy so sharp it makes you dizzy.
and before you can stop yourself, before your brain can catch the words and swallow them, you blurt it out like a grenade you’re tired of holding.
“i’m pregnant.”
the room goes silent.
avia freezes in simon’s lap, eyes wide. her mouth opens and closes once. “what.”
simon’s cigarette pauses halfway to his lips. his head turns slowly toward you.
and when his eyes meet yours, you feel it immediately. not anger. not disgust. confusion.
and then something sharper, something like silent confirmation hunting.
his gaze drops, quick, to your stomach like he can see through your skin. then back to your face, narrowing, searching.
your heart pounds. your lie is already built. your fear is already driving.
you nod.
it is small. it is almost nothing.
it changes everything.
simon’s face goes still. the color seems to drain from it. his jaw tightens hard. he looks at you like you just spoke in a language he cannot afford to misunderstand.
then he stands up abruptly, shifting avia off his lap.
avia grabs his arm, startled. “babe?”
simon doesn’t look at her. he looks at you one more time, and his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them.
then he walks out.
the front door shuts hard enough that the frame rattles.
avia blinks, stunned, then turns fully to you, scrambling across the couch like her body moved before her mind did. “oh my god. are you okay. how far. when. who.”
the questions tumble out, urgent and bright and shocked all at once. she grabs your hands, squeezing. her palms are warm.
you swallow hard. you force the story out through a throat that feels like it’s closing.
“it’s jamie,” you say. “the boy from my writing class.”
you nod, because you don’t know how to be anything else right now.
avia’s eyes fill with tears immediately, and she laughs at the same time like she cannot decide which emotion to live in. “oh my god. baby. okay. okay.”
she pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. “i’m here. i’m here. we gonna figure it out.”
you close your eyes and let her hold you. guilt burns behind your ribs like acid.
avia pulls back, cupping your face. “you told jamie yet.”
you shake your head.
“okay,” she says, determined. “we’ll handle that. we’ll do it right. but you not doing this alone, alright.”
you nod, tears slipping out despite yourself. not from joy. from the weight of it.
avia wipes your cheeks with her thumbs. “and simon… he just shocked. don’t mind him. he love you. he just…,” she gestures vaguely, “men be dramatic.”
you swallow, watching the door like it might open and swallow you whole.
avia squeezes your hands again. “we gonna get baby stuff. i don’t care if you only a few weeks, we can start planning. i’m gonna be an auntie.”
you manage a weak smile because she looks so happy it hurts.
that night she calls her friends. she tells your mom. she starts a list on her phone. she sends you links to prenatal vitamins. she talks like the future is a room she can decorate.
you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling again, stomach turning.
a few days later, avia leaves early in the morning with a tote bag and a mission, saying she’s “just going to look,” like looking isn’t going to turn into buying. she kisses your forehead before she goes, eyes bright with excitement.
“rest,” she says. “you need rest now.”
you nod, throat tight.
when the door shuts behind her, the apartment feels too quiet.
you sit on your bed with your knees pulled up, hands resting on your stomach. you are barely pregnant, barely anything, and yet it feels like your entire body has been rewritten.
you hear the front door open again an hour later.
boots. slow. measured.
your heart starts to race.
there’s a soft knock on your bedroom door.
you hold your breath.
the door opens.
simon steps in and shuts it behind him. he doesn’t ask permission. he doesn’t smile. his face looks exhausted in a way you haven’t seen before, like he hasn’t slept since you said that word.
he stands there for a moment, eyes fixed on you, then he walks to your bed and sits on the edge, careful but heavy. the mattress dips. the closeness makes your skin prickle.
you stare at his hands resting on his thighs. his fingers are tense, knuckles pale.
“avia’s out,” he says, voice low.
you nod, unable to speak.
simon’s eyes lift to your face. they are sharp, haunted. “tell me the truth.”
your throat tightens. “i did.”
his jaw clenches. “don’t.”
the single word hits like a command. your stomach flips.
he leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, cigarette smell faint on his clothes. “is it mine.”
your pulse pounds in your ears. the room feels smaller.
you nod.
the lie slides out smooth because you have been rehearsing it in your head since the moment you nodded on the couch. you tell yourself you’re doing it for love, for safety, for some twisted version of a future where he looks at you the way he did that night and doesn’t look away.
simon closes his eyes briefly, like he is absorbing a blow. when he opens them again, his gaze is darker, heavier.
“how,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “i pulled out.”
you keep your face steady, your voice small. “i don’t know.”
simon stares at you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose, slow. his shoulders rise and fall.
“could’ve,” he mutters, jaw tight. “could’ve got inside you anyway. on my fingers. on you. fuck.”
the way he thinks through it makes you nauseous, not because he’s wrong, but because you are watching him build a belief brick by brick. you let him, because you are already standing on the lie and you don’t know how to step off without breaking everything.
simon’s gaze flicks to your stomach again, then back to your eyes. “you’re sure.”
you nod again.
something in him shifts. a decision locking in.
he sits back and looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks. not your sister’s kid sister. not a person in the hallway. you.
his voice drops, rough. “alright.”
you swallow. “alright.”
simon’s hand lifts, hesitates, then reaches for your knee. his palm rests there, warm and heavy. the contact sends a shock through you. you try not to flinch.
he watches you carefully. “i didn’t touch you again.”
you blink. “i noticed.”
his jaw tightens. “had to be smart.”
your throat burns. “yeah.”
simon’s thumb rubs once over your knee, slow, absent. “i’ve been thinking about you. more than i should.”
your breath catches.
he holds your gaze, unwavering. “i’m not proud of it.”
you whisper, barely audible, “i am.”
simon’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s surprised by your honesty. then his face softens, almost imperceptibly.
“you’re carrying something now,” he says quietly.
you nod, hand drifting to your stomach without thinking.
simon’s gaze follows the movement. he swallows, throat bobbing. “my kid.”
the words make your stomach flip in a way that isn’t entirely guilt. it’s warmth too, sharp and addictive.
simon leans in a little, voice lower. “listen to me.”
you nod, obedient.
“avia can’t know,” he says.
your heart stutters. “she…”
“she can’t,” he repeats, firmer. “not now. maybe not ever. you told her it was that lad from class. keep it that way.”
you swallow. the lie thickens. “okay.”
simon’s hand slides from your knee to your thigh, gripping gently, steadying. “i’ll take care of you.”
your breath trembles. “how.”
“private,” he says, eyes on yours. “when she’s at work. when my schedule aligns. i’ll be here. i’ll make sure you’re alright. i’ll make sure you got what you need.”
you stare at him, stunned by the bluntness. “and avia.”
simon’s jaw tightens. “i’ll handle my house.”
the possessive phrasing makes your skin prickle.
he pauses, then his voice drops softer, rough with something you can almost mistake for tenderness. “i love you.”
your heart slams.
simon doesn’t look away. “and i love the baby.”
your eyes sting. you blink hard, trying to keep tears from spilling. you’ve wanted him to look at you like you matter for a month, and now his words feel like a hand wrapping around your throat, not choking, just holding you in place.
you nod quickly. “okay.”
simon’s mouth twitches, faint. “that’s all you can say.”
your voice cracks. “i don’t know what to say.”
he shifts closer, hand sliding up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s checking if you’re real. “say you’ll keep quiet.”
you nod. “i’ll keep quiet.”
“good girl,” he murmurs, and the words make your stomach clench hard.
simon leans in and kisses you.
it’s not like the first time, not hungry and reckless. it’s slower, heavier, deliberate. his lips press to yours like he’s sealing a promise. you melt into it instantly, hands grabbing his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.
his mouth moves down your cheek, to your jaw, to your neck. he kisses the place that still feels sensitive when you think about it, and you shiver, breath catching.
simon pauses, mouth against your skin. “you alright.”
you nod, eyes closing. “yeah.”
he exhales, warm against your throat, then pulls back and wraps an arm around you, tugging you into his chest like you belong there.
you go willingly, curling into him. his body is warm and solid, the kind of weight that makes you feel safe even when it shouldn’t. his hand rests on your back, holding you close. he smells like smoke and clean soap and something sharp that makes your head feel quiet.
you listen to his heartbeat under your ear. steady. controlled.
simon’s lips press to your hairline. “boy,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
you blink. “what.”
“hope it’s a boy,” he says softly. “a little lad. stubborn like me.”
your throat tightens. you want to laugh. you want to cry. you do neither. you just cling to him, letting his arms hold you like you are something precious.
for the first time in a month, you feel looked at again. not with casual eyes. with ownership.
and you tell yourself the lie is worth it, because in his chest, with his breath warming your hair and his hand steady on your back, you finally feel loved.
so.. do we love this? do we hate it? something random & i’ve been working on for like a.. few days. something to keep my account busy! anyways please let me know.. i love the commentary, feedback, etc.
ᵗᵃᵍˡⁱˢᵗ @tomurafrlover23 (let me know if you want to be added to my taglist)
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XI LINK
Chapter XIII: LINK
[A/N] - I intended to have a smaller chapter, but… Ya guys have been so supportive, and I kinda feel bad leaving ya with crumbs and delaying it…
So, here is a 5K long chapter that just got beta-approved. This is for all of you! 🩵
Chapter XII: Parents & Promised Tours
The king’s solar sat high within the Red Keep, where the sounds of the city could not easily reach.
From the tall arched windows, one could see the waters of Blackwater Bay stretching wide and blue beneath the afternoon sun.
Ships moved slowly across its surface, their sails catching the wind like drifting white wings. The smell of salt rode the breeze that slipped through the open windows, mingling faintly with ink, wax, and old parchment.
The chamber itself was spacious but not extreme.
A wide oak table stood at its centre, covered in maps, sealed reports, and wooden markers used to track troop movements.
Several candles burned low beside them, their melted wax pooling across silver holders shaped like coiled dragons.
King Daeron II stood beside the table when his sons entered.
His long silver-white hair fell freely past his shoulders, catching the sunlight like pale metal.
The years had carved lines into his face, but the king’s posture remained steady, his hands resting lightly against the edge of the table as he studied the maps before him.
Not far from him sat Queen Myriah Martell.
She occupied one of the high-backed chairs near the windows, dressed in flowing silks of deep orange and red.
A thin golden circlet rested against her dark hair, her posture composed and observant as she watched the room with calm, thoughtful eyes.
A single white cloak stood near the far wall; a member of the Kingsguard stationed quietly within the room. Ser Roland Crakehall remained motionless, watching without appearing to watch.
The heavy doors closed behind Baelor and Maekar.
“Father,” Baelor greeted, bowing his head.
“Your Grace,” Maekar added, though the gesture carried less ceremony.
Daeron lifted his head slowly.
His pale violet eyes studied them both.
Mud had been washed from their armour, but war had not yet fully left them. It clung to them in subtler ways; in the tightness of their shoulders, in the quiet fatigue lingering beneath their composure.
“You returned sooner than expected,” the king said calmly.
Baelor stepped forward. “The rebellion is finished, Father.”
Daeron said nothing at first.
His gaze shifted from Baelor to Maekar and back again, weighing the truth of the statement not through words, but through the men standing before him.
“Tell me.”
Baelor moved closer to the table. “The last of the rebels were driven into the valley two days past. They believed our forces were still scattered from the earlier skirmishes. Maekar and I allowed them to believe it.”
Maekar leaned one shoulder against a nearby column, arms folding across his chest. “It was not difficult,” he added bluntly. “They were already broken.”
Baelor continued. “We divided our forces before dawn. When they advanced, they believed they had found the smaller column. Instead, they walked into the ambush.”
Daeron’s eyes lowered briefly to the map beneath his hand. “The feigned retreat.”
Baelor nodded once. “Yes.”
Daeron’s fingers brushed lightly over the markers resting on the parchment. “And the losses?”
“Lower than we feared,” Baelor answered.
Maekar gave a small shrug. “Enough died from their side to make the rebels regret their decision.”
The king accepted the answer with a slow nod.
Silence settled briefly in the room.
Then Daeron’s gaze lifted again. “And the provisions you requested.”
The words were calm. But there was a question beneath them.
Baelor understood it.
“The villages near the fighting suffered greatly,” he said. “They were caught between the rebel forces and the local levies. Many of the smallfolk fought beside the crown’s soldiers when the fighting reached their lands.”
Queen Myriah watched him closely now, a faint proud smile on her painted lips.
Baelor continued.
“They lost homes. Families. Crops. Yet they continued to defend the roads and settlements until our forces arrived.”
Daeron studied him, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. “And you believe the crown owes them recompense.”
It was not a question.
Baelor did not hesitate. “Yes.” His voice remained steady. “They bled for the crown, Father. They deserve to live through the winter.”
The king studied his heir carefully, searching his face as if weighing something far greater than grain shipments and winter supplies.
Finally, he nodded. “You will oversee the shipments yourself.”
Baelor inclined his head. “Thank you, Father.”
Daeron’s gaze shifted slightly then. “To another matter." Baelor already knew which one. "The woman you mentioned in your letter.”
Daeron’s gaze sharpened slightly. “You brought someone back with you.”
Baelor answered carefully. “I did.”
“And why,” Daeron continued, “Has my heir returned from war with a village healer?”
The question was not harsh. But it carried weight.
Baelor did not rush his answer.
“She is not merely a healer.” The king’s brow lifted faintly. “Yes, she did stitch Maekar’s wound when he was struck during the third clash.”
Daeron glanced toward his younger son.
Maekar pushed himself away from the pillar slightly.
“The blade caught me near the ribs, dented my armour enough to dig into my skin.” He tapped the side of his armour casually. “I believed we should wait until the fighting ended and Master Hunton was present".
Baelor continued quietly. "She did not.” Queen Myriah leaned forward slightly, listening. "She examined the wound and insisted it would fester if left untreated.”
Maekar gave a short breath through his nose. “She was right.”
Daeron looked between them.
“Maester Hunton confirmed it afterwards,” Baelor added. “The wound would have turned lethal if left unattended.”
The king absorbed this slowly. Yet his expression remained thoughtful rather than convinced. “And this is why you bring her to King’s Landing, to court...”
Baelor hesitated only briefly. “No.” That answer surprised the king. Baelor continued. “I brought her because I intend for her to care for my sons.”
The silence that followed was heavier. Maekar shifted his weight again.
Daeron’s brow furrowed faintly. "That seems… a bold decision.” His voice remained calm, but the question beneath it was unmistakable. “You would place a stranger beside the heirs to the Iron Throne.”
Baelor met his father’s gaze without flinching. “I would place a woman there who saved lives when others hesitated.”
The king studied him carefully.
Baelor continued more quietly.
“She worked without payment. Without expectation. She treated soldiers from every company and asked for nothing in return."
He paused briefly.
By now, his mother had been listening carefully, studying him thoroughly. He spoke of your achievements, justified his decision with solid proof, and yet... she could tell there was one more reason he had brought you with him.
She saw it in the way Baelor's eyes looked at his father while speaking of your accomplishments. The confidence in his stance, the colour in his voice.
The Queen knew her son well enough to know this was not the way he spoke; to his King, especially.
Baelor continued.
“Men trusted her.” That line carried more weight than the others. “Even those who normally refuse a maester’s orders obeyed her without hesitation... And when she believed a man would die if she waited… She acted.”
Maekar shifted again. “She is still a stranger.” The words were not hostile. Just honest. “We know little of her.”
His brother did not look away. “She stood beside men dying in the mud and never once turned away.”
The Young Dragon exhaled quietly but did not argue further.
Daeron watched both sons.
Queen Myriah spoke then for the first time.
Her voice was calm, thoughtful. “Many at court speak of loyalty.” Her dark eyes moved between the brothers. “But few prove it when the ground is covered in blood.”
The room grew quiet again.
Daeron walked slowly toward the window overlooking the bay. The wind stirred his pale hair gently.
“When a man chooses those who stand closest to his children,” he said at last, “He reveals what he values most.” He turned back toward Baelor. “You trust this woman.”
Baelor answered simply. “I do.”
Another silence followed.
Long enough for the meaning of that answer to settle fully within the room.
“You are heir to the Iron Throne, Baelor.” His voice was quieter now. "Every judgment you make will shape the kingdom.”
His son did not move. “I know.”
The King turned back toward him. “And yet you bring a common-born healer into the Red Keep.”
Baelor did not flinch. "Yes.”
The king studied him once more.
Then something almost resembling approval touched his expression.
“I should like to meet this woman.” Neither son spoke. “Not today.” Daeron’s voice softened slightly. “But soon.” He returned to the table, gathering one of the parchment reports. “In the meantime,” he added calmly, “I trust my heir would not bring danger into my household.”
“Never.”
Maekar said nothing. But he did not argue further.
And for now, that was answer enough.
Far above the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the Red Keep continued its endless rhythm.
Servants moved quietly through long corridors carrying trays of food and folded linen.
Guards rotated their watches along the walls and gates.
Somewhere far below, the muffled sound of carts and shouting merchants drifted up from the city streets.
None of it truly reached the chamber you now occupied.
The room had grown cooler as the afternoon stretched slowly toward evening.
The breeze slipping through the open windows carried the scent of salt and brine from the bay, faintly mingled with the distant smoke of cookfires burning somewhere far below the castle walls.
You stood near the centre of the room, still unsure where to settle yourself.
Everything felt too large.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
It was a kind of quiet you were not used to; the sort that came not from peace, but from thick stone walls that swallowed every sound before it could fully exist.
Villages were never this silent.
Camps certainly were not.
Even the quietest nights by the fire still carried whispers of wind through the trees, the low murmur of voices, the shifting of restless horses nearby.
Here…
The silence felt almost unnatural.
Spur, however, had adjusted far quicker than you had.
The dog had claimed the enormous bed as if it had been built for him alone.
His body sprawled across the soft covers, one hind leg kicking lazily into the air as he scratched at an itch along his side with complete satisfaction.
The rich red blankets had already begun collecting strands of his coarse fur.
You crossed your arms slowly, watching him. “So this is how you repay me,” you muttered under your breath.
Spur froze mid-scratch. His head lifted slightly, ears tilting in your direction.
Then his tail began thumping happily against the mattress.
You exhaled through your nose. “A bed bigger than the ones in the village inn and the first thing you do is shed on it.”
The dog wagged harder, clearly pleased with himself.
You shook your head and turned away from the bed, your boots sinking slightly into the thick carpet beneath your feet.
Even that felt strange; the floor was soft beneath each step rather than hard-packed earth or uneven wood.
The room smelled faintly of clean linens and polished stone.
No smoke.
No damp wool.
No iron tang of blood that had clung to your clothes for months.
The difference felt almost unsettling.
You wandered slowly toward the tall windows across the chamber.
The stone beneath your fingers felt cool when you rested your hand against the wide frame. The breeze drifting through the open arches brushed lightly against your face, carrying the distant cry of seabirds.
You leaned forward slightly.
The sight beyond the window made you stop breathing for a moment. King’s Landing stretched farther than anything your mind had ever imagined.
Rows of rooftops spread across the land like waves of red clay and weathered stone.
Narrow streets twisted between them in tangled paths, smoke curling upward from hundreds of chimneys as evening fires were lit across the city.
The noise of the city rose faintly, even this high above it all; a distant hum of life that never truly stopped.
But beyond the city…
Your eyes drifted further.
And then you saw it.
The sea.
Blackwater Bay spread across the horizon like a sheet of liquid glass, the late afternoon sun turning its surface into a field of molten gold.
The water stretched so far into the distance that it seemed to meet the sky itself, the line between them blurred by the pale haze of light.
Ships moved slowly across the bay like drifting insects, their sails catching the wind in quiet, steady motions.
For a long moment, you simply stared.
So this was the ocean. Your fingers tightened slightly against the stone window frame.
You had heard stories about it before.
Travelling merchants spoke of endless water and waves taller than houses. Children in the village used to argue about what lived beneath its surface: sea dragons, giant fish, creatures that swallowed ships whole.
But none of those stories had prepared you for the sheer vastness of it.
It did not end.
No trees.
No hills.
No walls.
Just water stretching farther than the eye could follow.
You leaned forward slightly, trying to take it all in. The wind carried the faint scent of salt to your nose again, stronger now that you noticed it.
Your father would have liked this view.
The thought came quietly.
You imagined him standing beside you, squinting against the sun while trying to judge the distance of the ships.
He would have made some rough guess about how long it would take to sail across such water. Then he would probably complain about the damp air rusting his tools.
A faint smile tugged at your lips... Then it faded.
You pushed the thought aside before it could linger too long.
Behind you, Spur yawned loudly from the bed. The sound broke the quiet moment as a stone dropped into still water.
You glanced back over your shoulder.
The dog had rolled onto his stomach now, chin resting heavily against the blankets as he watched you with lazy curiosity. His tail thumped once when your eyes met.
You sighed softly.
Turning from the window, you walked back across the room slowly.
The chamber still felt too large for a single person.
Too much space.
Too much silence.
Spur’s ears perked as you approached.
And the moment you reached the bed, he rolled onto his back again. Pink belly exposed. Tongue hanging from his mouth.
You stared down at him. “…You have no shame.”
But your hand reached down anyway.
Your fingers scratched along his ribs, earning a pleased grunt from the dog as his back legs kicked happily against the air.
His tail thumped against the blankets again, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight as he twisted beneath your touch.
For a moment, you simply stood there.
Letting your hand move through the rough fur.
Letting your mind quiet itself.
Your gaze drifted once more toward the open window.
The sea shimmered beyond the city rooftops, the sunlight beginning to soften as the day slowly faded.
You exhaled slowly.
“Well,” you murmured quietly. Your voice sounded strangely small inside the enormous chamber. “I suppose this is our home now.”
Spur barked once in agreement.
As if he had accepted that truth far quicker than you had.
Outside the chamber walls, the Red Keep continued its endless life.
But here, in the quiet chamber high above the city…
None of that had reached you yet.
And for a few brief moments longer...
It would not.
By the time the sun had crossed the sky and begun its slow descent toward evening, a knock sounded at your chamber door.
The sound was gentle but firm, echoing lightly through the large room.
You approached the door cautiously.
Even within the safety of the Red Keep, old habits did not disappear easily. They had been carved into you through months of uncertainty, through nights where a careless step or blind trust could mean danger.
Your hand moved slowly to the handle.
You opened the door only a fraction at first, allowing yourself a careful look through the narrow space before committing further.
An old instinct.
Where rushed actions and blind trust could lead to death, or worse.
Baelor’s face soon came into view beyond the door.
The prince stood waiting patiently in the corridor, his posture relaxed yet composed.
The heavy armour he had worn earlier was gone now, replaced by a fitted black doublet that sat neatly upon his broad frame.
The golden pin of the Hand shone brightly against the dark cloth, its shape unmistakable.
A deep red sash circled his waist; the colours of his house were worn proudly, yet without the excessive display many nobles favoured.
He looked… different.
Cleaner.
Calmer.
As though the weight of war had briefly lifted from his shoulders.
“I hope I do not bother,” he said, his voice gentle as his mismatched eyes studied you.
You pushed the door wider at once. “No, of course not,” you replied quickly, stepping aside to allow him entry.
Baelor stepped into the chamber with quiet restraint.
He took only two steps before stopping.
The door remained open behind him. He made no effort to close it.
The choice was deliberate.
Improper rumours could spread easily within castle walls, and a prince alone in a woman’s chambers behind closed doors would feed those rumours far too easily.
Baelor knew that well. His gaze moved slowly around the room.
The first thing he noticed was the absence of a food tray.
The second was the untouched, empty jug of water he had ordered filled earlier.
His brow creased faintly.
He had made certain that both would be brought to you: a proper meal and fresh water, delivered well before supper. It should have arrived by now.
The absence displeased him.
He made a quiet mental note to speak with the servants responsible.
Before that thought could settle further, a familiar bark shattered his concentration.
Baelor turned his head sharply toward the source. His eyes widened faintly.
Spur lay comfortably sprawled across the bed.
The dog rested proudly on the clean red sheets, front legs stretched forward, while his tail wagged enthusiastically against the blankets.
Each sweep of it sent small clouds of loose fur drifting lazily through the air.
The creature barked again, delighted to see the prince.
You stood beside Baelor now, your cheeks faintly pink. “I am afraid Spur has conquered the bed first,” you admitted, clearing your throat as you fought the urge to laugh at the prince’s expression.
Baelor blinked once more before recovering himself.
“I can see that.” He swallowed lightly, his eyes still fixed on the dog lounging upon the royal mattress. “He appears quite comfortable.” Then he turned toward you. “Are you?”
Standing side by side, the distance between you was small now. Close enough that the warmth of another body was noticeable, though neither of you seemed uncomfortable with it.
Your gaze drifted around the room once more.
The large bed.
The tall windows.
The shelves of books.
Everything still felt unfamiliar.
“Slowly,” you said after a moment. “I am getting accustomed to it. It is… a rather big change.”
Baelor nodded in quiet understanding. “Of course it is.” He paused briefly. “If there is anything you need, you may always ask a maid or servant to bring it for you.”
The suggestion felt strange.
Your brows drew together faintly. The idea of asking someone to bring you things felt… wrong.
In the village, if you needed water, you fetched it yourself. If something was missing, you walked to find it.
There had never been servants waiting to carry out such tasks.
You were more than capable of walking across a room. You parted your lips, ready to explain your view.
But the words stopped before leaving your mouth.
Something about arguing the point felt… misplaced.
Baelor had only been trying to be a proper host. The thought quieted the protest forming in your mind.
Instead, you simply nodded.
Once.
Then again, a little more quickly.
Baelor seemed satisfied.
Whether he had noticed the hesitation in your expression or simply chose not to address it, you could not tell. The prince merely shifted his posture slightly before extending his arm toward you once again.
This time, he offered his elbow.
The gesture was smooth and practised, the quiet movement of someone raised among courtly customs since childhood.
“I promised you a tour of the Red Keep, didn’t I?” he said lightly. “There is no better time than the present.”
For a moment, you simply looked at the offered arm.
The gesture itself was not unfamiliar; you had seen lords escort ladies during festivals or weddings in your village when visiting nobles passed through.
But you had never been the one receiving such treatment.
The fact that he had remembered the promise spoken earlier in the day surprised you more than the gesture itself.
He could easily have forgotten.
He could have delayed it until another day.
He could have ignored it entirely.
Yet here he stood.
Ready to keep it.
It had become increasingly clear to you that Baelor was a man who meant to honour his promises. What he said would be done; often far sooner than one might expect from someone of his rank.
A faint smile touched your lips. “Okay, your grace,” you said.
Baelor winced faintly again at the title. The reaction was brief but unmistakable.
You noticed it. But you did not correct yourself.
Slowly, you reached for him.
Your hand lifted with the caution that still lingered within you; the small instincts born from months where trust had to be earned carefully and where even kindness could sometimes hide danger.
Yet when your fingers finally touched his arm, those instincts fell quiet.
Your hand settled against his bicep.
Through the soft layers of his doublet, you could feel the solid strength beneath. The muscle tightened briefly beneath your fingers at the unexpected contact before relaxing again almost immediately.
Your fingers wrapped around his arm as far as they could. They did not reach fully.
The difference between you became suddenly obvious in that simple contact.
Your hand felt small against him.
Thin.
Almost delicate compared to the solid strength beneath the fabric.
Your other hand lifted automatically, hooking gently around your own elbow as you steadied your hold against his arm.
The warmth of his body reached you even through the cloth of his doublet.
You could feel it clearly now... The heat of him. A quiet, steady warmth that contrasted sharply with the cool stone air of the chamber.
Dragon’s blood, the thought surfaced quietly in your mind.
Your gaze lifted toward his face.
Baelor had already been watching you.
His mismatched eyes softened the moment they met yours. The faint tension that had briefly stiffened his arm eased as well, his posture relaxing naturally as he allowed you to settle comfortably beside him.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved.
You stood close enough now to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beside you.
Close enough that the scent of clean cloth and faint leather reached you.
Close enough that the distance between your shoulders had nearly disappeared.
Close enough that...
Baelor was the first to break the stillness.
He stepped forward slowly.
The movement was unhurried, confident; the steady stride of someone accustomed to guiding others through halls far larger than these.
You followed without needing instruction.
One step.
Then another.
At first, your pace was slightly uneven as you adjusted to his stride, but it did not take long for the rhythm to settle.
Soon, your steps fell naturally into sync with his.
The quiet sound of your boots echoed softly across the stone floor as he guided you toward the open doorway, escorting you with the effortless manners of a nobleman raised among kings and courts.
Behind you came a sudden bark.
Spur.
The dog had not been willing to watch the two of you leave without him.
He leapt down from the bed with an excited thump, scrambling across the floor as his claws clicked rapidly against the stone.
Within seconds, he had reached the doorway, racing ahead as though he were now the one leading the tour.
The Red Keep seemed even larger when walking through it.
Corridors branched endlessly into other corridors, stairways climbing and descending through the stone like veins through a living creature.
Servants moved quickly along the walls, some carrying trays, others bundles of linen or sealed letters that had to reach some lord or steward somewhere deeper within the castle.
Baelor had let you go after the third time you subconsciously pulled him along to observe a tapestry, an artefact.
Instead, he now chose to walk beside you at a calm pace, one hand resting loosely behind his back as he guided you through the halls.
He did not wish to restrain your freedom. It also allowed him to observe you properly, now that the chaos of war was over.
Now that no tents and soldiers could see you.
No Maekar to interrupt
Or the awkwardness of a first meeting.
“Most of the court gathers in the lower halls,” he explained quietly as the two of you turned another corner. “The throne room, the council chambers, the kitchens.” His voice carried easily in the wide hallway, though he kept it low. “The higher towers are quieter. Fewer visitors.”
You glanced around as you walked, trying to commit the path to memory the same way you had earlier.
Stone pillars.
Two windows overlook the inner yard.
A narrow corridor branching left.
Another mental map began forming.
Spur, however, had no interest in maps.
The dog trotted several steps ahead of you both, his claws clicking against the polished floor as he explored every scent and shadow with relentless curiosity.
Every few moments, he would stop, sniff something invisible, then hurry back toward you before racing ahead again.
Twice already, he had startled passing servants.
One maid nearly dropped a tray of goblets when the dog suddenly appeared around a corner.
You rubbed your forehead faintly. “I truly need to get him a proper leash,” you muttered under your breath.
Baelor’s mouth twitched faintly with amusement. “He seems quite pleased with the freedom.”
“That is the problem.”
Spur barked once in the distance as if agreeing with himself.
Baelor gestured down the corridor ahead.
“At the end of this hall is the Tower of the Hand,” he explained.
Your gaze followed his hand toward the distant spiral staircase climbing upward. “That is where I work when the court is in session. If you ever require anything, you may find me there most hours of the day.”
You studied the staircase for a moment.
It wound upward sharply, disappearing through a narrow stone opening near the ceiling.
You tried to imagine climbing it. “How many steps?” you asked.
Baelor glanced at the tower thoughtfully. “I confess I have never counted.”
You frowned slightly as you studied the height of it. “That must be… exhausting.”
Baelor chuckled softly. “One grows used to it.”
Spur barked again somewhere behind a column. You turned your head to look for him.
At that moment, one of the nearby chamber doors suddenly swung open.
💭 TLOU College AU where Rugby player!Abby tries to cover up her relationship with her team manager by constantly bickering with them and questioning them whenever they try to make suggestions regarding the team x Student team manager!Reader who treats the bickering like foreplay for when they eventually catch each other alone, the tension between them snapping as they grabbed each other and pulled themselves into a passionate makeout against the nearest wall.
☆𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 : spoilers for Johnny's backstory and real name, some suggestive themes (making out lol)
☆𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 : Fluff and angst
☆𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶 : Your big house, your family, your money and your Johnny. You wanted to have it all at the same time, and so you would.
-
Reader is from an english noble family, meets Johnny as a kid and her father disapproves of their relationship but she doesn't care. Nothing would ever get in between her and her lover... right? (3.1k words)
♪𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰 : GAHHHHH i have finals tomorrow and still wrote this bc i can't stop thinking about him
I hope you like it! I didn't plan on making it THAT angsty at the end but... yeah
ANYWAYS forbidden love and sneaking out to make out? anyone?
Im already thinking about a part 2 to this im gonna be so fr
✧˖*°࿐
Your obsession with horses started when you were seven years old. A friend from your school had gotten a pony as her birthday present, and you learnt what envy was the day you went to her house for a play date and saw it running around in her large garden. The creature was majestic, so elegant and in the eyes of a little girl, it looked magical.
As a pampered child from a noble family, the only thing you had to do was ask your father and bat your eyelashes at him a few times for him to give in to your demand. People always said he spoiled you too much, but he never seemed to care. He would have given you the whole of England if you had asked him. Life was easy for you, and you thought it would always be.
The problem arose when you got your horse -it had to be a horse and not just a pony- and you were told you weren’t allowed to ride it, for fear you would hurt yourself. Instead, you had to take riding lessons at the nearest farm owned by the Joestar family, the patriarch of whom was a famous riding champion. Your father would only choose the best of hands to be able to have an influence on your education, after all.
That’s where you met Johnny Joestar for the first time. Your lessons were taking place in a small enclosure on the farm, your instructor near you at all times to make sure nothing bad would happen to you while on the horse, knowing that otherwise your father would probably have their heads. When your daily lesson was over and you were securely back on the ground, you pointed at a man riding in another and larger enclosure and asked your teacher “Who is that?”
“That’s Nicholas Joestar, the son of the owner.”
You admired the young man’s movements, his speed and his dexterity. His position on his horse made it look as if they were one, jumping and running together.
“When can I get to ride like that?” You asked suddenly, looking up at your teacher.
“Not for a good while yet, little miss. You’re still so young.” They answered sincerely, but having to wait frustrated you. You had learnt little patience in your very privileged life. That sentiment only grew when a boy who looked to be about no less than a year your elder spoke up from outside the enclosure you were standing in.
“But I can already ride like that!” He smiled with all his teeth, showing off the little gap in between the front ones. “Why can’t she? Is it because I’m a genius rider?”
“Mr. Joestar! What are you doing here?” Your teacher was opening the wooden gate as they were speaking, their tone clearly disapproving. Where they saw a possible slap on the wrist for letting someone speak to you that way, you saw an opportunity.
“Is that true?” You asked, following after your instructor. “You can ride that fast?”
The boy looked at you and nodded fervently. “Of course, I can! I’ll show you now if you want!”
Skeptical, you accepted his offer and promised your teacher you wouldn’t try to ride by yourself and simply observe the boy from a distance. Which you obviously lied about.
You did watch him -at first- but you wanted to ride like him now. Johnny didn’t want to risk you getting hurt and getting scolded by his father, so to compromise with you he let you on his horse with him. He was holding the reigns tightly from behind you, his pace slow and deliberate. However, he didn’t have much of a choice but to pick it up when you kept asking him to go faster and faster until he’d reached your desired speed. As a reward for his efforts, your crystalline laugh resonated around the two of you, blessing his ears and filling him with a sudden sense of pride.
You were scolded later that day, tales of your misbehavior having reached your parents’ ears by the time you were taken home from the farm, but you seemed to care little for it as long as they didn’t keep you from going back for your next lesson.
And of course they didn’t, so you went back. Again and again, and again. And you would see Jojo there every time, you knew he always made sure to be around to spend time with you after your lessons and you were glad for it. You didn’t always ride with him, sometimes you would simply feed the animals around the farm and he would tell you about horse races, what they were bred for and what treat they liked the most. Sometimes you complained about your parents, school or how Diego always seemed to beat him when they raced. Those shared moments of complicity were precious to you, you couldn’t have them with anyone else.
Your obsession with Johnny Joestar started when you were seven years old, and it stuck with you longer than the one you had with horses.
You were fourteen the first time you’d kissed him, late at night in your house garden in which you had sneaked in behind your parents’ backs, right after he’d told you he always thought of you as more than a friend to ride horses with. You still remember how much of a blushing mess he was, despite how passionate he was when he grabbed the back of your head to pull you back against his lips.
Now, older but certainly not wiser, it felt like things would never change for you. Your big house, your family, your money and your Johnny. You wanted to have it all at the same time, and so you would. Despite how angry your father was every time he caught you sneaking back inside the house, traces of blue lipstick around your mouth and neck, you never stopped going against their wishes and meeting Johnny in secret whenever you could.
Which was why you were currently climbing down your window, your lover waiting to catch you in his arms when you would let go of the branch you were holding on to. Your skirts caught into a thorn and left a piece of fabric behind them when you lost your footing and fell down with a small scream, quickly hushed by Johnny’s reassuring words as he caught you effortlessly. His upper body strength never ceased to impress you.
“Hey there” he said softly, his eyes immediately catching yours.
“Jojo… let’s get out of here before they come looking for the source of the horrible sound I just let out” You giggled in his arms and craned your neck to leave a kiss on his jawline. He set you down softly and interlaced your fingers together, relieved to feel your warm skin against his.
He had made that same walk a thousand times before, be it day or night, it never mattered to him. Hell, he could’ve probably made his way to the small hill you had elected as your hideout blindfolded if he had to. You snaked your arm around his, keeping your hands tied together and leaned your head against his shoulder. You would never get tired of this, of him.
When you reached the usual spot you would ask him to meet at, you were happy to see he’d already laid down a blanket before he had come to fetch you. You knew that he only did it because you kept nagging him when he would get dirt on your dress, though. Still, something about the sight of the tree where you’d carved your initials together years ago and the promise of laying down with your lover, away from everything else, filled your heart with happiness more than any amount money ever could.
You dragged him by the hand to the blanket and promptly urged him to sit down before you followed suit and installed yourself on his lap.
“I missed you.” He said, arms snaking around your waist.
“I missed you too.” You replied, your hands findings his shoulders and looking into his eyes, bringing your face closer to his. “I’m glad you came tonight”.
“You know I wouldn’t miss the opportunity for the world” he whispered before he met you halfway, seizing your lips in a kiss. You tasted as you usually did, but he felt especially starved tonight. His hands roamed your body softly, caressing and grabbing you as he wished while you moaned into his mouth.
Many people failed to realize that Johnny Joestar was a lot more similar to you than what they originally thought, in the sense that he was just as selfish as you. That is, if his selfishness didn’t surpass yours, which you sometimes thought was the case.
His kisses quickly left your mouth to go lower down your jawline, to your neck, and he kept going as he lowered your dress just enough to reach your collarbones. Your fingers slipped into his hair, knocking his usual beanie down, and tangled themselves there. He relished in the feeling of you slightly pulling on his blonde locks when his lips tickled your skin and you let out small puffs of laughter. Ever since he was a child, he always took the most pride in being the reason for your giggles.
“Johnny… don’t tease, come back” You sighed softly, using your leverage on his hair to force him to look back at you. You were a sight for sore eyes, your dress too low to be appropriate, your lips slightly swollen and the traces of blue lipstick that adorned your skin made him feel so possessive. He wanted you to belong to him and him only, forever. What could I ever do against you ? He thought.
“I love you.” He whispered as he granted you your request and his mouth found yours again, tongue already poking at your lips to ask for entry.
“I love you too.” You smiled against him.
-
Attending balls was a normal occurrence for your family, hosting them was a bit rarer.
You had spent hours with your maids trying to determine what dress to wear, how to do your hair, what gloves you would choose, if you would wear gloves at all. The result was the same as always, you looked lovely and proper, just like the daughter of an English noble family should.
The Joestars, although not part of the nobility, were a wealthy family who were often invited to those events. Johnny would sometimes skip them, preferring to go ride with his brother or sometimes even without him if Nicholas had to accompany their father. But he was glad he didn’t skip it this time when his eyes caught sight of you, all dressed up and smiling as you spoke to your father.
If there was one thing Johnny was sure of, it was that your dear papa would never like him enough to allow him to marry you, especially considering he didn’t have a title. No matter how many races he participated in and how rich his family was. But neither him nor you ever seemed to care when you dreamed about going back to America with him and marrying there, living your life away from the crushing expectations high society had of you.
He never knew if you were truly serious though. He knew how comfortable your life here was, and he knew how much you liked it. He didn’t want to think about unpleasant things during a party, so he made his way to you and interrupted your conversation.
“May I have this dance?” he bowed respectfully in front of you, not quite low enough which made your father furrow his eyebrows in anger and let a puff of air from his nose. He didn’t say anything however, refusing to make a scene and expose his daughter’s indecent behavior to the public around them.
“Of course, you can.” You smiled and took his hand as he led you through the crowd. You loved dancing with Johnny, you only wished there weren’t as many people around so you could dance the way you usually would when it was just the two of us, freely and without having to worry about being at arms’ length from each other at all time. Otherwise, everything was perfect. You were lovely, your house was beautiful, and the man in your arms made you laugh too loudly when he poked fun at the people around you for the way they dressed or spoke.
Unbeknownst to you, that warm and beautiful evening was the last one you’d spend with Johnny where you still had your picture-perfect life the way you wanted it to be.
-
Nicholas died on a Thursday, and was buried the next Sunday with a beautiful ceremony. You had insisted on attending, and your parents decided to grant your request out of sympathy for Goerge Joestar who had just lost his elder son.
You had seen Johnny once since the accident, his eyes were red but devoid of any life. He responded when you spoke, but it was shallow, like the sounds leaving his mouth were automatic answers to your useless blabbering. You tried to take him in your arms, to tell him it would be okay, but he was stiff beneath your touch. It suddenly seemed like an invisible wall had built itself between you.
At the funeral, he looked more like a phantom than a grieving brother. His eyes were glued to the ground, his face unchanging even as tears slipped past him to roll down his cheeks when the wooden casket was lowered into the ground.
Seeing him like this made your heart ache in your chest. You wanted to take away his pain, to seal it inside of you forever and see him smiling at you again, laughing and enjoying the world as he usually would.
But he wouldn’t allow you to do that.
In the following weeks, you were the one to come fetch him from his house to ask him to meet under your tree. You waited patiently, sometimes the whole night, but your blonde lover never came. You were lonely, your life felt empty without him at your side. Spending your days without being able to look forward to meeting him again made you come face to face with something you had known for a long time: he was the most important part of your picture-perfect life.
So you would wait, you decided. You would wait until he felt like he could come back to you and when he did, you would welcome him with open arms and a thousand kisses.
And you were ready to do just that the day he threw pebbles on your window, asked you to meet him down and caught you in his arms as he usually would. You were ready to be the support he needed to lean on when he bought you to your tree. You were ready to pull him back together, piece by piece, when he crushed you down with his words so violently that you had the wind knocked out of you.
“I’m leaving to go back to America.” His voice was weak, his eyes weren’t meeting yours directly. You couldn’t speak, your voice lost somewhere in the back of your throat. When you managed to formulate words, you stuttered.
“W-what do you mean? When?” Your eyebrows furrowed, your eyes burned as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill from them.
“Tomorrow.”
You looked at him as if he had just stabbed you in the stomach. He might as well have, the pain was just as sharp.
Your eyes filled with desperation, and you couldn’t have won against the tears and sobs leaving you if there had been a thousand of you against them. You grabbed his arm and your hand found your mouth to try and muffle the pathetic sounds escaping you.
He silently grabbed you, tenderly as he usually would, and bought you against his chest, letting you cry out of your feelings against him. If he had any tears left, he would’ve cried with you.
After some time, the flow of tears reduced enough to let you speak, but never stopped completely. “H-how long have you known?” You looked up at him.
“Since after the funeral.” His hand stroked your back softly, in total contrast with the violence of that he was telling you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” You raised your voice and tried to push against him to undo his grip on you, to no avail.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” He said calmly, refusing to let go of you. Jonathan Joestar was a selfish man, through and through.
“I… I could’ve prepared my suitcase!” You said suddenly, the idea seemed so obvious to you. He had always said he would leave with you and marry you, you knew he meant it. So that was your chance, right?
“Don’t be ridiculous…” His hand went to cup your cheek, his thumb drying the tears it found there. “You know you can’t come.”
Your heart felt like it was being crushed into a thousand pieces and each part of it, broken into a thousand more. So he didn’t mean it after all. Maybe he didn’t want you as much as you had thought. As much as you had wanted him.
Johnny knew you needed your princess life, your clothes, your mansion, your dotting parents and comfortable life style. And he knew that he wasn’t worthy enough to take you away from everything you knew and deserved. He didn’t deserve to have you, not after what he’d done to his brother. If only he’d drowned that mouse when his father had asked him to, the horse would have never fell down, his brother would be alive, you would be in his arms forever. Maybe then, he wouldn’t hate himself enough to believe you didn’t need him and would actually look at your red face covered in your tears and snot going down your nose.
And he would see he was all you ever truly wanted.
You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him that, your understanding of his words was that he wanted you out of the way and your pride refused to implore him.
Danny was never drowned. You never told him what you thought he knew and didn’t care about. And when the morning came, Johnny left you asleep under the tree where your initials had been carved and quietly looked back at you one last time before leaving for the port.
✧˖*°࿐
THANK YOU FOR READING !!
I hope you liked it <33 if you did please think about leaving a heart/comment/repost !
And lmk if i should write a second part to this where reader meets Johnny back in America for the race :O
brother’s best friend!hollis who swore he’d never touch you, who swore he’d respect the only rule your brother ever gave him—“my sister is COMPLETELY off limits.”. and god, he knows it’s wrong. so utterly wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. and truly he never thought of going against your brother at all in the beginning, yet here he was, thick cock resting heavy against your soaked need pussy. his thumb circling your clit like it’s the easiest thing in the world (to which it was. probably one of his favorite things to do). your legs are spread wide in his grip, cunt leaking and clenching, making a mess of him before he’s even inside.
tiny whimpers and moans slip your plush lips, “please holli… s-stop teasing me.” you plead, tears threading at the brim of your low lids as you tried not to be loud. hollis could only muster a small deep chuckle, “need it that bad?” he asked and you nod eagerly like the needy slut you are.
however, he doesn’t give in. not yet. not until you’re shaking apart, begging, your pretty pussy throbbing helplessly around his slender and delicate fingers as you gush all over tip of his dick. only then he planned on bottoming out within your warm cunt, when you’re already crying from how bad your body aches to have him. to witness you become the utter mess he adores the most.
you and hollis can only pray… your brother will never find out about the broken rule.
