Thinking of your best friend James who’s always so patient and sweet but gets frustrated one day and just fucks the shit out of you 😩
take it
chao yufan x bratty!reader
cw - nsfw, kissing, unprotected sex, rough sex, cumming inside, cum eating, choking, big dick!james, filthy filthy shit, aftercare because james is still a sweet boy
⋆˙⟡
he was so kind, so sweet. he was practically the only person who tolerated your tendencies to act up any chance you got.
he would soften the crease between your brows with the pad of his thumb, ridding of your pout as he hugged you against his chest, allowing to to whine about how you didn’t get your way.
he would listen to your ranting with that attentive look in his eyes, the look that assured you he cared because he always did.
he would immediately tend to your needs the moment your foot stomped against the ground and your arms crossed against your chest. he would run around frantically, desperately trying not to worsen your mood as he masked his concern with a smile because why would he want to burden you further?
he didn’t have an issue with pampering you with anything and everything your heart desired because it was no secret that he was head over heels for you. he knew that you knew, but every passing day of you brushing it off, acting oblivious to his love fuelled the burning fire buried deep in his chest.
he was so kind, so sweet. you never expected him to hold you down against his mattress and push his dick into you inch by inch, smiling as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.
‘what’s wrong, hm?’ his fingers tapped your cheek as he awaited an answer, something you were unable to give with the string of obscenities leaving your lips.
‘fuck! s’ too much-’
‘but this is what you wanted, isn’t it? you like pushing my buttons.’ he gritted out between clenched teeth, each thrust of his hips emphasising his words as your walls clenched around his fat cock.
‘no-’ he cut you off with his hand wrapping around your throat, his fingertips digging into the marked skin he was biting only a few moments ago. ‘yes, baby. you like pissing me off ‘cause you think i won’t do anything about it.’
his smile only widens at the sight of you shaking your head with a small whine. ‘s’ okay, honey. you don’t have to lie.’
he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his chest compressed against your own as he wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer while his cock continues to impale your insides.
it hurt so fucking good. every thrust stretching you open further, every thrust causing his tip to poke at your cervix, the bulge very evidently showing in your tummy.
‘james,’ you mewl, nails clawing against his bare back, ‘i can’t…’
‘really? it seems your pussy can, she’s squeezing me so tight, baby. i think she wants more.’ sweat glazes his forehead, small beads dripping down to his defined cheeks as his head cocked to the side, mocking you.
god, you wanted to slap the smile off his face and kiss it at the same time.
you couldn’t lie to yourself about the fact that you purposely irked him to this point, you couldn’t help it with the way he looked when he was angry; clenched jaw and eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed ever so slightly as you could see the plotting behind his pupils, his plans of wanting to absolutely ruin you.
the bed creaked beneath you two, the headboard banged against the wall with every thrust. you would’ve pushed him to his limits sooner if you knew what he was hiding beneath his pants.
‘you can take it, baby. i know you can.’ he presses a sloppy kiss against your cheek before smashing his lips onto yours. the kiss was everything but innocent; tongues clashed against each other as his grip on your neck kept you still.
you swore that he went deeper with every thrust. how could somebody be this big?
he panted against your lips, trying to keep himself balanced as he effortlessly rolled his hips over and over again, practically moulding the both of you into one.
it didn’t take long for you to finish; your lips shaped into a small ‘o’ with your eyes being furrowed shut. your nails left marks on his back as your legs were wrapped around his waist, an attempt to keep him close as your juices smeared all over his cock.
grunting against your lips, he came with a final thrust. he shoved himself deep into you, letting his warm cum coat your insides.
‘fuuuck-’ his groans filled your ears as he slowly pulled out of you, his tip resting on your tummy as he bought his fingers down to your dripping cunt.
he scooped up his leaking cum, bringing his coated fingers to your lips as his free hand held your jaw. ‘c’mon, taste what i did to you.’ - his smile returns as you open your mouth with the little energy you have left, savouring the flavour of you and him on your tongue.
⋆˙⟡
your eyes felt hazy and your body felt sore until a warm towel was suddenly against the inside of your thighs.
james ensured to be gentle was he wiped the mess layered on your skin - his free hand caressed your cheek with such tenderness, you never would have believed he was capable of what he did only a few minutes ago.
‘i warmed up the bath for you-’ his voice was equally as sweet as his current actions, ‘i’ll carry you there in a second, m’kay? i just wanna clean my baby up first.’
you couldn’t help the fuzzy feeling in your tummy. after all, he still was your best friend. but could you even call him that after what happened, after what he did to you? or rather, after he did you?
that was a conversation to be concerned about for another time. all you knew is that after your bath, you wanted to fall asleep in his arms the same way you always have, just that this time, it would have a deeper meaning.
sure, things will become complicated now but you can take it. you already took him.
⋆˙⟡
2 MONTHS is how long this bitch has been sitting in my drafts. 2 whole months. forgive me everybody but it is posted now 😓
cw: overstimulation, unprotected p ‘n v, light degradation
an: first james post but he’s actually been taking over my mind oml. short because i wanted to see how u guys like james content 🙂↕️ i’ll do a longer version if y’all want it
“Mm!-“ Your moans were muffled by a hand pushing your head into the pillow. Your hands next to you opening ‘n closing from the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body.
“So good f’me,” James hummed. You could practically hear the playful smirk in his voice. “Think you could go for four tonight?”
You made a sound of disagreement as you heard his words. Head attempting to shake ‘no’ from under his hand.
“Yes you can.”
His thrusts were fast and relentless- hitting that gummy ‘n sensitive spot in you repeatedly.
He chuckled, free hand moving to trail down your hip. “You’re so loud baby.” He teased. Words laced with amusement and love. “Even when your face first in a pillow, sound so pretty.”
He let go of your head, hand moving down to rest in between your shoulder blades. Pressing light but noticeable pressure there.
You moaned, head immediately lifting and gasping for breath as your whines became clearer again. Pressing your cheek against the pillow.
“S’i already came twice..” You whimpered into the pillow. Already all fucked out.
“Mhm.” He spoke. Amused and half distracted by the sight of your cunt practically pulling in his cock despite your words. “So you only need to cum twice.”
He ruffled your hair then adjusted, placing his hands on either side of your body ‘n leaning down, resting his weight against you. Littering kisses along your neck.
“my first with him, he already had his with her,” — to all the boys I loved before
✦ You didn’t mean for the letter to send, but it somehow did—and now, he slipped into all the little corners of your life where no one else ever stayed. Unfortunately, you can’t shake the feeling that “you can’t be mad at someone for breaking your heart — it means they loved you in the first place.” Every moment with him feels like something new, something real, something dangerously close to a first you’ll never get back. But falling for him means risking everything… including the parts of yourself you’re scared to show. || pairing: soccer!player James x reader ✉️ wc: 14.9k
‼️ warnings: emotional conflict, jealousy, slow-burn romance, miscommunication, teen angst, mild language, relationship tension, harsh language, making out, pet names
💌 a/n: requested! thank you so much for this idea. I actually didn’t watch the movie so I had to reinstall Netflix and binge watch the first two 🥲.
James has you pressed against the wall before you can breathe, his body hot and solid against yours like he’s been dying to get his hands on you.
He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion. Muscles flexing, stomach tightening and the second he catches the way your eyes linger, his mouth curls into a dirty, knowing smirk.
“Yeah?”
His voice drops, low and cocky.
“You like that don’t you?”
Your thighs clench without permission. You nod, helpless. He slides a hand down your waist, fingers dipping under your waistband, brushing heat, barely there, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Fuck,” he laughs softly, lips dragging along your jaw. “Look at you—so pretty.”
His thumb presses against your clothed pussy, firm enough to make your hips jerk forward.
You gasp, a quiet, desperate sound, and he eats it from your mouth as he kisses you hard, tongue pushing past your lips like he owns the right. Your back hits the wall again.
His hips grind into you, slow and deliberate, the thick shape of his cock rubbing exactly against the spot that makes your knees buckle.
“Thought you’d break for me this easy,” he mutters against your mouth. His fingers slip lower “Let me hear it.”
“J-James.. I-“
You jolt so hard the pen flies out of your hand.
You’re instantly pulled back from your fantasy—heat to ice water in a heartbeat.
“Y/n?” your dad calls, voice muffled through your bedroom door. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Your sister will set the table today.”
You slap your palm over the letter like you’re hiding a crime scene. “I—I’ll be down in a sec!”
Your voice cracks. Horribly. Clearing your throat, you try again. “Yeah! Just—uh—finishing something!”
Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Silence drops. Then the fright hits you. You stare down at the paper. At the graphic, thirsty disaster you apparently wrote while possessed by a sex demon.
“Oh my fucking god.” You grab the paper in both hands, crumpling it so fast it practically crunches like aluminum foil.
“What is wrong with you, Y/n?” You fling the balled-up letter toward the overflowing trash can. It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor like it’s mocking you. Of course it misses. Even your garbage has better aim than your life. A waste of paper and your time. You bury your face in your hands and groan into your palms.
“He doesn’t even know you exist,” you mutter, pacing once, twice, like that might shake the embarrassment off. “How stupid do you have to be writing porn about James!”
James, the school’s most popular student who also happens to be in the soccer team. James who probably doesn’t know you exist and has a girlfriend. Or situationship. Or whatever the hell Amy counts as.
You drop back into your desk chair, heart still racing from the stupid fantasy. A mixture between wetness and heat still clings to your skin in places you wish it didn’t.
“This is insane,” you whisper to the ceiling. “Actually insane.”
You grab another sheet of paper, intending to write something normal. Something sane. Something not involving walls and grinding and his stupid smirk.
The page stays blank. Your hand trembles slightly. You shove it away and stand up.
“Dinner,” you tell yourself. “Food. Air. Brain reset. No… horny… writing.”
You take one step toward the door. Then stop. Then glance at the trash pile, the paper mountain you swore you’d never let anyone see.
One of them shifts from the movement of your fan. A small, sinking feeling hits your stomach. You really need to get a better trash can. Or maybe a shredder—no! Therapy. But first: dinner.
You yank open your bedroom door before you can psych yourself out again. And somewhere in the back of your head—the part you hate the most—James’s voice from your imagination lingers like smoke: Yeah? You like that?
You swallow hard.
“Shut UP,” you whisper to absolutely no one. You go downstairs anyway.
You drift down the stairs the minute the kitchen smells like something worth living for again. Your sister Annie is figuring out how her new phone works that she got for her thirteenth birthday recently. Your dad has his elbows on the counter, the kind of casual that says he’s trying to be chill but actually means business.
“You okay?” he asks between ladles of sauce. He always asks when you look a little too quiet.
You shrug and grab a roll. “Yeah. Fine. Hungry.”
He’s stirring the pot and watching you like someone trying to read the news in a window reflection. “You’re eighteen, Y/n. That means you should try opening up to people a little. Join a club, meet someone new. Don’t close yourself off to the same circle forever.”
You give him the eyebrow. “You mean Bella?”
“Bella’s great,” he says, tone is deliberately even. “But reliable isn’t everything. You have this… tendency to tuck yourself away. Try something that rattles you.”
“Bella is the most reliable person one could ever know,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of you. Suddenly, the words slide into the hollow place where your thoughts live and rattles something loose. Open up. Rattle. Shake. It’s stupid, obvious, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, it feels like the exact sentence you needed to hear.Before your dad can say anything else, you quickly get up from your seat.
“Honey- where’re you going?!” Your dad asks, your sister’s gaze following his. You don’t answer him. There’s no time for that. Sitting at your desk with your lamp low, you carefully grab another slip of paper.. You’ve always been the type to catalogue everything. Feelings, small humiliations, the way your chest tightens when you see James in the hallway, into the soft, safe pages of your diary. But you ran out of pages two days ago. You didn’t throw the journal away; you just taped the spine and pretended that was a solution. Now the spine is a Band-Aid and your life is still leaking.
So you do something slightly insane. You write a letter. A letter to James that you’re obviously not going to send. But you’re not going to send it—fuck no. You might be crazy but not to that extent. Instead, this letter will just fulfill your delusions, knowing you’re too much of a pussy to actually go talk to him.
Plus, James as Amy. A girl that’s ten times prettier than you. Even if the letter was sent, it wouldn’t do anything but humiliate her. You sit down and you write like the instruction are pressed into your ribs.
Dear James,
I don’t know what kind of courage is even required to put this into paper and not just into the soft pulp of my diary where it will sit forever and never hurt anyone but me. I’m out of pages. I like to pretend that’s why this is happening, but really it’s because your face keeps crowding the edges of the life I think I should lead and I am tired of pretending nothing has changed.
I’m writing this because my dad said something tonight about opening up, and for once his advice didn’t annoy me. It lit the part of my chest that likes to tell the truth. Usually, I tell myself the truth in tiny, private scribbles. I tuck things away in notebooks and call it safety. But safe is starting to feel smaller than the way my thoughts about you try to grow.
So here it is: I like you. Not the kind of like that’s polite and fits into a yearbook quote. The kind of like that rearranges the soundtrack in my head and makes dumb songs sound like they were written for mornings when you’re still asleep beside me. I like the way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the field. I like the way your that little pout you make when you miss your shot during your soccer practice. I like the scar on your thumb. I notice the ways you look at nothing and I wonder if you’re keeping a private joke with yourself.
I don’t expect anything. I’m not asking you to change your life, and I’m not asking you to break anything open to fit me inside. I’m just telling you the shape of my heart as honestly as I can. If you look back and you don’t feel anything close, that’s okay. I’ll make more pages. I’ll close my hands around the feeling and let it be pretty and lonely and mine.
If by some impossibility you feel even a fraction of this, if you ever want to talk in the quiet and not for show, I’d like that. If you want to laugh and make terrible jokes and steal fries off my plate, I’d like that too. If you want to touch me and find out how the rest of me holds together like how you do with Amy—well. I want that too, but more than anything I want you to be honest with me the way I’m trying to be honest with you now.
— Y/n
You read it back and feel twelve whole things at once — proud, mortified, relieved, as well as questioning your life decisions. You fold it carefully like it it’s an explosive and slide it into an envelope. You address it with your own hand: Zhao Yufan, his legal name. Under his name, you scribble the address you only learned after realizing he lives six houses down. You seal the flap, press it flat like a bandage, and set the envelope on your nightstand.
You think about putting it in the diary, or a secret drawer, or burning it in the tiny metal box you use to store old receipts, but something about the whole open up thing makes you stubborn. This one you want to feel like it could be sent. So you tuck it under a small stack of textbooks on the nightstand, slide a pen across it like you’re filing it into safety, and tell yourself you’ll shower, you’ll calm down, you’ll decide tomorrow whether you actually post it or not.
You strip and step into the shower, the hot water hitting your skin in a rhythm that slows the part of you that wants to panic. Steam climbs the glass and you lean your forehead against the wall and breathe. You imagine the envelope still on the nightstand where you left it, protected by the textbooks like a little fort.
You shampoo and rinse and think of nothing and everything and finally step out, towel-wrapped and lightheaded. You cross your room, expecting the envelope to be exactly where you left it. But you don’t see it.
You assume you put it somewhere else—under a different stack, in a drawer you forgot about, safe. That makes you breathe easier. You make a mental note to check after you put your hair up. Only thing is you don’t get the chance. As soon as you lay down on your bed, you’re fast asleep.
—
Morning punches you in the face the moment your alarm shrieks. You bolt upright with that weird post-shower fog still clinging to your brain, and then the memory hits you like a shovel: The letter.
“Shit—” You stumble out of bed, hair a disaster, sleep shirt twisted around your waist as you lunge toward the nightstand.
Textbooks: check. Pen you left on top: check. Envelope? Not check. You flip the books. Nothing. Just kill me.
You yank open the drawer. Receipts, scrunchies, a rogue stick of gum. Oh—there’s your favourite lip gloss you lost in eighth grade. No envelope.
You drop to your knees and check under the bed like the letter might be hiding out of spite. Nada.
“Okay, no. No no no—” Your voice rises, scrapes, breaks. You tear through your desk. Under the lamp. Behind your laptop. In your laundry basket like you’re truly losing it.
It’s gone.
You freeze so hard your breath forgets what it’s supposed to be doing. For a full five seconds you just stand there, staring at the nightstand like it personally betrayed you.
“Y/N! You’re gonna make Annie late!” your dad yells from downstairs.
Jesus Christ. Of course the universe picks today to make you a missing-letter fugitive.
You slap on makeup with the precision of a maniac, yank on loose jeans, absolutely forget deodorant, and sprint out the door with Annie trailing behind you.
She’s eating a Pop-Tart like nothing is wrong in the world. “Can you walk faster?” you hiss.
“You woke me up late,” she mumbles around strawberry filling. “This is your fault.”
She’s not wrong, and it only makes you want to scream into a pillow. “Actually, you could have set an alarm on your phone,” you say defend yourself. “What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t put it to use?” Annie rolls her eyes. The whole walk to her school, your brain is doing a full Olympic-level panic routine.
You drop Annie off—barely hearing her bye—and then you’re speed-walking toward your school like your life depends on it. Which, honestly? It kind of does.
Inside the hallway, it’s the usual teenage circus. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loud. Someone aggressively spraying Axe body spray like they’re trying to fumigate the building.
And then, you see him. James. He’s leaning against his locker, talking to Jihoon and some really tall guy, hair falling over his forehead in that stupidly soft way that makes your chest squeeze. He wipes his bangs aside with his knuckles and you swear your soul leaves your body like you’re some Victorian child witnessing the beauty of art for the first time.
Your feet keep walking but your eyes stay glued to him as you’re now walking backwards somehow—hey, is it just you or did he bleach his hair blondish orange?
“Ouch! Watch where you’re going.”
Your shoulder ricochets off a wall of person, and a sharp, irritated gasp snaps you back to reality. “Hi Amy.”
Believe it or not, you and Amy were best of friends back in middle school until popularity took over her. Her brown wavy hair is perfectly glossy. Her skin is so flawless it looks like someone airbrushed her in real time. She’s applying a swipe of lip gloss with one hand and glaring at you like you just stepped on her dog with the other.
“Oh, it’s just you,” she snaps, pursing her lips as she caps the gloss. “Some of us actually care about how we look in the morning.”
Heat floods your cheeks, crawling up your neck. You mutter, “Sorry,” but it comes out thin and squeaky—humiliating.
Her eyes flick over you, slow and critical, before she glances past your shoulder toward James—her whole expression softening instantly, like flipping a switch.
You try your hardest not to look. It would be very embarrassing to do so. But you do.
James is watching. Not glaring. Not smirking. Just watching with that unreadable, calm expression he always gets when he’s trying to figure something out. His friends are waving their hands in front of his face to catch his attention.
Your stomach drops to your toes. Because for one terrible, dizzy moment, you wonder if that letter got somewhere it shouldn’t. You swallow tightly.
This day is already hell. And it’s only 8:07 AM.
You don’t even get three steps down the hall before Bella materializes beside you like she teleported straight out of loyalty. Her ponytail bounces while her iced latte sloshes, eyebrows already raised. “I saw that, by the way,” she says.
You groan into your hands. “Please. Please, Bella. Don’t.” Bella wiggles her brows. “You full-on stared at him like he was Michelangelo’s David, and then you—what was that? Moonwalked into Amy?”
“Let’s. Not. Talk about it.” You want to crawl inside your hoodie and never come out. Bella laughs so hard she snorts. “Okay, fine. But holy crap, you’re lucky she didn’t claw your face off.”
You don’t tell her about the letter. God, no. Bella is your ride-or-die, but even she doesn’t deserve to carry that radioactive emotional grenade.
The day crawls by at the pace of a wounded snail. Class, class, pretend to take notes, class. After school, you follow your usual routine: cut through the side field, slip past the bleachers, and make your quiet little trail toward the soccer field.
It’s stupid. SO stupid. But watching the practices has always been… calming? Or maybe masochistic. Hard to tell. They’re already running drills. Cleats thudding. Shouts carrying.
And there he is, James, wearing the neon-pinnied version of perfection. He’s quick. Controlled. Focused. The way his legs move is ridiculous. He spins the ball like it’s attached to him by secret magnets.
Usually Amy’s on the bleachers, cheering him on with her friends. But today there were no signs of her being no where near this field. Strange. You wonder where she is. That should make you feel relieved. It doesn’t.
For once, James isn’t playing like you’re invisible. Because suddenly, he sees you. Actually sees you. His brows knit. His chest rises, pauses. And before you can process what’s happening, he jogs off the field. Then he’s running. Running toward you.
Panic detonates in your ribcage.
No. No no no no—
He stops way too close. Close enough that you smell him—clean, sharp, expensive. Something like cedar and citrus and everything you absolutely should not like.
“Hey,” he says, breath still catching from the run. “Y/n? Is that your name?” You freeze. He rubs the back of his neck. Looks down for a second. Then back at you.
“I see you watching the games sometimes and I, uh… got your note.”
Your heart stops. Literally stops. If a doctor checked you right now, you’d be declared clinically dead. “I just—” he swallows hard. He’s awkward. He’s never awkward. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring it.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the field like he wishes someone would rescue him.
“Listen… I just got out of a breakup. Like. Recently.” He laughs once, dry and not very funny. “And… I don’t even know you. So I can’t—it wouldn’t be fair. Or right. You know?”
“Then get to know me.” That’s what you want to say. Instead you nod slowly. Or maybe you physically malfunction. Hard to tell. He gives you this tiny, apologetic half-smile that somehow hurts worse than being stabbed.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. And then he jogs back onto the field like he didn’t just smash your chest open with his bare hands. You stand there frozen long enough that a stray soccer ball rolls by your foot and you don’t even flinch.
James looks even better up close. And yeah he smells like something expensive. Something that makes your stomach twist. You were never supposed to know that. You swallow, throat tight. It’s the start of the new school year and this day was- well... You’re not sure there’s even a word for it.
The next few days are awkward as hell.
You avoid his locker like it’s a landmine. You walk a little faster in the halls. How the hell did he get his hands on your letter in the first place? If your brain had a mute switch, you would’ve used it. Bella notices and gives you the exact look that says tell me everythingwithout actually making you talk.
You don’t tell her anything. Not about the letter, and about how your stomach clenches when he passes.
One afternoon you cut across the field and freeze halfway, because there they are, the once infamous couple arguing in that tense whisper that looks loud from a distance. Amy’s hands are animated, her face flushed in that way people get when they think they’re right and are also angry. James is calm but tight; his jaw works like he’s chewing on something heavy. You don’t hear words. You only see the body language: Amy stepping closer, James stepping back. The rest of the team keeps practicing around them like it’s normal to be emotionally shredded in the middle of drills. Maybe this happens a lot? Expect this time, they’re arguing as exes, not as a couple.
Three days later, you’re sitting with Bella like every other lunch school-day—salad in front of you, two conversations happening at once. “Hey,” Bella starts, “you think that I could fit three French fries up one nostril?”
You barely get two fries into your mouth before a shadow falls over your lunch table. Bella freezes mid-sip of her iced latte. Her eyes go huge. “Um… incoming.” You turn slowly, like your neck is rusted, praying it isn’t who you think it is.
James. Hands in pockets. Hair slightly damp from gym. Looking like a walking problem. You could recognize his cologne from miles away.
“Y/n,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk?” Bella nearly breaks her own neck nodding. You shoot her a warning look, but she just winks. Or tries to. It looks more like a seizure. You follow James out to the side courtyard, heart punching your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Did he see you eves dropping on him and Amy’s argument? Or even worse—he somehow got a hold of that piece of paper you wrote a whole entire smut scene of you and him on. No. There’s no way that’s possible. But the letter- shut up y/n.
Finally, he stops by a bench and shifts his body awkwardly. You brace yourself for whatever’s coming.
“Okay, so… about what I said a few days ago.” Deep breath. “I changed my mind,.”
You blink. Not once. Not twice. About twelve times. “I’m sorry—what?” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “Amy found out I talked to you the other day.” His eyes flicker to you. “And she’s… not handling it well.” You say nothing. Your brain is buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “So,” he continues, “she’s convinced I’m into you. And she’s trying to make me jealous by flirting with every guy in our grade. Which is…” He grimaces. “Annoying.”You’re staring at him, blank-faced, because what else are you supposed to do? “So if she thinks you and I are together,” he finally says, “she’ll calm down. And maybe she’ll want to get back together. It’s just… easier this way.”
Ah. There it is.
It’s not because he suddenly sees you. It’s not because your face lives rent-free in his mind the way his does in yours. It’s because you’re convenient and somehow read the stupid love letter you were going to keep to yourself and through away after a few days.
You swallow, throat scraping. “So you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend… so your get back together?” He nods, relieved you understand. “Yeah. Exactly.”
You take your time thinking—way longer than necessary, honestly. But you’re not stupid. Fake dating James? James, whose face makes your brain glitch? James, who already thinks you confessed some weird crush? Why the hell wouldn’t you?
“Fine,” you say eventually. “I’ll do it.” His whole body loosens like he’s been holding tension since August. “Thank you. Seriously. Okay, uh… we should follow each other on Instagram.”
Shit.
He pulls his phone out. You do the same—hesitantly. “It’s @y_notn?” He repeats, typing the username into Instagram, then clicking onto your page. You see his lips form a smirk. “You’re already following me I see.” You cheeks match the color of his shoes.
He types fast. “I’ll tag you in my bio. You can tag me in yours too.” Your pulse jumps but you nod in agreement anyways.
He pockets his phone again. “Meet me after practice today. Same field as always.” He gives you a small smile that’s entirely too soft to be legal. “I assume you know what time that is.” Like you haven’t literally watched every practice he’s had since school started.
You nod, trying not to implode. “Yeah. I know.”
“Cool.” He steps back, gives you a once-over that feels like a warm hand on your spine. “See you then, Y/n.” When he walks away, you realize you’re not breathing. You’re not sure you’ll ever breathe normally again.
Bella ambushes you before you even sit down. She’s practically vibrating with questions, textbooks forgotten in her hand.
“So spill. What did you two even talk about? Why is he talking to you when he has a—what is she—Amy? What the freak is going on?” Her eyes are all sharp curiosity and that ridiculous, fierce-protective thing only best friends get. You do the only mature thing you can think of: play it cool. “It’s nothing,” you say, which is still a lie and also technically not. You haven’t explained anything to anyone, not even to yourself.
Bella doesn’t buy it for one second. “Nothing? Y/n. You’ve been crushing on that guy ever since I’ve known you. Do you know how dramatic that was? Spill.”
You fold your fork over your lips. “He said some stuff. Nothing huge.” You focus on making your voice flat, unimpressed, as though your heart didn’t vault into your throat and refuse to come down two hours ago. She leans in until her face invades your space. “Did he… break up with Amy?”
You stare at her. The question feels like a live wire. “Yeah,” you say before you can stop it. “They—he said they broke up.”
Bella’s jaw drops so hard you’d think she swallowed a stone. “And you didn’t tell me? Am I not your best friend anymore or what?” She half-pleads, half-accuses. You laugh because panic tastes weird and small. “I didn’t know until this week, B. Chill. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be the person who screams and jumps on him or whatever you do when you’re extremely dramatic.”
She pouts, not actually mad. “Wait—so was he talking to you because he likes you or something and wants to move from Amy?”
It takes you a moment to respond. “It’s… complicated,” you say, and she deflates into a theatrical sigh. “I’ll keep you updated for sure.”
Later, after classes pretend to move slower than molasses. You go to the side courtyard like you promised. He’s there early, hands in pockets, looking like he walked out of a billboard and then stole your ability to breathe. He waves you over like he’s practiced casualness in a mirror.
“So,” he says, hands folded like he’s bracing for feedback as you two settle down on a nearby bench. “About us.”
You swallow. “About us.” Something you thought you’d never hear come out of his mouth, This is ridiculous. Then you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place.
He exhales. “I should make—uh—parameters. Boundaries. Whatever you want to call them..” He looks earnest. Which is both disarming and scalding.
“Okay,” you say. “No kissing. No… anything farther.” You say it like you’re filing a restraining order against your hormones. Your cheeks heat up right after you say it, like you’ve exposed your soul in public.
He gives you a genuinely confused look. “What’s so wrong with kissing?” You look at him and feel stupid and stubborn and painfully sincere. “I want my first kiss to mean something. I don’t want my first kiss to be a prop in someone’s plan. I want it to be because of… feelings. Real ones.”
He studies your face. For a second you think he’s scoffing. Instead he looks surprised, like he expected something else out of you entirely. “So you’re saying you’ve never kissed anyone? You don’t seem like a first-kiss kind of person,” he says, like it’s an observation, not an accusation.
You don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment. “I’m not,” you say. “I just… want one that matters.”
He nods slowly, and shockingly, he takes it in. “Okay. No kissing,” he repeats. “No making out. No—anything. Got it. I was looking forward to that part though.” That last sentence makes you look up immediately. He lets out a “oh look at you, you feel for it,” laugh. Of course he didn’t mean it.
“And pet names? Like, are we team ‘babe’ or are we staying sane?”
You sigh. “Pet names are allowed but No PDA that crosses boundaries. Hand-holding okay. Quick pecks on the cheek—fine, but only if it’s not humiliatingly dramatic in front of Amy.”
He snorts at that, and for a moment the tension loosens. “Dates?” he asks. James going on a date with you? You want to poke yourself to make sure this isn’t all just a dream.
“Sure.”
You actually grin, and it feels like a defect in your usual composure. This is insane. You’re literally negotiating love like it’s a group project. He hesitates, then asks, “Can I—uh—pick you up to school? Like, to drive you? Make things look… convincing.”
Your brain short-circuits. “I walk my younger sister to school,” you say. “So no.” He brightens, thinking on his feet. “I can drive her too. Drop them both off. Make it seem legit.”
You gape. “You’d drive my twelve-year-old sister to school?” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Less awkward than you explaining a fake boyfriend every morning.”
“Wow,” you say, simultaneously mortified and oddly touched. “That’s… actually kind. Okay, maybe.”
“And—if you want—I can drive you home now,” he adds. “Make it easier. Practical.” You almost laugh because this feels exactly like a dream for someone else and not like your actual life. But then you see his eyes dart—just for half a beat—toward the tree line at the edge of the parking lot. Amy.
He looks back at you and, without missing a beat, pulls you closer. His hand rests on the small of your back, which feels equal parts possessive and protective. His other hand ghosts over your arm, fingers light, claiming. “Smile,” he whispers into your ear, breath hot and soft and ridiculous.
His hands wander like they’re memorizing the geography of you—over your shoulder, along your ribs—nothing obscene, just bordering on intimate enough to make your teeth ache.
“Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.” He makes sure to emphasize on the baby part so it’s loud enough for Amy to hear. The pet name lands heavy in your chest.
He slides his fingers into yours and leads you toward the parking lot. Your sneakers scuff the concrete. Maybe the letter getting sent out wasn’t as bad after all. But then you remember this is all an act. James doesn’t actually like you. And once he’s back with Amy? You don’t even want to think about it.
You find the car before you recognize it. Low, polished, the kind of car that hums quietly like it was born rich. Leather seats. Chrome that catches sunlight like it’s showing off. You knew he was from money, but you’d never actually seen it up close like this.
He opens the passenger door for you with a theatrical little bow that somehow feels oddly considerate. “Hop in,” he says, and for a second the world narrows to leather and the faint plastic smell of air freshener and the rapid, stupid beating of your heart.
You climb in, and as the engine starts, you wonder which part of your life is a fever dream and which part, if any, is real.
James pulls up in front of your house like he’s done this a hundred times, like this is just routine for him now. The car quiets, he taps the steering wheel once, and turns toward you.
“Thanks for driving me,” you say, suddenly shy for no reason except he’s looking at you like that. You try to keep your smile contained, but it still slips out, tiny and embarrassing.
He catches it immediately. “Cute,” he says under his breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He clears his throat, hoping you didn’t hear him slip.
“So this is where y/n lives? Didn’t know you lived a couple houses down from me.” You smile and reach for the door handle, trying to act like a normal functioning human being, when he stops you with a soft, “Y/n—wait.”
You blink at him. “Yes?” He holds up his phone. “Can I take a picture of us holding hands? For my Insta so Amy can see.” You swear you felt something real between you two until he snapped you back to reality. “Like… right now?”
“Yeah.” He extends his hand, palm up, waiting. “C’mon.”
You place your hand in his because what else are you supposed to do? Say no? Die? Teleport? His fingers lace through yours, warm and soft, and your whole bloodstream turns into electricity. You feel your body heat up. This is your first ever physical contact with him.
He lifts his phone with the other hand and pulls your joined hands closer to the console where the lighting is better. Of course he knows his angles; he’s literally James.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. You do. He snaps the picture the moment you meet his eyes, like he wants you in the frame even if you’re only visible in the reflection of the screen.
After the photo is taken, he stares at it for a quick second. Call yourself delusional but you swear you saw him holding back his smile. After tagging you, he uploads it instantly. Your heart legitimately forgets how to beat.
“Great,” he says, dropping your hand slowly, almost reluctantly. “Text me when you’re inside.”
“S-sure,” you mutter, stumbling over your own voice like a clown. You climb out of the car. He waits until you’re at the porch before he pulls away, tires rolling smooth and silent like he didn’t just flip your entire life upside down.
You walk in, still clutching the warmth of his hand like an idiot who’s never known happiness before. Your dad glances up from the kitchen, eyes narrowing with that suspicious dad-squint. “Someone’s smiling.” You almost choke. “I’m not—I’m literally—I wasn’t—”
He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’m not interrogating you. How’d you get home so fast?”
Panic rushes through your veins. “Uh. Bella’s brother drove us. We were going the same way.”
Lie. Instant lie. Horrible lie. Bella doesn’t even have a brother. You want to fistfight yourself.
“Huh,” your dad says, not looking convinced but not digging either. “Alright, well—oh! Before I forget.” He stands, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smiles like he’s about to tell you something wholesome. Instead he says the single worst sentence you’ve heard in your entire life. “I forgot to tell you this but I saw that letter on your desk last week and helped mail it for you, honey.” Your stomach hits the floor. You swear your vision goes white around the edges.
“What—what letter?” You hear your own voice crack like a broken flute.
“The envelope under those textbooks on your desk thst was addressed to one of our neighbours? I figured it’d save you and I less time because I was stopping by the post office anyways,” He beams, proud of himself.
You cannot breathe. So that’s how James got your note. The letter that was literally your unhinged, handwritten, half-fantasy confession about James. The one you should have burned. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice tiny and hoarse.
You bolt up the stairs the second you’re free, close your bedroom door with the gentlest click ever because of course tonight is the night you suddenly care about door volume, and just… collapse. Face-first into your bed. You don’t even bother turning the lights on.
Your body is still buzzing, like James’s handprint is burned into your skin. Your heart keeps replaying the whole car scene at 8K resolution, IMAX, Dolby Atmos, every upgrade possible.
James and Amy? Over. James talking to you? Actually real. James fake dating you? Also real. You? Completely malfunctioning.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Because the thing is, it’s fake. He asked for to take the picture for Amy, not because he wanted it for himself. He’s James. He dates girls who look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial. You literally tripped over air in homeroom last week.
Still… your chest squeezes around this tiny, dangerous wish. You wish it wasn’t fake, how he meant the way he looked at you in the car, and the warmth in his hand wasn’t just acting. But whatever. That’s not your life. Guys like him don’t like girls like you. You know that. You’ve always known that.
Next morning starts off painfully normal, which is honestly rude given the way last night cracked your brain open. You drag yourself out of bed, brush your teeth while half-asleep, pull on a hoodie that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent and despair, and braid Annie’s hair while she wiggles like a caffeinated squirrel.
“Hold still,” you mutter, trying to tame the last strand. “I am holding still,” she says, not holding still. You finally get her ready, grab your bag, and step out of the building with her hand in yours. It’s quiet outside, cool enough to wake you up a little. The walk to her school is familiar, easy, predictable.
Your brain needs predictable right now. You’re three blocks down before a car honk breaks the morning calm—one sharp, deliberate beep.
You and Annie both turn at the same time.
James’s car is parked at the curb. Leaning slightly toward the window, one hand on the wheel, raising his eyebrows in a “Really? You forgot?” kind of way.
“Oh shit,” you whisper. Annie gasps dramatically and sprints toward the car like she’s starring in her own movie. “Did you just say a bad word?” she calls out over her shoulder. “Also who’s that?”
“My… uh…” You have nothing. No explanation. Just panic. “Just—wait—Annie!” But she’s already yanking open the passenger door. “Did you forget about stranger danger?!”
“Hiiiiii!” she beams at him. James grins back, all sunshine and dimples. “Good morning.” He looks cute when he smiles. You stumble up behind her, cheeks burning. “Sorry—she just—uh—”
“It’s fine,” he says. “She’s cute.”
Annie giggles like he handed her a scholarship. “My sister thinks cute! Her face literally turned red when she—” You quickly slap your palm on top of her mouth, nearly choke on your own tongue. “Annie! You can’t just—say things—!”
James laughs. “I can see that.” Fuck you. He nods toward the backseat. “You riding or walking?” Right. The whole fake dating thing. You climb in, mumbling, “I totally forgot you were picking us up.”
He shoots you a look in the rearview. Teasing. “Kind of figured.” Annie, meanwhile, is already telling him her entire life story. “So my sister woke me up late again, and Y/N didn’t let me have candy in the morning, so can you convince her t—“
“Annie,” you hiss, “personal space!” James glances at you, amused. “Your sister’s very bubbly.”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Runs in the family.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Haven’t noticed much of that in you.” You look out the window so he can’t see your face fall and combust at the same time. “Well… it takes me a while to open up.”
There’s a beat of silence—soft, not awkward. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t mind that. Your breath trips. Annie thankfully interrupts you before your brain melts. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” You and James say entirely different things at the exact same time.
You: “NO—no no no—he’s not—don’t—” James: “Something like that.”
You whip your head toward him so fast your neck protests. “What?!” He smirks. “Relax. Just keeping the story consistent.” “That’s not consistent, that’s— that’s—”
“Convincing,” he finishes, winking. You swear your pulse jumps like it’s trying to break out of your body. By the time he pulls into the school parking lot, your nerves are shredded.
“Wait.” His voice stops you again. You freeze halfway out. He gets out too. Walks around the car. And then extends his hand. Palm up, a silver ring on his index finger.
“Come on,” he says. “They’re already staring.” Your stomach drops to your knees. You place your hand in his, because apparently you’ve lost all brain function. His fingers lace through yours. Firm. Warm. Familiar already in a terrifying way. You wonder what if he uses hand cream—and if so, what kind?
You walk side by side, hands joined, through the courtyard. Every. Single. Person. Looks. Someone literally whispers, “Are you kidding me?” as you pass. Another girl stares like you committed a war crime. You try to keep your face blank, but your heart is doing parkour. Even his friends look at him weird. James leans toward you just slightly. “You good?”
“I’m—fine,” you lie. He squeezes your hand. A tiny squeeze. You nearly short-circuit. Then you turn down the hall. And there she is. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. Leaning against her locker with her friends, scrolling through her phone—Amy.
Until she sees you and James. Her entire expression freezes—then sharpens. Expression goes from neutral to knives-out in half a second.
It hits you so hard your stomach does a full gymnastics routine. You instantly look away, like you’re gonna be burned alive if you make eye contact for more than a microsecond. James actually glances. Quick, sharp, assessing—like he’s checking if she saw. And apparently she did, because he gives the smallest nod to himself and keeps walking.
Your palm is sweating in his, which is honestly humiliating, but he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t squeeze or slow down or look at you twice. He’s just walking. Playing the part. Cool. Unbothered. Like this is all just logistics. People are still staring, whispering, straight-up gawking as you pass. You keep your face forward. Try not to shrink… or die. All three are failing.
When you reach his locker, he drops your hand casually like he’s turning off a light switch. He spins his combo, grabs a book, and says, completely normal, “I saw her staring.”
Your heart is still in your throat. “It’s progress, I guess.” He nods once, satisfied. “Think it’s working.”
James doesn’t look at you again—just shuts his locker with a quick clack and tosses his bag over his shoulder like he didn’t just nuke your nervous system in the hallway.
“See you later,” he says, already turning away. And you’re left standing there, trying not to look like you’re about to dissolve into mist.
The rest of the week doesn’t calm down — it just mutates into this weird fever dream where James keeps doing things that make your brain short-circuit.
Like Wednesday morning, when you’re trying to open your locker and the stupid thing jams for the eighth day in a row. You mutter under your breath, “I hate this place,” and kick the bottom corner. Out of nowhere, James appears behind you, lean and warm and annoyingly tall.
“Move,” he says, voice low like he’s about to break into a safe.
“I’ve tried that,” you snap, not even looking up. “It doesn’t—” He slams his palm against the top left edge with one clean, confident hit. The locker pops open like it’s scared of him. Hot. “Are you—what? How—?!”
He shrugs, smirking. “You’re welcome.”
You roll your eyes way too dramatically, but you’re pretty sure your soul floats out the back of your head when he taps the top of your hair and says, “I’ll be here if you need help with anything else.”
You stare after him like a malfunctioning Roomba as he walks off.
Then there’s Thursday, when you’re walking through the courtyard with James and trip over absolutely nothing. Like, genuinely nothing. A single leaf. A shadow. Air. You go stumbling forward like a newborn deer. Before you can fall, James catches the back of your hoodie and pulls you upright by the hood like you’re a cat being relocated.
“I swear to God,” you wheeze, face on absolute fire, “the ground attacked me.”
“Yeah,” he deadpans, “the ground looked really hostile.”
You shove his shoulder because you can’t come up with a good comeback and also because you’re mortified. He lets out a quiet chuckle and it unlocks something sweet and dangerous in your chest.
Next it’s Friday morning. You and Annie are waiting for him outside, and your sister is bouncing around talking about how she wants to get a hamster named Bean. James comes out of the car, leans over the passenger seat, and gives Annie an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“Bean’s a great name,” he says, like he’s taking her dead seriously. “Very strong. Very intimidating.”
Annie giggles like she’s met a celebrity. You can tell that your sister likes him a lot. Too bad it might all end soon. You’re standing there blinking because why is he being sweet when no one is watching? There’s no audience at 7:53 AM on a suburban sidewalk. No reason to impress anybody. He looks at you for a beat too long. “What?” you say, defensive because your nervous system is fried.
“Nothing,” he says, that tiny smile tugging at one corner.
Later that same day, you’re at his soccer practice again, this time on mandatory fake-girlfriend attendance, apparently, but this time you don’t sit on the bleachers. You’re late, so you stand awkwardly by the fence, hugging your bag.
James sees you. Mid-scrimmage. He’s literally making it past two guys and still looks over like you’re a lens flare he enjoys catching. Amy’s on the far side of the field glaring daggers, and that’s probably why he does it, why he pushes a bit harder. For some reason, she started showing up again.
But then he smirks. And it’s not aimed at Amy. He jogs up after scoring, out of breath, flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. The kind of sweaty that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
Before you know it, his practice ends, the sun’s low, and the field looks like it’s glowing. You’re standing by the fence scrolling your phone, pretending you’re not waiting for him even though obviously you are.
They scrimmage one more play. James gets the ball. The field actually erupts. He slips past two defenders, cuts left, shoots—Goal. The boys yell and explode like he just cured cancer. And then he does something so stupidly cinematic you almost faint: He runs straight toward you. Like you’re his checkpoint.
He stops right by the fence, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, jersey sticking to him — black and green, drenched in sweat, clinging to every muscle that should not legally exist on an 20-year-old.
“Did you see that?” he breathes out, grinning like he’s half-drunk on adrenaline.
“I—I mean—yeah,” you say, but it comes out more like a squeak because you are absolutely staring. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his neck glistening, jaw sharp enough to slice your willpower in half. He smirks when he notices.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he teases, voice low. You immediately snap your eyes away. “I wasn’t—looking. I was—blinking.”
“I didn’t know blinking took that long,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to the fence. You nearly dissolve into the grass.
By the time he drops you off, your brain is a puddle. He taps the steering wheel, looks at you with that same unreadable-soft expression you’re starting to recognize. “Same time tomorrow?”
Before you could answer, your dad comes out on the porch at the worst possible moment, holding a mug and squinting into the driveway. “Is that the handsome guy Annie keeps talking about?”
Why oh why. “Wha—dad—I—no—?” James, traitor that he is, just smiles and waves like this is a barbecue and not the crumbling of your sanity. “Yes I am!”
Your dad lights up. “Well! Why don’t you stay for dinner?” You see James glance at you like he’s asking for permission—like you’re the deciding vote before he says, “Sure. If that’s okay.” Okay?? You’re already having an out-of-body experience. Inside, Annie is THRIVING. She pats the couch between her and James like she’s the host of a reality show. You sit, fully preparing to be normal. You fail immediately.
Halfway through the movie, James shifts closer—casual, smooth, evil—and drapes an arm behind you on the couch, feeling himself at your home. Not even touching you yet, just… there. Warm. Heavy. Loud in your peripheral vision. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage with a crowbar.
Then, out of nowhere, he reaches over and slides the scrunchie out of your ponytail. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s unwrapping a present. Your hair falls down your shoulders and you swear the air temperature spikes 40 degrees.
“Looks better like this,” he murmurs, barely audible over the TV.
You’re going to combust. Annie is too invested in the movie to notice you dying.
He loops it around his wrist, then pulling out his phone to check something. You assume he’s going to post something on his Instagram for Amy to see, but he checks the time instead. Strange
Your dad comes in once to ask if you all want snacks. James answers politely. You stare at the wall like you’re seeing God. He grabs a piece and feeds it to you. Even morestrange.
Eventually it gets late, and he stands, gives Annie a little salute, thanks your dad for the evening, and looks at you with this unreadable softness that makes your stomach flip.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
—
The night air is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t feel it. His whole skin is still warm from your house, your couch, your hair brushing his shoulder.
As he hopped into the car, shouldn’t be thinking about that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Getting out, he walks up his front steps, keys halfway out of his pocket, when he freezes.
Amy is sitting on his porch. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Wearing that perfume he likes.
“James,” she says, chin tilted, voice honeyed she knows works on most people.
He exhales, slow. “Amy. What are you doing here?”
She stands up, taking a step closer. “I wanted to talk. We haven’t really—y’know—processed everything. And I…” She lets the sentence trail off, fingers brushing his arm like muscle memory. “I miss you. We were good together.”
He should want this. He knows that. This was the whole point, wasn’t it? Proving he could move on, making her jealous, getting her to come back.
“We were,” he says quietly. It comes out flat. Even he hears it.
Amy leans in, confidence flickering back. “I mean… moving on to someone like her?” She smirks. “Convincing. I’ll give you that.”
He doesn’t say anything. She slides her hand down his arm like she’s done it a thousand times — because she has. Her voice drops. “You could’ve just talked to me, James. You didn’t have to pretend.”
Her eyes glint. She steps closer again, enough that her breath hits his collarbone. “What do you say? Are you up for a redo?” Amy reaches for his wrist, then stops at a certain spot.
“Oh.” Her voice shifts — sweet turning sour. “What’s this?” Her fingers brush the scrunchie. Your scrunchie. Still warm from your hair. She looks up at him, eyebrows lifted like she’s caught him with a crime weapon.
“Is that Y/n’s?” she asks, sickly sweet. His voice is small, quieter than he expects. “It is.”
Amy lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Wow. You’re really committing to the bit.” He doesn’t correct her.
She slips it off his wrist and ties her hair with it, steps back, arms folding. “Well,” she says, lips curling, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, James.”
She walks away without waiting for an answer. Her perfume lingers. But his wrist feels heavier than everything she tried to imply. He stands there a long time after she’s gone. And the scrunchie stays exactly where it is.
—
James picks you up like nothing happened, acting like he didn’t stand on his porch last night looking existential with your scrunchie on his wrist while his ex tried to crawl back into his life.
“Morning,” he says, voice warm, as you hop into the car.
“Good Morning.”
He glances over, tapping the steering wheel. “Tired?” You scratch your neck, letting out a soft groan. “Not at all.”
He actually laughs under his breath. “Liar.” Ugh. Of course he knows.
He drives for a bit, a comfortable quiet settling between you — or, well… almost comfortable. Then he says it. Soft. Almost shy. “I really like spending time with you.”
You freeze. Brain: 404 error. “Why?” you say before your filter can save you. He looks over. “Why not?”
“No, like—” you wave a hand, “you don’t have to do the whole… nice boyfriend act right now. No one’s looking.”
His brows pull together, confused, just a tiny bit hurt. “I know.” It’s nothing. It’s everything. You don’t know what to do with it, so you shove it into the mental junk drawer and slam it shut.
—
After your second class, Bella picks you up and you two walk to your lockers, minding your own business, when Amy appears like a horror movie jump scare, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes on you like target practice.
“You know James doesn’t actually like you?” She says sweetly.
It’s not like you didn’t know that. The thing going on between James and you is all for show. Bella stiffens beside you. You close your locker and keep walking.
Amy clicks her tongue. “Y/n—you forgot something.”
You turn just in time to see her toss your scrunchie. It hits the floor at your feet like a punchline. Bella’s eyes go HUGE. “Um. What—?”
“I’ll explain later,” you mutter, scooping it up with fingers that are absolutely trembling.
You don’t go to his practice after that. Screw that. Screw all of it. You go home, burrow under your blanket, and try to convince yourself you don’t care even though you obviously care so much it feels like a bruise.
Around six, there’s a knock downstairs. Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.
You hear your dad open the door.
“Oh! Hi James!”
“Is Y/n home?” he asks, and his voice is nervous. Nervous? Since when does James get nervous? “Yes, she’s upstairs in her room, doing whatever you teenagers do.”
“Can I— uh— can I talk to her?”
“…Sure, come in.”
You want to sink into the floorboards. Your dad calls up the stairs, “Y/n! James is here!”
Yeah, you heard.
A moment later, there’s a soft knock on your door. “Can I come in?” You don’t answer, and quickly pull the cover over you. He opens just enough to peek inside. “Hey.” You sit up, knees tucked to your chest. “Hi”
He steps inside, closes the door behind him, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hit CTRL+ALT+DEL on his own life. “Why didn’t you show up to my game? You always show up.”
You look at him for a long second, then ask the question that’s been chewing through your ribs all day.
“Did you… meet up with Amy last night? And then give her my favourite scrunchie?”
His head snaps up fast. “No.”
“No?”
“I mean—yes and no. It’s not what you think.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Then what happened?”
He sighs, shoulders dropping. “She just spawned in front of my house as I was driving home. I never asked her to come” Your chest tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Right. And when she took my scrunchie… you just let her take it?” He flinches a little — just barely, but you see it.
“Yeah, that’s my bad,” he says quietly. “But hey, at least you got it back.”
You stay quiet, jaw set as you look down at the scrunchie on your wrist.
“And it’s not a big deal,” he adds quickly. “It’s just a scrunchie y/n.” He stops himself. “Well — not just a scrunchie. Yours.” Your lungs betray you with a small inhale. He moves a little closer, hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Really. And… I wanna make it up to you.”
You tilt your head “How?” And because he’s him — chaotic, dramatic, inexplicably confident — he smiles.
“You heard of ‘Ski Slopes Nation?” The ski trip party my friend hosts every year. It’s, uh, kinda big. And really fun. I want you to come with me.”
You look down at yojr hands, unsure what to say. Strange, wouldn’t he have asked Amy? “James, I don’t even know anyone there.”
“Okay,” he says, shrugging, taking one small step closer. “So what? You’ll know me.”
“That’s not enough. You’ll be distracted by you know who.”
He sighs, walking towards your bed as he puts his finger under your chin, turning your head to face him. He tilts his head, smirk creeping back. “You’re the only distraction I need.”
Your stomach flips so hard you have to look away again. How can he say this when he doesn’t even like you?
“Think about it,” he murmurs. He reaches for the doorknob, pauses, glances back at you with that soft half-smile. “And for the record, I’ll buy you snacks for the whole time we’re there.”
Then he leaves you alone with your heartbeat trying to set a new world record.
“Wait… it was fake?!” Bella’s voice is a cartoon of betrayal—half screech, half wounded martyr. You’re sitting across from her at your usual greasy-spoon table, regretting your life decisions, and she’s dramatically clutching her phone like you’ve personally stolen her childhood.
“I thought he actually liked you,” she adds, scandalized. “I mean, everything! His stories, the way he looked at you—God, I practically had a panic attack of joy.”
You shrug, because what else do you do when your life is embarrassing and baffling at the same time. “It was the plan. To make Amy jealous. To get her to get back with James.”
Bella pokes your forehead with the end of a fry. “So you were a pawn? That is actually a geniu—horrible!”
You let out a sigh and then tell her about the ski thing—James’s invitation that felt suspiciously like a peace offering. Bella immediately goes into PR mode.
“Why aren’t you going?” she asks, all business now. “This could be huge. Honestly, go. I’ll totally come with you if that’ll change your mind.”
You almost say no. You almost say yes. You do say, finally, “Okay, but you cannot leave my side for once.”
She claps and picks up your phone from the table. “Text him now.” She demands while handing you her phone. Slowly, you unlock your phone and type in: “Ok, Ski Slopes Nation it is.” Sent.
Weekend flies. Saturday morning, you stand by the curb, heels tapping like a metronome, expecting Bella’s overzealous face any second. Typical you overpacked for a three night trip. James pulls up right on time, engine purring luxury. You get in. You do a full inventory of your nerves.
Ten minutes later you notice Bella’s text: one-line replies.
Bella: Sorry guys, mom lowkey got mad because I fumbled my test 🙁. Maybe next time?
You stare at the message like it physically hurt. She didn’t tell you before. This was her plan all along for you to go to the Ski Slopes Event alone with James. She was never going to come.
You turn to James, ready to explode with “where is she?” but the words scramble and bail right out of you. Your hand goes for the door handle. You’re doing the awkward petty-exit thing when he reaches over, still driving, and grabs your wrist gently.
“Wait,” he says. His voice is small, not demanding, just…earnest. “Please. Don’t go.”
You stare at his hand on yours. Your knee-jerk plan is to get out and walk, to reclaim dignity off the side of the highway, but the highway is suddenly very far away and his palm is somehow steadying.
“Why?” you ask, because why not make him explain himself.
He pulls into the next parking spot, kills the engine, and turns fully to you like it’s the thing he’s meant to do all day. The car becomes its own little island of breath.
“I wanted you to come,” he says, simple and flat, like it’s obvious and he’s been dying to say it. “Not because of Amy. Not to make her jealous. I… I actually like doing this with you. I like spending time with you.”
Your brain files that under “unreliable information” and simultaneously under “this actually matters.” You blink. “But—wasn’t this whole thing supposed to get Amy back?”
He hesitates, then answers honestly, the way people answer when the truth is awkward but necessary. “Yes that was the plan. At first. But I don’t know if I want to go back to that. I don’t know if I ever did. And the more time I spend with you—not pretending—it’s not the same. You’ve made me felt something no one else has ever made me feel. But what I know is that I like you. A lot.”
You roll your eyes because dramatic vulnerability is embarrassing even when it’s kind of endearing. And your body heats up. Your cheeks are probably tomato colored, but you try staying nonchalant. “So what, you just switched teams mid-game?”
He gives you one of those looks that’s half apology, half dare. “Sort of. Do you… do you wanna keep doing this? Not for Amy. For us. Keep this—whatever this is—going?”
You inhale, exhale, try to be sensible. “You know how this looks,” you say. “Welp, the love letter sure worked out—just now how I expected.”
He smiles, small and stubborn. “It sure did.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes—part incredulous, part hopeful. You tuck your hand back into yours under the dash. “Fine,” you say, because why be brave when you can be cautiously stupid instead. “But I’m watching you. One misstep and I will glare you into ashes.”
“Deal,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips that’s half triumphant, half relieved. “Also, I’m getting your scrunchie back. Properly next time.”
You look out at the highway ahead, and despite the chaos, despite the lying and the staging and the way your life currently reads like a badly edited montage, there’s a tiny part of you that answers before your brain can veto it.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s keep doing this—carefully.”
He squeezes your hand. The car pulls back onto the road, and the rest of the world sounds like muffled static for a second, just you and the hum of the engine and the very complicated possibility of something messy and real.
“Are you sure you have snow tires on?” You double check as more snow comes down while you guys drive up the mountain. The atmosphere in the car was not quiet, but soft. Not awkward anymore, not tense, just this gentle humming between you two—like the car has its own heartbeat now and it somehow synced to yours. James lets out a low chuckle, reaching for your hand, giving it a tight squeeze.
“I’m sure y/n.” The way he spoke your name was so attractive yet reassuring. Snow lines the trees like powdered sugar and the sky is a blue so obnoxiously pretty it looks edited. James keeps flicking quick glances at you like he’s checking if you’re still real. You’re still trying to get over the fact that you’re seated in Jame’s car that actually has feelings for you.
When he parks outside the lodge, you hop out and the cold instantly punches your lungs. He grabs the bags before you can even protest because he’s a show-off with biceps, apparently. Inside, the place is gorgeous—warm lights, crackling fireplaces, couples everywhere wearing matching sweaters like they’re in a Pinterest board.
James leads you down a hallway lined with wooden doors and stops at one. Unlocks it, then opens the door. You follow him in. And freeze.
There are multiple reasons why you freeze. First and most obvious reason, the scenery. You knew James and his friends were filthy rich, but this is on a next level. The place was small, but it felt so cozy and expensive at the same time. Second reason, the bed. Notice how it’s bed and not beds plural?
“…Hold on,” you say, voice thin. “Where’s—uh—the other bed?” There is one bed. One. Big, yes. Fluffy, absolutely. But still ONE BED.
James glances at it like it’s the weather. “Oh. Yeah. They ran out of doubles.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “Is that okay? It is pretty spacious so we can sleep on either ends.”
Is that OK??
Your soul: NOPE. SOUND THE ALARMS. EVACUATE THE PREMISES.
Your mouth: “Yeah it’s fine.”
Typical y/n. Always lying out of your ass crack.
He tosses his duffel on the floor and starts unpacking, casual as ever, while your brain is mapping out emergency escape routes and calculating the surface area of the bed to figure out how far you can sleep from him without dying.
“We’ve got, like, four hours until the big event,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “It’s basically a party with drinks and games. Then we go skiing. People kinda go all out.”
Skiing? You? “Is it bad that I don’t know how to Ski?”
He snorts—soft, fond. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you if you’re down. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.
He finishes unpacking and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You can talk, y’know,” he says, teasing. “You’re doing that quiet-stressing face again.”
“I’m not”—
“You are.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
“Stop being readable.”
You grab your water bottle just to have something to do. He watches you, amused. The silence stretches—not awkward, but charged. Like static in the air before lightning strikes.
You sit on the edge of the bed, rambling about something—how cold it is, how Bella tricked you, how the hallway smells weirdly like cinnamon. You don’t stop talking because if you stop, you’ll think, and if you think, you’ll panic.
Halfway through your rant about overpriced ski equipment, you notice he’s not responding. He’s just… staring. Not in a bored way. Or in a polite-listening way.
In a hungry way. In a memorizing-your-mouth-movements way. In a way no fake boyfriend should ever stare. No one has ever looked at you like that.
You clear your throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
James’s voice is low, a little rough. “I don’t know.”
You short-circuit. “I—what—you—you don’t know—?”
“Yeah.” He shifts closer—just enough for your knees to touch.
You swallow. Loudly. “Cute.”
“Mm.” His eyes drop to your lips like gravity dragged them there. “And distracting.”
Your heart is doing backflips. Your hands start sweating. You are ninety percent sure you’re about to ascend straight off the bed.
“James…” you whisper, though you’re not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation. He moves closer, slow enough to give you time to pull back. You don’t. You couldn’t even if you tried. His forehead almost touches yours, breath warming your skin. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer. You lean in. Never once in life were you expecting James to be your first kiss. Obviously in those little fantasies of yours, but never in real life.
His lips brush yours—barely, like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud—and your breath catches so hard your ribs ache. He tilts his head, closes the space, kisses you properly this time, soft but hungry, like he’s been holding this in for weeks.
He pulls back, breathless, eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name. Then suddenly he’s dragging you into his lap, steady hands guiding you, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear before pulling you in for another kiss. This one is hungrier—messy, frantic, almost starving.
A small moan slips out of you the second his tongue pushes into your mouth. He’s good—too good. And you were the complete opposite. Heat blooms low in your stomach, and you can feel him hardening beneath you, the realization sending a shiver through your whole body.
He chuckles against your lips, the vibration buzzing straight through you as his tongue keeps exploring your mouth.
“You like that?” he murmurs, fingers trailing up your thigh. You nod instantly, needy, like your body answered before your brain could catch up.
He leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs. You part your lips, but nothing comes out—you’re too wound up, too turned on from everything he’s already done.
“Tell me, baby.” The pet name makes your pussy clench around nothing.
“I—I don’t know,” you finally manage to whisper.
“You don’t know?” he repeats, eyebrow lifting in a teasing way. Embarrassment floods your cheeks as you shake your head and bring your hands up to hide your face.
“Hey,” he says softly, pulling your hands away. Your eyes meet, and he him unintentionally bitting his lower lips, his eyes now roaming all over your body.
Before you can even react, he’s kissing you again—deep, consuming, pulling you straight back into the heat of him.
“Do you know how to grind on me?” he asks when he pulls away again. You shake your head no.
“Here, let me guide you.”
His hands settle on your ass, gentle but sure, guiding your hips back and forth over his clothed cock as he pulls you back into the kiss. You both let out soft moans, the sound tangled between your mouths. It’s overwhelming, your fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another sound out of him.
“God, baby… you look so hot on top of me,” he whispers, his hands roaming over your ass again.
Before you know it, James’s hands slide down to the zipper of your jeans. He wants more—you can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his fingers hesitate there like he’s waiting for permission. You stop him, catching his hands before he can go any further.
He looks up at you immediately, eyes searching your face.
“Something wrong?” he asks softly, tilting his head just a little.
“I—I don’t want to go further than that,” you say, your voice small but steady. “Not right now.”
James searches your face like he’s trying to read every micro-expression you’ve ever had in your whole life.
“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” he asks quietly. You shake your head fast. “No, it’s not that. I just… don’t wanna do that right now.”
His shoulders loosen immediately. “Oh. Okay.” And the way he says it—soft, not offended, not disappointed—makes something warm twist in your chest.
He presses one last kiss to your forehead before sliding you gently off his lap. “I’m gonna go shower,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “then we’ll get ready for the party.”
When he disappears into the bathroom and the door clicks shut, the room feels too big. Too quiet. Too… loud inside your head. You flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again, because apparently that’s your hobby now. And, of course, your brain immediately starts being a menace.
Yeah, he used to do this with Amy. Plus, breakup wasn’t even that long ago. Maybe you’re just some transitional little detour while he untangles whatever is still left inside him.
You groan into a pillow. “Get it together,” you mumble at yourself. Your overthinking is doing parkour.
Then the bathroom door swings open—and your soul exits your body.
James steps out with a towel sitting dangerously low on his hips, droplets rolling down his chest like they were directed by a film crew. His torso? Toned. Defined. Absolutely from-the-cover-of-a-ski-lodge-soccer-player-romance-novel level sculpted.
His dyed dirty blonde hair is wet, dripping onto his shoulders, making him look unfairly good. You snap your gaze to the window like it personally offended you.
He grabs his bag and looks over at you. “You gonna get ready?” he asks casually, like he isn’t currently the hottest man alive standing half-naked five feet away.
“Uh—yeah. Yeah, I was just… thinking.” (About your sanity evaporating.)
You peel yourself off the bed and rummage through your bag, already annoyed at yourself because you did not pack for a fancy winter party. You pull out something normal, plain, safe—because of course you brought nothing special. James glances over with a soft smile. “Going casual?” You shrug. “I didn’t really bring, like… party clothes.”
His eyes drag over your outfit, then your face.
“You’ll look amazing,” he says simply.
The Ski Slopes Nation’s “big event” is already at full volume by the time you and James walk in. It’s loud. Like… loud-loud. Bass thumping through the floorboards, laughter coming from every corner, people yelling over each other like they’re competing for the Olympic gold medal in being obnoxious. James doesn’t even flinch. He’s been to a million of these. You on the other hand—feel like you just walked into a live-action TikTok POV.
James keeps a warm hand at the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd. “C’mon,” he says, leaning down so you can hear him, breath brushing your ear. “Gotta introduce you.”
His friends spot him immediately.
“AYYYY ZHAO YUFAN BOY!” A giant wasian guy—Martin—throws his arms up like James just scored a goal. He’s tall. Like… tree-level tall. The kind of tall that makes you physically tilt your head back to make eye contact. Next to him is Keonho—smaller, ridiculously handsome, annoyingly charming. Both of them stare at you for a beat, confused as hell.
James just grins. “Guys, this is Y/N.” Martin nods like he’s analyzing an alien species. “Ohhh… she’s the one.” Keonho elbows him. “Bro, don’t be weird.”
You want to evaporate. James squeezes your hand like he can tell. People around the room keep glancing. Whispering. Doing double-takes. James showing up with another girl this soon after Amy? Yeah. You can practically feel the gossip starting to ferment.
You clear your throat. “I’m, uh, gonna grab something to drink.” James nods, gentle. “I’ll be right here.” The second you leave, Martin leans in with that tall-guy nosiness. “Dude. She’s so different from Amy.”
James rolls his eyes. “Okay?”
“No, like… in a good way,” Martin says. “She’s calm. Doesn’t have that whole… I’m-influencing-the-room energy.”
Keonho smirks. “And you like her. It’s obvious.” James gives them a look but doesn’t deny it. Across the room, Amy is staring—hard. Snow-white expensive looking sweater that somehow makes her look like a judgmental snow angel. She watches James talk to his friends, then looks you up and down like you’re the clearance rack version of her.
You return with a drink—your first real drink ever—and try to pretend the room isn’t spinning from nerves. You take a sip. And another. And another. Warmth blooms in your chest, buzzing under your skin. James finds you instantly. “Hey.”
His brows pinch. “You good? You seem… off.”
You look at him. And your brain decides now is the perfect time to unhinge.
“You… used to have sex with Amy a lot, right?”
James chokes. Like, full cough-wheeze combo. “That’s what’s been bothering you?”
You shrug, trying to play it off. “It—doesn’t really matter. I mean… I know you’re with me right now, so that’s all that counts.”
James steps closer, hand cupping your jaw gently. “Y/N. She’s my past. You’re the one I’m choosing now. And every second with you feels… different. Better.”
Your chest squeezes so tight you forget how to swallow.
You look down at your shoes. “It’s just… I guess my first time with you would be your… I don’t know… however-many-th time with her.”
A breath leaves him—soft, understanding. “Hey. Look at me.”
“I’m not comparing you to her. I’m not thinking about her when I’m with you. I’m here, with you. And I like us. A lot.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.” And just like that, the tension melts a little.
The night blurs in the best way—laughter, games, James’s friends warming up to you, your drink going down way too easily. You’re not drunk, but definitely… pleasantly wobbly. James stays close the whole time, his arm brushing yours, hand grazing your lower back, fingers brushing your knuckles. Subtle, tiny things that keep your brain fried the entire night.
At one point Martin challenges James to some stupid game that involves taking shots and hitting a mini soccer ball into a trash can, and you swear the cabin shakes when everyone screams after he makes it. You’re laughing. Actually laughing. And your cheeks hurt in the happiest way.
Eventually, when you’re both a little tipsy and the cold outside feels way too sharp, James wraps an arm around your waist and walks you back to the room.
Inside, you both stand awkwardly over the giant bed again.
“Uh… I’ll sleep on that side,” you say, pointing to the edge like it’s a danger zone.
James nods. “Yeah. Sure.”
You settle under the covers, facing away, trying to breathe normally. James climbs in on the opposite end, careful, respectful, leaving a canyon of space between you. As you close your eyes, the coldness of your body was stopping you from falling asleep. After laying there for a few minutes, you finally resort to your last option.
“James?”
He replies immediately. “Yeah?”
“I’m cold.”
There’s a beat. A quiet little inhale. You could practically hear him breathing from the other side of the bed. Then the mattress dips as he moves closer, sliding an arm around your waist and gently pulling you back into him. Warm. Solid. Safe. You exhale without meaning to, your body relaxing instantly into his.
His breath brushes your neck. “Better?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
And just like that, wrapped in him, heartbeat syncing with his, you fall asleep.
The next night creeps in faster than you expect. The final night of the trip—the big skiing day. The sky’s already going dark-blue, that weird shade where you can’t tell if it’s late afternoon or 11 p.m., and the cold is sharp enough to pinch your nose.
James helps you zip up your jacket, his fingers brushing your neck, sending chills that have nothing to do with the weather.
“You ready?” he asks, all smug confidence.
“No,” you answer instantly.
He laughs. “You’ll be fine. I’ll teach you.”
Outside, the slopes glow under tall floodlights, making the snow sparkle like someone dumped glitter everywhere. Kids and pros and show-offs are zooming down the hill like Olympic qualifiers. You’re already planning your funeral.
James clips your boots in for you because he doesn’t trust you with anything involving gravity.
“Okay,” he says, stepping behind you, hands gripping your arms gently. “Lean forward a tiny bit. Just enough to not fall backwards.”
“Okay,” you say, immediately leaning like a malfunctioning tower.
He steadies you. “Not that much—unless you wanna eat snow.”
“I’m gonna eat snow regardless.”
“That’s fair.”
He teaches you slowly, patiently—how to stop, how to turn, how not to accidentally kill yourself. And you… kinda get the hang of it? Ish? You manage to go five whole meters without face-planting.
Every time you wobble, he’s right there catching you by the waist. Every time you mess up, he laughs—not mean, but soft, fond, like he likes seeing you try. Eventually, you’re actually skiing—well, sliding down at the speed of an elderly turtle, but still.
James skis backwards in front of you, because of course he can. His eyes are warm, cheeks flushed red from the cold.
“You’re doing good!” he calls out.
“You’re lying to be nice!”
“I am,” he admits.
You finally stop at the bottom and nearly fall, but he lunges forward, catching you. Your helmet bumps into his chest.
“Hey,” he breathes, smiling down at you. “See? You didn’t die.”
“Yet,” you mutter.
After a while, you both sit in the snow, helmets off, catching your breath. Snow somehow gets down the back of your jacket and into your gloves and probably your soul.
You shriek. “OH MY GOD IT’S IN MY SHIRT—” James bursts out laughing. “You good?”
You do the most logical thing: grab a handful of snow and yeet it at his face.
He freezes. Then smirks. “Oh, it’s on.”
Next thing you know, you’re in a full snowball war—screaming, laughing, slipping everywhere, James chasing you around trees with perfect aim while you miss every single throw like you’re allergic to accuracy.
By the time you both stumble back toward the lodge, you’re breathless and soaked and ridiculously happy. Right outside the hallway to your room, James bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey, uh… go ahead to the room. I need to tell Martin something real quick.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He kisses your cheek—quick, warm—before turning away.
You head inside. You shower, change, check your phone, sit on the bed, go through photos, scroll TikTok, stare at the ceiling, contemplate the meaning of life…
Forty-five minutes pass.
The door finally opens. James steps in, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s tired. “Sorry. Martin was being annoying.”
You smile. “It’s okay. I had fun these two days. Thank you for convincing me to come.”
His eyes soften. “I’m glad you did.”
—
The next morning is chaotic—bags everywhere, people rushing, doors slamming, winter air biting at your face. James looks exhausted, barely awake, stuffing clothes into his duffel like a zombie.
His other friend is waiting for him outside, yelling for him to hurry.
You zip your jacket and head into the hallway. Martin’s there, tying his boots.
“Hey, Martin?”
He looks up. “Hm?”
“What did you and James talk about last night?”
He blinks. “Last night? …We didn’t talk.”
Your stomach drops. “He didn’t see you?”
“No? I didn’t see him at all.”
Oh. Oh great. Fanfuckingtastic. A cold wave rolls through your chest harder than the mountain wind.
When you climb into the passenger seat of James’s car, he’s quiet—clearly tired. He yawns as he turns the engine on. The drive is silent for a long time. Like… too long.
Finally, he speaks. “Are you going to the match today?”
“No.”
He glances at you, confused. “Why not?”
You keep your eyes on the window. “Because I know you didn’t go see Martin.”
The air tightens.
“So who was it?” you ask. James doesn’t answer. Your heart beats loud enough to hurt. The coach starts calling him the second you guys pull into the parking lot.
“Look—” he starts, voice low, strained, “I can explain.”
The coach yells again. “FIVE MINUTES, JAMES!”
Your throat burns. “Am I just your second best?”
He winces—like the words physically hit him.
The coach yells again, sharper this time: “Last warning!”
James steps out of the car, but turns back, gripping the door.
“Please,” he says, eyes desperate. “Just come to the game. I promise I’ll explain everything after. Please.”
And then he’s gone, jogging off toward the field, leaving you sitting in the quiet car, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out.
—
The school library is quiet in that specific after-school way — soft humming lights, the vague smell of old pages, one kid coughing somewhere like he’s auditioning for a Victorian death scene. You’re still not sure about meeting up with James after his games. It has been a hell of a week,
You’ve been curled up in a corner armchair for about an hour or two with some random book you grabbed just to distract your brain from… everything. It’s working, sorta.
Until you flip the page and land on a quote that hits you like a truck:
“If someone chooses silence when they owe you honesty, let them go.
But if your heart aches louder than your pride…
you’ll find your way back anyway.”
You stare at it like it personally slapped you across the face. Why does everywhere you go have to remind you of James. And then you glance at the clock.
You are one hour late to the end James’s game.
Like — not fifteen minutes, not “oops my bad,”
but a FULL sixty minutes late.
“Shit.”
You jump up so fast the librarian gives you a death glare that could shatter glass.
You shove the book back on the shelf sideways (crime) and practically sprint out. It’s pouring outside — full dramatic movie thunderstorm pouring. The kind that soaks your socks instantly.
You take out your sad little umbrella and start the walk home, hugging your jacket to your chest like that’ll protect you from your own thoughts. But when you reach the edge of the outdoor courts—the ones the team cuts across after games—you pause,
Because there’s someone standing there. Alone. Soaked. Head down. Kicking at the gravel like he’s fighting ghosts. James.
He’s drenched top to bottom, rainwater mixed with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to him. And he’s… waiting. Still. Just standing there like he refuses to leave until something changes. Your chest does something stupid and painful, a mixture of guilt and anger.
You walk up quietly, stepping behind him, lifting the umbrella up on your toes so it covers the both of you. One tiny circle of dryness in a whole world of rain.
He tenses first—then turns slowly. The moment he sees you, his expression crumples in this soft, relieved way that knocks the breath right out of you.
“…You came,” he says, voice low, almost disbelieving.
You swallow. “Yeah. I— I was late. And then it started raining, so I was just walking home but…”
Your eyes flick to him.
“But you’re still here.”
You lower the umbrella slightly so you can see his face better. Drops of rain slide down his cheek, and he looks exhausted — not physically, but in that “I’ve been stressing about losing you for hours” kind of way.
“What made you come?” he asks quietly. You shrug, breath fogging the air. “I… read something. And it made me realize I wasn’t done. With us.”
His jaw clenches, and he looks away for a second like he’s overwhelmed.
You take a small step closer. “Who were you with, James?”
He lets out a breath that’s practically a sigh of defeat. “Amy.”
Your stomach sinks — until he lifts his head, eyes sharp, honest.
“But not for what you think.”
You don’t say anything. You just hold the umbrella and wait.
“I went to tell her to stop,” he says. “To stop showing up everywhere. To stop spreading shit about you. About us. To stop acting like I owe her something.”
His voice strengthens, anger threading through it.
“I told her if she messed with you one more time, I’d—” He stops, shaking his head. “—I’d actually lose it. I didn’t want things to blow up in front of you, so I waited until later. That’s it. That’s all it was.”
Your eyes sting. And your voice comes out smaller than you want.
“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He steps closer, rain dripping off his jaw. “Because when you asked, you already looked like I’d punched a hole in your chest. And then the coach was yelling at me, and I panicked.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”
The rain softens around you, or maybe you just stop noticing it.
You whisper, “I thought you were… choosing her again.”
His face twists — hurt, like the idea physically wounds him.
“Y/N.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist gently, like he’s asking permission.
“You were never my second best.” Your throat closes up.
“And I waited,” he adds. “For an hour. In the rain. Just in case there was even a 1% chance you’d show up.” You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “That’s really dumb of you.”
He smiles, soft and crooked. “Yeah. But I’m yours, so… it tracks.”
You look at him—really look—soaked, shivering, but eyes warm like he never doubted you’d return.
You step forward and tuck yourself against him, arms looping around his waist. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole day and pulls you in, umbrella tilting awkwardly over both your heads.
His chest is warm even though his clothes are freezing. His chin rests on your hair. His heartbeat is steady and loud.
“Hey,” he murmurs into your ear.
“What?”
“Thanks for coming back.”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Don’t make me chase you through a storm again,” you mumble.
He chuckles, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then don’t leave me behind.”
You shrug playfully. “No promises.”
He leans down, forehead touching yours, breaths mixing in the cold air.
Warm and close and full of everything you’ve been too scared to say.
“Let me walk you home,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go home.”
He takes the umbrella from you, threads his fingers through yours, and the two of you walk out of the storm together — matching steps, matching heartbeats — leaving every misunderstanding behind on the wet pavement.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
You don’t feel like you’re someone’s temporary choice. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. With him.
❝james never gets a second of peace, because he always wants to be devoured by you.❞
WARNING⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ mdni, nsfw, bf!james, he is a flex, lol mention, dry humping, degradation, dirty talk, kissing, unprotected sex, rough sex, cumming inside, cum eating, choking, big dick!james. 3K
— Love?
It’s the first thing you say when you walk through the door after a long day with your friends, but you get nothing back.
— James? — you call again, kicking off your shoes, already thrown by how quiet the house is. — Babe?
Nothing. The only sound is tools clinking in the game room, already telling you your boyfriend is in his element. You pad across the floor until the noise gets louder, and there he is, bent over the coffee table, fixing the monitor from his gaming setup that had died earlier that morning—according to the text he’d sent you.
His freshly blond hair falls lightly over a forehead damp with sweat, framed by the glasses he never takes off, not even now, while his sharp eyes stay locked on the wires and boards he’s working on.
He’s shirtless, wearing only an old pair of jeans he saves for getting dirty. He hasn’t even noticed you standing there, completely absorbed while you watch him work. Sweat gleams greedily across his pale skin, sliding down a defined chest that didn’t come from a gym but from late nights in old boxing rings with his friends, or hauling massive boxes of comics and outdated consoles from place to place.
Holy shit, you think.
It wasn’t news that your libido ran high, but your fertile window had hit early and at this point there was no holding back.
You stop in the doorway, biting your lip, not even trying to hide how turned on you are. He looks so masculine like that, veins standing out on his strong arms as he grips the screwdriver firmly, turning it with precision. The muscles in his shoulders flex with every movement, and the sweat traces irregular lines down his abdomen, highlighting the ridges you already knew so well.
— This board’s fried. — He mutters something about the wiring, completely focused, oblivious to the world. — Fuck.
You’re frozen in place, trembling a little. Your legs almost carry you straight to him in a messy mix of filthy desire and pure missing him. Yeah—less than two minutes. After all, it was no secret that James being a know-it-all nerd was basically one of your kinks.
Especially when that nerd is in the middle of the living room, half on a stepladder, breathing hard like there’s no tomorrow over a single broken monitor.
You can’t take it anymore. You let out a soft huff and let yourself imagine. The day had been suffocating without him, and seeing him like this—focused and sweaty—lights something primal in you. You want his attention. And you want it now.
Without a word you come up behind him, sliding your hands over his bare waist. He jumps, glasses slipping a little down his nose, and turns his head toward you, surprised.
— What— oh, you’re home, love. — He smiles. That warm smile that always melts you. But you don’t give him time to talk. You press your body against his back, feeling the heat of his sweaty skin soak through your clothes—which, conveniently, aren’t many.
— Baby… you look so fucking hot like this. — you whisper against his ear, brushing your lips over the lobe full of piercings, loving the cool metal on your tongue. — I think I just had a visual orgasm.
He laughs quietly, almost under his breath, which does nothing to help your situation, trying to turn his attention back to the monitor.
— Just a second, love… I’m almost done here. — he asks gently, almost coaxing, glancing at the pout on your face for being turned down the first time.
But you’re stubborn. You don’t stop. You’re determined to get what you want, so you slide your hands higher, tracing the pulsing veins on his arms, feeling the hardness of the muscles tensing under your touch.
— Baby…
— Don’t even start. — he answers without looking at you. — Last time I told you I’d only fuck you again when you played League of Legends with me.
— James!
He doesn’t listen, still in the steady rhythm of tightening and swapping screws, being deliberately difficult.
— Come on, love. We could use couple skins, you know? It won’t kill you.
— Mhm.
You pretend to agree, and he shivers lightly at your breath. The sticky skin makes it easy for your fingers to glide. You press your thighs against his, slowly rubbing against his ass, using one hand to cup the half-hard cock through the jeans from behind, feeling the volume grow.
— No, baby. I want it now. — your voice is needy, breathing soft when you press against his ass again, but the firm bite you leave on his shoulder says something else entirely. And he knows it. — Nobody told you to put on a show in the middle of the living room.
James drops the tool, breathing deep, glasses fogging a little from the heat he’s feeling.
— Fuck, you’re impossible today. — He turns, grabbing your waist firmly and pulling you close, lips crashing into yours in a hungry kiss with no patience. His tongue plays with yours in a perfect rhythm, sharing a wet affection that goes deeper than just sex hunger, waking up every already-sensitive part of your body. Your hands explore his bare skin, lightly scratching the exposed back, tracing the almost discreet abs, encouraging you to push one knee between his legs while he presses you against the table, approving the stimulation with a rough moan against your mouth.
The friction between your bodies grows more intense. You rise onto your toes, now grinding the center of your legs against his erection, feeling his cock throb through the fabric, hearing that little dirty chuckle of his.
— Look what you do to me, baby. — he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, blond hair messy and falling into his eyes behind the glasses. — Feel that? Hard as fuck, just for you.
You moan, nodding, and he spins you around, bending you quickly over the table next to the half-disassembled monitor. His hands slide up under your skirt, yanking your panties down in one pull, too desperate for any teasing.
— Already so wet? Such a filthy little slut. — He gives your ass a light slap, the sound echoing in the room, followed by another, firmer one that makes the skin sting deliciously. — Got turned on just from watching me work, huh? Bet you could only think with your pussy. — You arch your back, excited by the filthy talk, unable to form words, only asking for more, and he laughs, breathing hard. — Want me to fuck you hard, don’t you? With this cock you can’t go a single day without.
— Fuck, James. — you murmur weakly, using your own hands to pinch the hard peaks of your nipples, the sensation as painful as it is pleasurable, pulsing the same way your already-neglected clit is.
He finally unbuttons his jeans, freeing his thick, throbbing cock, so hard it aches, breathing out in satisfaction once it’s free of the fabric. It was no secret James was a little above average—big enough that the thought of taking him in your mouth alone could make you choke.
It had taken a lot of practice to ride him without being sore afterward.
— Spread your legs. Come on. — His voice is thick now. The words come out a little slurred with how turned on he is.
Without long preliminaries he pushes into you slowly at first, stretching you gradually, careful, using his hips to roll gently against your pussy, fitting himself in without hurting you. The glasses are still perfectly in place when he tilts his head to look down at you, flashing those white teeth in a filthy smile that makes you flutter around him, getting you even wetter so he can slide in easier.
— Fuck, this pussy feels so good. — He furrows his brow in a desperate moan, using both hands to grip your warm skin, sinking even deeper into you, addicted to the filthy way you squeeze him. — So fucking warm… Squeeze for me? I know you like it. — You moan loudly, hands now braced on the table, feeling every inch of him thrusting in and out hard, no mercy, fluids dripping down your thighs every time his damp hair brushes your skin.
Suddenly he stops the thrusts for a moment, pulling you up by the hair with one hand, rough, forcing you to arch your back more while the other arm wraps possessively around your waist, fingers digging into the skin like he’s claiming territory.
— Ah, love… thought I forgot? — he growls in your ear, voice low and dominant, glasses still perfect on his sweaty face, sliding down his prominent nose, feeding that imposing air.
James turns you to face him in one quick, unthinking move, lifting you into the air like you’re a doll and throwing you onto your back on the table again, scattering the tools aside.
His eyes shine behind the lenses as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, immobilizing you while the other slides down to grip your thigh hard, then slaps your exposed pussy, covering the entire vulva with just his palm.
— You’re my whore, aren’t you? Mine, to use however I want. — he reaffirms, rough. — Say it for me, slut. — He whispers, wicked, pushing back into the hole already used to him, deeper. His hot body pressed to yours, damp hair falling as he bites your neck, leaving mark after mark, pulling more moans from you.
Your mouths meet again, greedily sharing each other’s taste, moaning in unison when your tongues tangle. The kiss is wet, rough, messy—just like the sex between you.
— Hold on to me. — He’s quick, not giving you much time to think about anything except obeying, then looking at the stepladder he was using earlier. He smiles maliciously, eyes reflecting a dangerous lust behind the thin lenses.
— You… James! — you laugh in disbelief, not feeling even a little of your arousal fade, biting your lower lip, tempted.
— I think you’d better hold on.
Your boyfriend pulls you up with skill, positioning you on the ladder. You’re facing away from him, gripping the higher rungs with your legs spread wide and your ass pushed out toward him. James climbs up behind you, smoothing his hands over your skin with fascination, admiring the view for a few seconds, almost worshipping it in silence before pushing into you again from behind, the unstable position adding an extra shot of adrenaline to every thrust.
Each stroke makes the ladder sway slightly, but James keeps it steady enough to fuck you without problems. Your hands go to his thighs in pure desperation, occasionally squeezing one of his cheeks, calling for your boyfriend like a little slut, mind completely fogged. You can’t even think about stopping.
James wraps one hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you see stars but without truly hurting you, cutting off your air for a few good seconds, mixing it with the overstimulation of your own fingers on your hard clit, making your eyes roll back from the pleasure.
— Breathe slow… that’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it? — James sounds wrecked, as high as you are or more, sucking air through his teeth, almost vibrating inside you.
You can’t form thoughts, only taking that cock like it’s the first wonder of the world. You feel closer to the edge than ever, confused by the pleasures flooding you, addicted to the loud sound of his full balls slapping against your skin, lost in the intoxicating feeling James always manages to give you every time you fuck.
The rhythm picks up, thrusts deeper and faster, the sound of skin against skin mixing with his moans. And you love it—love how he never holds back his sounds, how he always shows how much he loves you and loves fucking you, how much pleasure he takes in seeing you so completely given over to him. He is fucking obsessed with you.
And you with him.
— You’re mine, fuck… Shit, baby, look how I fill you up completely. — He gives more slaps to your ass, alternating with rough caresses, trying not to push past your limits. You feel the climax approaching, your body going softer and softer against him, but he doesn’t stop. — Come on my cock, love.
As if obeying him, the orgasm hits you almost violently, whimpering softly while the sensation stretches out, taking you out of yourself for a few seconds.
That’s because right after James turns you, still on the ladder, making you step down one rung so you’re at the perfect height for what he wants.
— I’m so close, princess… Suck me a little? — You nod slowly, not holding back when his cock throbs right in front of your eyes, opening your mouth in a desperate attempt to take him in, pulling another little smile from him.
And you do. Swallowing as much of the length as you can, sliding your tongue and licking from base to tip, tasting the salty mix of accumulated sweat and pre-cum, sucking hard, all while he holds your hair, guiding the rhythm, not hiding how much he loves the filthy little sounds you make when you choke on his cock. — Just like that… just like that. Swallow it all, little slut. — He bites the corner of his lip trying to hold back the needy moan that escapes, coming hard in your mouth with gusto.
Gently, he lifts you by the elbows, pulling your body against his in a hug, giving a light squeeze to your waist, tilting his face to leave a soft little kiss right in the valley of your breasts—a cute habit he has to finish by saying “I love you.”
— Sorry about your monitor, love. — you say softly once he looks back at you with tenderness.
— It’s fine. — he pretends to be casual, sighing like it’s no big deal. — Just… you’re gonna have to be the Katarina to my Garen in League, love.
pairing : bf! james zhao x horny gf! fem! reader
content warning : smut, mdni, 18+ content, established relationship, very horny and needy reader, strict boyfriend! james, no contact, just humping, no penetration
word count : 2,913 words 16,849 characters
"just two lovebirds waiting for marriage ⋆˚꩜｡☁️"
you and james were ridiculously in love.
five dates and that's all it took before he asked you to be his girlfriend, and of course you said yes. the first kiss you had with him was still lingering on your lips, soft and almost shy. but after that, you couldn't keep your hands off each other…
you two made out everywhere. the photobooth at the mall, curtains pulled shut, his hands on your waist while the flash went off. the back corner of the movie theater, his fingers tangled in your hair, your heart pounding so loud you swore people could hear. on his couch after movie nights, bodies tangled together, kissing until you were both breathless and dizzy.
you always cuddled after movie nights always, with his strong arms around you, drawing lazy circles on your hip, your cheek on his chest listening to his heartbeat slow down. jamesie would kiss your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, murmuring how beautiful you were, how much he adores you.
and you adored him too. god, you wanted him.
you learned exactly where to touch james. the spot behind his ear that made him shiver, the way he groaned when you bit his lip just right. his hands knew you just as well, slipping under your shirt, spanning your waist, pulling you closer.
but the two of you always stopped. james always reminded you about the conversation you two had about sex. no sex before marriage. you both agreed on it, wanted it, believed in it. but sometimes, when you were deep in it with his mouth hot on your neck, his body pressed flush against yours, your heart hammering in your ears… you'd feel yourself spiral, arousal pooling in your panties without him noticing, your hips moving on their own, seeking friction, seeking more.
and james always noticed that, every little squirm his girlfriend makes. then he'd pull back suddenly, breathing hard, his eyes dark and glassy. he'd seal the makeout session with one hasty, chaste kiss on your lips and it was almost businesslike, then james would roll onto his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest like he was trying to hold himself together.
then there’s you, feeling the rejection sink in slow and sharp despite everything. you were the one who suggested waiting in the first place, and you were the one who wanted this. james was just doing his job, honoring the promise, being good.
but god, in those moments, you hated him for it a little.
hate wasn't right, but moreof you hated yourself because of it. hated how your body betrayed what your mind wanted, hated that you made him responsible for stopping when you clearly couldn't.
last night was no different.
you were on his bed after watching a movie, the tv screen was the only lights on, his mouth on yours like he was drowning and you were his air. it was one of that kind of kisses, hungry and desparate, it had been building for weeks. the tension, the wanting, the way you both went closer to the edge every time. his hands were under your shirt, rough and warm, and you were arching into him, breath coming in short gasps, your body speaking louder than your mind.
you reached for his belt. your fingers fumbled, clumsy with need, and you felt james freeze.
james pulled back, his hand tight caught your wrist, you saw it in his eyes before he even said anything — that same strict resolve, that same wall.
“baby, didn’t we already talked about this before?”
you kept reaching anyway, all because your body was on fire. your pussy was screaming for him, and you almost didn't care about the promise, didn't care about the waiting, you just wanted him now. was it because it was making you so horny? because the neediness was enough for you to forget your morals.
james suddenly flips you down to the bed, your back hits the mattress, breath knocked out of you. and for a second, you almost thought you had him. you arch up, offering, begging without words. but james lets go and pushes off you, and you felt the cold rush in where his warmth was.
you watch disappointedly as he grabs the blankets, then suddenly he's wrapping you with it, a cocoon of fleece and cotton, your arms pinned to your sides, your legs bound together. he tucks the edges under you like he's swaddling a baby, like you're something to be contained, protected from yourself.
“bad. horny girlfriend.” james tches at you playfully. you stare up at him with begging eyes, arousal still thrumming painful and unmet between your legs. you can't touch him like this, can't reach for him, can't tempt him or yourself.
he presses one hard kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath shaky against your skin.
"nice try though." he murmurs, and turns off the light and sleeps on the other side of the bed. you lie there, wrapped up and furious and so turned on you could scream, listening to him settle on the other side of the bed, as far from you as the mattress allows.
the morning came and you successfully got off the tight cocoon that loosened throughout the night. you went to the kitchen to drink some water because apparently you were still angry and frustrated with last night. your body still hummed with unspent need, your skin too sensitive, your mind replaying the rejection on loop.
you stormed back to the bedroom and still found james sleeping comfortably like an angel. chest rising slow and steady, face soft and unguarded, one arm thrown over his head. he looked somehow peaceful and innocent, like he hadn't left you wound tight and desperate like a devil monster just hours before.
like a thief, you made your way to his sleeping form. you climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips, and straddled his lap. you hovered there and began watching him breathe, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his boxers, your sleep shorts doing nothing to hide how much you still wanted him.
you leaned down and planted the softest, faintest kisses all over his cute sleepy face. jamie’s temple, jamie’s cheekbone, jamie’s corner of his mouth, jamie’s jaw. all featherlight and barely there, the kind of kisses that felt like tiny secrets. you traced his features with your lips, mapping him in the gray morning light, your anger melting into something softer, something needier.
he stirred beneath you, eyelids fluttering with a sleepy hum vibrating in his chest. his hands found your hips instinctively, gripping loose and warm, still half-drowned in dreams.
"mm?" he mumbled dumbly, eyes still closed, tilting his face toward you like a flower seeking sun. "s' that you?"
you didn't answer, and just kept kissing him. teasing, never quite giving him the full thing. you felt him hardening beneath you, his body waking up faster than his mind, you rocked down just slightly and testing, seeking friction for the nth time. because there’s nothing more mind challenging to men other than a morning wood where their adorable dumb brains still couldn’t process things. james’ fingers half-awakedly tightened on your waist. his eyes opened a little more, dark and confused and still heavy with sleep. and when the realization hit, his jaw tightened.
his hands moved to your shoulders instead, gentle but firm, holding you back from leaning in again.
"hey." he said, voice rough with sleep. "i told you. we can’t.”
“huh? we’re not? who said anything about having sex?”
you feigned innocence, your voice dripping with artificial confusion, but then you couldn't help yourself. you let out a soft desperate whine and rolled your hips down, feeling the hard line of his erection straining against his boxers, pressing right against your flimsy, soaked panties.
and that friction made you both gasp.
james's fingers dug into your hips with his knuckles turning white, his whole body going rigid beneath you. "don't-!" he warned, but his voice cracked, betraying how close he was to the edge himself.
"don't what? don’t do this?" you breathed, rocking again, slower this time, torturing yourself with the pressure. you leaned down until your lips brushed his ear, your voice dropping to a whisper that trembled with need. "don't feel how much you want me, jjami? don't you feel how wet i am for you?"
james’ chest heaved, his eyes squeezing shut like he could block out the temptation if he just didn't look. "you're playing dirty, my love." he gritted out.
"no i'm not." you countered, and there was real hurt in your voice now, vulnerability cracking through the seductive facade. "i just want you… and, i love you. why does loving you with my body have to be wrong?" you whined ever so reverently, and that whine went straight to his dick. you felt it twitch and it immediately poked your entrance, sending jolts of electrifying pleasure through your clothed core.
it made james groan so hard, his fingers dug crescent moons into your skin, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as if he could somehow shut out the temptation.
"let me hump you, jamesss…" you reasoned, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with how badly you needed this. "let me hump you pleassee..." you begged your boyfriend, rolling your hips in a slow, teasing circle that made you both gasp.
james looked so strained, his jaw tight, his face flushed a deep crimson, pupils blown wide with lust. he stared up at you like you were both his salvation and his ruin, ‘you really are so different when horny…’ he whispered to himself, almost in awe, watching how your eyes had gone dark and hazy, how your lips were parted, swollen from his kisses.
then, with a shaky exhale that sounded like surrender, james gave in. "okay, fine baby." his voice was rough, gravelly, thick with arousal. "but we take turns to be fair, okay?" he asks, his thumbs stroking soothing patterns against your hip bones even as his body betrayed his eagerness, arching up into you. "your turn first. then mine."
you immediately nod, eager and trembling, your hands bracing against his bare chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palms. "yes, yes, okay." you rushed out, already shifting your weight, positioning yourself so that your aching center aligned perfectly with the hard ridge of him straining through his boxers.
"easy…" james murmured, his hands guiding your hips, his touch gentle despite the tremor in his fingers. "go slow, okay? let me feel you."
you lowered yourself fully, pressing down until there was nothing between you but the thin layers of fabric, and the contact made you cry out, your head falling back, hair cascading down your shoulders. he was so hard, so hot, and the pressure against your clit was exquisite torture after weeks of denial.
"oh god!" you whimpered, grinding experimentally, a slow, deliberate roll that had sparks shooting up your spine. "james, you feel so good..." it was like a cry.
"shit-" he hissed, his hands moving to grip the sheets beside him, knuckles white, his whole body tense as he fought to stay still, to let you take what you needed. "that's it, baby. take your time… use me."
and you did. you set a rhythm, rocking against him in slow, sinuous movements, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. the friction was perfect, delicious, building that coil tight in your belly.
"this feels so nice-!" you panted, your hips moving faster now, chasing the release that had been denied to you for so long. "james! i'm so close already, i—i haven’t even barely-!"
"let go." he encouraged, his voice strained, his hips bucking up to meet your movements, adding pressure exactly where you needed it. "i've got you. cum for me, sweetheart. cum on my cock."
his words sent you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your whole body seizing up as pleasure radiated from your core outward, a sticky substance blotched your whole panties. you cried out his name, grinding down hard against him as you rode out the aftershocks, your hips jerking involuntarily, seeking every last spark of sensation.
james watched you fall apart beneath his gaze, his eyes dark and worshipful, his chest heaving with restrained need. he held you steady as you trembled, his hands moving to stroke your back, your sides, anywhere he could touch, grounding you as you came back down.
"there you go, pretty." he murmured so supportively, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your throat. "there's my girl. so beautiful when you let go."
you collapsed against him, boneless and panting, your cheek resting on his shoulder, your body still twitching with residual pleasure. but beneath you, he was still hard, still throbbing, his hips shifting restlessly, seeking friction you'd stopped giving.
"your turn." you whispered, your voice hoarse, and you felt him tense, his hands gripping your waist.
"we don't really have too– you seem tired already, baby." james stammered, ever the gentleman, even now.
"we always keep our promises." you interrupted, pushing yourself up on trembling arms, your eyes meeting his with a stubborn glint that made his breath hitch. "and you suggested it first."
james asks again, "you sure baby? that's what you want?" he asks, more like a warning, his voice dropping an octave, eyes darkening with something dangerous and hungry. wanting that freedom.
"yes, baby. keep your end of the promise." you said sternly so ironically.
"okay baby." james says unsurely, but then his expression shifted, resolve hardening into something feral. "but don't tell me i didn't warn ya."
james grunts and immediately switches places, his strength surprising as he flips you onto your back. he roughly rips your flimsy shorts into nothing, the fabric tearing like paper and sets his big dick free for the first time. it was all so fast that you didn't get to have a good look of it, but then james has his hard cock with precum inside your wet panties, his dick slipping in your slit like a hot dog in its bun, and starts to thrust without penetration so fast and so so needy.
"oh my god!" you gasped, your back arching off the mattress as the hot, heavy length of him dragged through your folds, the head of his cock catching on your clit with every desperate snap of his hips. james came in burning hot, steel wrapped in velvet, and dick so wet already, sliding easily through the mess you'd made, your arousal coating him, making every thrust filthy and slick.
and the skin of his dick, you can feel it in your clit and its exciting you so bad.
"shit- shit!" james curses, his forehead dropping to yours, his breathing ragged against your lips. "pussy feels so nice, so wet for me."
his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you as his hips working in a relentless rhythm that had you a moaning mess. the friction was different from you humping him earlier. this was more intense, more intimate, the bare heat of him against just barely against your most sensitive spots.
"feels good?" james gritted out, his voice unrecognizable, all restraint shattered as he rutted against you like an animal, chasing his release with single-minded desperation.
"ohh yes!" you moaned , your legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper, harder. "james, please—"
he adjusted his angle slightly, and suddenly the head of his cock always hits directly against your clit on every upward thrust, the pressure perfect, relentless, driving you rapidly toward the edge again. you could feel him twitching, swelling, the vein on the underside of his cock pulsing against your slit.
"gonna cum-" he warned, his hips stuttering, losing rhythm. "baby, i'm gonna—"
"p-please cum!" you begged, your nails scoring his back, your eyes rolling back as your own orgasm built again, coiling tight and hot in your belly. "cum on me, james. please put it in!"
with a guttural broken cry, james buried his face in your neck, his hips snapping forward one last time, holding there as he spilled over hot, painting your stomach, your panties, your throbbing core with his sticky white cum. the feeling of his dick pulsing, the heat of it, the desperate sounds he made against your throat. gosh, it was too much.
james collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling, sweating, panting into each other's mouths as the aftershocks slowly faded. james was heavy and warm and perfect, his heart hammering against yours, his lips pressing sloppy, reverent kisses to your jaw, your temple, and so much love against your skin.
"no baby. i will not cum inside. after marriage, okay?”
MDNI!!! i mean your choice but i’d rather if you are 18+
after work he wanted to relieve some stress with you
missyangkim’s note- hope you like it also partly for my bae @yourtesoro ALSO HE DEFO DIRTY TALKS DEPENDING ON HIS MOOD -if you have an issue with this post please dni!
★SUMMARY: You and James have two shared obsessions: each other and sugar. So what’s better than mixing both ??
★CONTAIN: MDNI, foodplay, making out, fingering, spit, nipples play, gentle!james, usage of whipped cream, oral, handjob. NOT PROOFREAD (I pulled my whole ovulation into this)
★A/N: I have nothing appropriate to say about James’s performance at lolla, he looks so sexy I fear im addicted to him. Anyway enjoy this little one shot bbgs!!
⚠︎ this is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only
Masterlist
After a long week of work, your boyfriend finally made it to your apartment completely exhausted. And like every time he came over, the two of you ended up watching Spiderman for what had to be the hundredth time.
You were comfortably cuddled up on the couch, your head resting against him, when James pulled out his phone and started scrolling.
“Wanna order yogurtland?” He asked quietly.
“Yesss. Get me the mango one with the boba toppings like always please” you replied, nuzzling into his neck while your hand rested on his chest.
“Got it” he kept looking through the menu before smiling. “Oh they’re doing a discount on whipped cream, we should get one”
You laughed “alright, go for it”
After placing the order, the two of you went back to watching the movie while waiting for the food to arrive. James gently rubbed your sides with his thumb, making you smile as the minutes slowly passed.
About half an hour later, the doorbell finally rang. “I’ll get it” he said, quickly getting up and a few seconds later, he came back with the paper bag in his hands.
“Ohhhh that’s the good stuff” you grinned as you opened your frozen yogurt.
“Thanks babe” you said before taking your first spoonful.
“My pleasure” he smiled, taking a bite of his own pineapple yogurt.
The two of you ate in comfortable silence until James suddenly held his spoon in front of your mouth.
“Taste this, it’s really good”
You leaned forward and took the bite, and your eyes immediately widened.
“Okay that’s actually better than mine”
“I told you” he laughed before quickly realizing. “Oh shit the whipped cream, I almost forgot ! “
He reached into the bag, grabbed the can and sprayed a little into his mouth before nodding to himself.
“Yeahhh that’s good”
You laughed before opening your mouth, silently asking for some too.
And without saying a word, James smiled and sprayed a little whipped cream into your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. You swallowed but a small bit stayed in the corner of your lips.
He leaned a little closer.
“What?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’ve got some here” his thumb gently brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping it away before he gently licked the cream off his thumb.
You looked at him for a second
Okayyy that was lowkey hot.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The movie kept playing in the background, it was completely forgotten. James’s hand found your waist again, gently pulling you closer until your forehead almost touched.
You smiled at him before closing the tiny distance between you, pressing a slow kiss against his lips.
He smiled into it, one hand cupping your cheek while the other staying around your waist.
James gently pulled back from the kiss, looking at you softly. “Lemme try something” he said, before taking the can again. “Open your mouth for me” he asked, cupping your chin as you obeyed.
He sprayed some cream into your tongue. “Don’t swallow it just yet” he said before spraying some in his own mouth.
You already knew where this was going, and you were excited to see how things will go…that’s until James’s mouth found yours, sharing the sweetness between your tongues. His mouth moved with yours feverishly, wanting to feel you completely, when he suddenly started sucking on your tongue.
You let a little whine when he did that, it was fucking hot to have him licking your tongue, letting the kiss becoming messier.
When he pulled away from you a long, white, thick string of saliva mixed with the residues of whipped cream formed between your mouths, fuck that was a sigh to see.
“Lie down baby” he ordered, before getting on top of you. His fingers reached to the fabric of your shirt, taking it off, leaving you bare chested. The cold air made you shiver, causing your nipples to harden.
James’s mouth was now on your neck, sucking at the skin there, he was completely mesmerized by you. The poor frozen yogurts were completely forgotten but all you could think about is the feeling of James bitting the sweet spot of your neck. Slowly his eyes drop down your nipples, the tip of his finger gently toying with the bud as his other hand reached for the can once again.
He slowly sprayed cream over your nipple, licking it off greedily until his mouth closed completely around it, sucking it and pulling it with his tongue.
You couldn’t hold back, you moaned softly as he latched onto your other nipple. Your hand tangled in his dirty blonde hairs, pressing him over you even more as he sprayed some cream all over your body just to lick it off.
“Such a beautiful girl” he whispered, spreading cream all over your breast and belly, licking every single inch of skin he could find.
“Oh James…” you whimpered at the feeling of his tongue tasting you, “I need you” your head tilted back, you needed more, you craved him.
James’s fingers toyed with your underwear asking for your permission, when you nodded he pulled it off with a small smirk on the corner of his mouth.
“Get on all four baby” he ordered softly.
You didn’t waste time and obliged, your ass now in the air as you buried your face in the cushion’s pillow.
“Good girl, oh look at you” he murmured. He gently parted your legs, his fingers teasing your pussy, he felt the wetness on his fingers. “Oh baby, you’re completely soaked…” he whispered, leaving little kisses on your right cheek.
“Please James—I need you” you moaned; the simple contact of his fingers wasn’t enough, you needed them inside of you.
“You need what? Say it or you’ll get nothing” his voice was so soft, it didn’t matches the words he was using.
“Finger me, fuck me, I just wanna feel you” you said pathetically, feeling your cunt throbbing, aching for him.
Suddenly he gently slide the tip of his index along your wet pussy, teasing your pearl in the most delicious way. You couldn’t hold back the loud moan that came out of you as he started drawing circle on it.
“Fuck look at you” he breathed out before giving your ass a little kiss, his middle finger joined too, rubbing every sensitive nerves till he slides them in you, the squelching sounds were the only audible thing beside your pants and moans.
“Oh James—it’s so good !” You whimpered, drooling on the pillow as he kept his atrocious ministration.
“Such a good girl, fuck look at you taking my fingers just perfectly” he praised before taking the whipped can and spraying some on your cheek and lower back. All this just to lick it off again while his fingers kept moving faster inside of you.
“Oh I’m gonna come—faster” your pussy pulsed against his digits, squeezing them softly, while he kept kissing and worshipping the back of your body.
“Go on, lemme hear you” he suddenly took off his fingers just to turn you on your back again, spreading your legs. He saw the complete wet mess on your cunt and without hesitation he ate you.
His warm tongue tasting every corner of your pussy, playing with your clit with the tip of his tongue, and the worse was feeling him smirking while eating you. Every time he dived it deeper you pulled him against you even more, wanting him to devour the shit out of you. And the noises he made, made it worse.
“Taste so good, fuck I could die between your legs” he murmured between licks, as he looked up at you, eyes on fire, that damn smirk on the corner of his mouth still present as he munched on you.
It didn’t last long till the bundle of heat ached to be released, you felt that familiar knot, twisting your insides. The feeling of his tongue, the view of him appreciating the taste of you was all you needed.
You came with a loud cry, your hand still clinging to the back of his hair as your legs trembled gently. James pulled back from you, his chin coated in your essence, lips shiny and moisturized, begging to be kissed.
He always had those red, puffy lips after eating you and that was a sigh to die for.
You quickly brought his chin up, parting your lips to welcome his. You tasted yourself on his tongue as it melted on yours.
Your hands rested on his shoulders, you pulled him back just enough to get on top of him, never leaving his lips. You kissed his neck, looking for that soft spot that would make him shiver every time, the soft pants that came out of him were like music to your ears.
“Lemme take care of you now” you whispered, before taking off his tank top. His eyes closed for a minute when your fingers gently traced his skin.
You looked around and found the can again, you sprayed some on his chest and abs, licking at the sweet cream off him.
“So beautiful” he whispered, his hand cupping your jaw as you went lower till you reached the waistband of his shorts.
You bit your lips as you took it off, rubbing your hands all over his boxer, your eyes saw the wet spot of precum on it. You looked up at him with a smirk.
“All that?” You chuckled, but he wasn’t laughing at all, his eyes were half lidded, head titled back, the state he was in just screamed ‘do me’
And that’s what you did.
The boxer quickly flew away, replacing the fabric by your hand, wrapping around the base of it. James let out a little gasp as you did so. Your hand working on him gently, you cupped his cheek and kissed him, your hand still stroking his length altering between fast and slow.
“Love you—love you so much baby” he whimpered between kisses, his body started overheating, some sweat started forming on his forehead, neck and chest. He looked absolutely wrecked and fucking hot.
You went down once again, your hand never leaving him till you slowly licked his tip, his hips jerked off, his head was completely titled back, as he whimpered pathetically.
“More please—baby please—fuck I’m coming” he whined out, as you took his tip into your mouth, sucking on it like the best lolipop you’ve ever had.
You softly spat onto his skin, just to deepthroat it all this time, the sweat was clinging to his body, his mouth open, like he was trying to mumble something but all he could do was pants and whimper.
“Fuck I’m—I’m coming” that’s all he said before he came into your mouth, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, you pulled away from him, bringing your lips to his. The kiss was slow, extremely slow, he moved his lips lazily against yours, wanting to make the moment last as much as he could. His nose brushing against yours sensually.
It felt intimate, just you two, bodies tangled in sweat, and some leftover of sugary cream, kissing in the most sloppily but slowly way, his warm hand rubbed your back gently, giving you a sort of comfort.
Finally you pulled back a little, he looked at you with those admirative eyes, and shit you felt your legs mushy and about to pass out.
“I love you” he whispered in your ear, before pecking your cheek.
“I love you more” you replied, nuzzling yourself against him, his body warm against yours, the scent of him enveloping you into a sweet bubble of love and tenderness.
sien's note: this blog is solely and specifically dedicated for kwon ohyul but since it's almost an april fool, why not i make something special >< fuck the calendar, it's april already :p also not proofread!
random nsfw headcanon with james ✮°.‧₊
everyone knows how james is such a perfect boyfriend and you can't thank god enough for that. james born to be a gentleman and sweet on the street and a freak on your sheet.
james is definitely the guy who talks through it. he loves it whenever your legs rest on his shoulder as he is on top of you. he likes to hear you begging, cutely asking for whatever you want from him. he emphasised communication a lot and that's including during intimate moments too. he loves to provide everything for you. time? money? affection? anything? you name it.
he is a total vanilla guy but also an experimental. once he knows how you prefer him being rough to you on bed, he'll make sure you won't be able to walk for at least a week. you love it so much to get pinned down by him that you couldn't care less about your wrist turning purplish. james is definitely worries about that but you tell him how that hue is just as similar as the hickey he paints all over your neck, collarbone, and chest. you turn a masochist whore for him and him only.
honestly, with all those perfect athletic figure and never-ending energies, he can do you for hours. from dusk until dawn. but his mercy is taking over. he doesn't want to drain out you. not even when you begging him to finish you up.
mirror sex is definitely one of his favorite genre. though you are embarrassed watching yourself in a mess infront of it, he would reassure you, whispers how you're actually very gorgeous naked in sweat like that. he adores the sight of your body trembling under his touch. he likes to see how your lips parted away, hairs getting sticky, eyes slowly rolling back, all from the pleasure you received from behind.
lastly, the way you dress is modest. you don't even show any much skin or wearing strong and sensual perfume. your makeup is as light as almost nothing. but the way you talked to him that night after he was confessing, he can't help. his dick erects immediately the moment you started to stutter, eyes wandering and cheeks blushed pink tint. something about you being shy turned him on. he is your first love, first kiss, first experience and first everything. and he promised to be your last too.
