hi brooke do you have thoughts on the vsmp finale 😁 -mochi
hi mochi!! well. owen owenjuice is the only one doing SHIT for this narrative like dawg look at my minecraft roleplay cast. what else oh it was funny when they said hey doc we've figured out a plan to get out of here. and legs went nooo i dont deserve to liveeee and then they immediately hastened to reassure him oh no but YOU🫵can still kill yourself. theyre funny people
I think fandom analysis on the whole would be a lot more fun and interesting if it took the sort of attitude a great many of my lit professors did, and the idea was to look at the text, see what you think it's saying, or even COULD be saying, and let's fuck around with that idea. I got four years of hearing insane takes on stuff and I was extremely fortunate to go a school with small enough class sizes and a dedicated enough faculty that in many respects, wild theorizing was encouraged.
One of my professors was straight up like "I don't want you reading papers about this book until we finish it!" and we had writing things for the first 20 minutes of every class because he wanted to know what WE thought, not what we had become convinced was THE thing to think.
When I was in my second year of college, I spiraled out into this whole "Jane Eyre is a lesbian!" thing, and my professor (not the same guy as above but delightfully insane in her own right) was like, "Wow, I've never heard this from anyone," and instead of being like, "um this is not what has been agreed upon by everyone else" went "Tell me more." Now, as a forty year old woman who has never stopped engaging with stories on both an enjoyment and academic level, the paper I would write with age and distance would be more "Homosociality, desire, and the domesticated male in Jane Eyre" or something like that, nineteen year old me was a little reductive and simple, but same vibes.
But my professor did not think I was right, she thought I was being INTERESTING, and so she encouraged me and championed me to write that paper and I actually presented it at the student division of a conference! The cool thing about that was, that when I was defending it, I was having to think about it, but it was in the spirit of collaboration, it felt like. No one was trying to 'win' the conversation.
Doc, what the fuck are you--I saw a really interesting thing this morning, someone talking about Shrek, of all things, and how they thought it was about how you cannot turn an ogre into a man, but he can make you become an ogre. And I immediately went, "Wow! Okay, interesting, not how I read that at all, TELL ME MORE." It was really jarring for me, then, to see pretty much every comment be like, 'uh you are wrong and also stupid." Sure, maybe that's not the intention of the work, but I don't for one goddamn motherfucking second think Charlie Bronte was sitting down going "I am going to write a woman so gay..." nor do I think the read of her as same sex-attracted is the end all be all of interpretations. It's mine, for sure! But like...talking about stories is supposed to be fun and it's supposed to be about possibility.
That one post got me thinking about how we are, in fandom often all looking at this same text, and there's immense pressure to have a 'right' interpretation--I was at the nexus of so many Sailor Moon fandom wars, and while I got into a few tussles, I was also stupid to do that. This characters are not real, and I was shutting down POSSIBILITY. And even after I was like, 'Wow, I don't think this is actually a very fun way to do stuff" it turns out you can't magically give everyone the same revelation you have simultaneously. Which is upsetting. And I see these same patterns repeat over and over and over again.
In my old age, I'm less interested in he "He would not say that" and more interested in "Cool, tell me why he would say that?"
Don't misunderstand me, there are points of view and ideas on different texts where I'm like, "Hm. I don't care to engage with that." Remember that the window we're looking out of is as important as what we're looking at, and will DOUBTLESS change the appearance. But the whole reason we have each other is to try and find other windows! It's not actually to find someone who is the next pane of glass in your same window. I miss that environment, where you could trust that everyone coming to the table was engaging with the same ground rules and that there was an expectation of, detachment doesn't quite get to the heart of what I'm talking about, but we were expected not to take the text or the analysis of it personally, even when it was hard. And sometimes it was. But I think it led to me having--for example it's crazy to me to have one 'right read' on any given text. I had a SUPER FUCKING ANIMATED conversation with a fellow lit nerd about whether or not GdT's Frankenstein was emotionally faithful to the text (which is not the same as being literally faithful nor the same as being good)and it was so fun, EVEN THOUGH we were coming at it completely opposed. But it was so fucking fun.
I wish I could do that with anime and cartoons, but you can't. People take Shrek personally. So I'll never have that same fun.
ANYWAY SORRY I AM DRINKING COFFEE AND MY DAUGHTER ISN'T HERE I HAVE TOO MUCH FREE TIME.
summary. after years of failed dating app matches, you finally hit it off with someone. he’s funny, charming, emotionally available… and apparently?! not who you thought he was... literally — because he used his ex-best friend suguru geto as his profile picture! so now, you’re stranded in a foreign country for the holidays, stuck with the real satoru gojo: a digimon-loving, trivia-winning, six-foot-tall nerd who... sure. may have catfished you. but he also might just win your heart.
tags/warnings. fluffy holiday au. nerdjo. light angst. slow burn. eventual smut. long distance relationship (reader is from cali, satoru is from japan). fake dating. one bed trope (yuuuup). found family feelings w/ the jjk cast. lots of dorky humor. alcohol/weed usage. there’s a bit of suguru x reader (also sukuna hits on you a lot bc he wants to piss gojo off). endgame is satoru x reader w/ a happy ending! soft and silly romcom vibes.
author note. merry christmas! this fic is loosely based on the movie Love Hard (w/ my own retelling). it'll be 2 parts! i wanted it to be a oneshot and was rly hoping to finish it before christmas but life got in my way so alas. i'll say more towards the bottom but enjoy this first part for now~ (art by @/leimiruu on x)
main masterlist - part 2 >>>
Love is… hard.
Not ‘hard’ like an honest misunderstanding, or a fight you work through with emotional maturity and a seasonally appropriate Hallmark movie kiss.
No — ‘hard’ like dodging your fifth unsolicited dick pic of the week while Googling ‘how to spot a narcissist,’ because apparently you need a manual now. Like realizing your therapist makes more money off your dating trauma than you ever will.
Which is funny, considering people pay you to write about it.
“Do I believe in love? No. But I do believe in ad revenue. And trust me — what you’re writing? Sells. You’ll make it big, darling. I swear.”
Wise words from your boss, Mei-Mei. And by wise, you mean cold, calculated, and unfortunately? Very on brand.
You’re a columnist for Swipe Right into Hell, and your beat? Disaster dates. Ghostings. Red flags. You write about it all. One guy asked if he could wear his ex-wife’s wedding ring during sex. Another told you he didn’t believe in astrology or feminism — but he did believe in Bitcoin.
So, yeah. If love is a battlefield, you’re the war correspondent. Bulletproof. Jaded. Always packing a pen.
You’d think by now — after all the swipes, the situationships, the nights replaying bad decisions in bathroom mirrors — you’d have cracked the code. Found the formula. Unlocked the algorithm to real connection.
Mei-Mei certainly thinks you did.
“Ughhh. You’re a genius! I swear, your last column was chef’s kiss,” she purred to you on Monday, tapping her lacquered nails against a chart of engagement analytics. “Tragically humiliating… in a relatable way, of course!”
Tragically humiliating?
Yeah, sure. That’s one way to describe it. Your date dumped you via a Venmo memo when you asked him to split the bill with you.
(“Lunch was great. You’re not. ✌️”)
“Uh... thanks. I think?”
You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred.
“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly.
“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?”
Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love.
So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again.
| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |
“Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?”
Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t)
Swipe.
| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |
“Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.”
Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.)
Swipe.
| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |
“What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.”
You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…)
Swipe.
| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |
“Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?”
You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.)
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.
So? You expand your distance radius.
Like...
Way out.
Just to see what would happen.
| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |
“Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.”
It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.
He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s—
…gorgeous.
And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen.
~ ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo! ♡ ︎ ~
...typing
Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.
Satoru: So… hi!
Satoru: Wanna test fate?
You: lol 😂
You: well then...
You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝
Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉
He was... normal.
Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.
But somehow? It worked. He made you smile.
...typing
Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...
Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?
You: 😨😨
You: excuse you!!
You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒
Satoru: Phew 😩
Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before
And just like that, you were hooked.
You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything.
Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers.
One day he asked:
...typing
Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl?
You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone.
...typing
You: hmmm.....
You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?
Satoru: 👀
Satoru: Well shit...
Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...
You: hehehe 😇
You: what do YOU think i am?
Satoru: Oh, hell no...
Satoru: I’m not falling for that
Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.
You: pshhh...
You: that response answers for me 😛
You: but hmm... i guess i’m both?
You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.
Satoru: Okay cool
Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way.
You: ruin you??
You: never!!
You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️
Satoru: ❤️
Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise
Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question...
Satoru: Snacks
Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart.
You: hmm...
Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨
You: imma salty kinda girl
Satoru: ...
You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘
Satoru: Siiiiiigh...
Satoru: Fine. I respect it
Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship
Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe.
It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life.
Until you started calling each other.
What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs.
He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind.
And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it.
“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?”
“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?”
His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.
“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.”
“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”
A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.
“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”
His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.
“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”
You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.
“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”
Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.
“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”
It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.
“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”
“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.
You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.
“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”
Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.
“…I met someone.”
That gives her pause.
“Oh?”
Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.
Satoru.
“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”
But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.
“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.
“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”
At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.
“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”
“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.
Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”
“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”
“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”
Your heart drops.
God. That’d be just your luck.
“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”
“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”
You scoff, brows furrowing.
“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”
And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.
That… bitch.
Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.
You must.
It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.
You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.
“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”
Little does he know…
It’s you you’re sending.
(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)
Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.
“Uh…. sumimasen?”
It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)
As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.
But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.
Because what the hell.
The place is huge.
It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.
Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.
God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?
Fuck.
You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?
When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—
Click!
The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—
A woman.
“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”
She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.
Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.
Double fuck…
Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?
It feels like a kick to the chest.
What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!
“ちょっと、聞こえてる？”
She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.
“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.
God. You’re such an idiot.
“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”
Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.
“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”
As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.
“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”
“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”
Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.
Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.
They’re all staring at you with stone faces.
One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.
Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”
“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”
“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”
The words hits harder than it should.
Girlfriend? Secret?
God, what are you to him?
And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?
You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”
You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.
“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”
“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”
There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.
“Damn. Lucky bastard.”
You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.
"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"
Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”
“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”
You blink again.
Is he… hitting on you?
“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.
And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”
“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”
You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.
“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”
...fangirl?
The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.
What made you think you were any different?
You shouldn’t have come.
“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”
And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.
“W-What… what are you doing here?!”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.
“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"
“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”
At the mention of his name, you freeze.
Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.
But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.
No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.
Nothing like his profile pictures.
“Satoru?” you breathe.
His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.
“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”
“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”
“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.
“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”
The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.
He lied.
And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.
Love is dead.
“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”
And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.
“Wait—shit. Wait!”
Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.
He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.
And now he’s watching you walk away.
“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”
“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”
He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.
“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”
A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”
He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.
But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.
“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”
He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.
Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.
“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”
“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.
“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"
“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”
He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.
You don’t speak the language.
You don’t know the city.
You don’t have a car.
Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.
“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”
Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.
It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.
You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.
By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.
Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.
You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.
The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.
Beautiful.
Almost like…
The photos on Satoru’s profile?
Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??
You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.
“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.
You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.
Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?
“Hey—hey! There you are!”
Oh, yeah. It can.
Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.
“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.
“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”
He sighs, exasperated.
“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”
“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”
“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”
You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”
The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.
“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”
“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.
“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”
“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”
“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”
Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.
Because you’re... crying.
Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.
“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.
His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.
“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.
He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.
“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”
You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.
“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because that’s the cruel part.
He didn’t lie about everything.
He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.
And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.
“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”
Satoru stiffens.
“Uh… Suguru?”
“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”
You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt.
“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”
You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.
“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”
His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.
“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”
Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”
He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”
“That’s insane,” you mutter.
“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”
You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”
He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.
“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”
Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.
“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”
But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.
“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.
And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.
He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.
“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”
There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.
“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”
You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.
He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.
It’s going to be a long Christmas.
The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.
You looked impossibly beautiful.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.
“Hey… uh. We’re here?”
But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”
He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.
As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.
“Woah. Dude. She okay?”
“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”
Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”
Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.
He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.
“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”
As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.
But as he’s reaching for the blanket—
“Mmmph.”
Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.
“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”
You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.
“Mm… s’toru…”
His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.
Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.
So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.
‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’
You’re dreaming again.
Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.
‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’
You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.
Dreaming.
“Mmph…”
Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.
“Fffuck…”
The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.
“Unngh… b-baby…”
As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.
This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—
“S-Satoru?!”
You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.
But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.
“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.
“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”
Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
You both look down at his dick.
“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”
“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”
“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”
“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”
Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.
But mostly?
Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.
“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”
There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.
“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”
Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.
“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”
He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.
You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.
Because you liked him.
You really, really wanted it to be real.
Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.
Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~
You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.
“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”
a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖
part 2 >>>
𝜗𝜚 your best friend decides to be a little too honest one night
• keigo takami x f!reader
꒰꒰ cw ~ pathetic!pervy!kei, idk what au but one where he's not a hero, flirty(?)!reader, honestly keigo's really ooc but.. it's like that in all my fics basically, suggestive... i guess... he's a weirdo and he lusts over you, you get it !!! ꒱꒱
be warned, i think this is very ass
wc 1.5k
“I—I mean… sometimes I think of you.”
“Me?”
“…Yeah.”
“…While you’re jerking off?”
Keigo chuckled lazily before sipping his wine. “Yeah… I mean, you… you already know I’m attracted to you.”
“Attracted is one thing, but you jerk off to me.” You tilted your head, smiling like you wanted to giggle. You gave him the better half of your reaction, because the other one was internal—and in complete shock.
You became friends with Keigo about a year ago, from a friend of a friend. He actually only started talking to you because he thought you looked good, and sooner or later the two of you started talking… going on dates…
Unfortunately, you weren’t looking for a relationship. He’s very charming, and handsome, and he was so into you—but it just wasn’t clicking for you. Keigo can catch hints, so that stage quickly failed, but the two of you didn’t stop talking after that.
You became good friends. Best friends, in fact.
And so, you’re his roommate now. An unexpected turn of events—but it happened, and you found out you’re very compatible in that way, at least. Living together.
You adjusted to each other easily, and bonded through coming home exhausted and talking about your day—then everything, and nothing at the same time.
You found it so easy to tell Keigo all these things… You just got so comfortable with him. Even past the conversations—there were times when the two of you hung out and you almost couldn’t help clinging to him.
He’s bigger than you, so maybe that had something to do with it… but it was every time you had the chance.
And of course, he had the bad habit of letting you do whatever you wanted.
Besides holding onto him whenever you were out and there were too many people around, you always wanted to fidget with little things on him. Adjusting his collar, getting dandruff off his hoodies, fixing that one piece of hair that was constantly out of place—
All this is to say he has grown to be a safe space for you. You’d never expect him, of all people, to practically become your emergency contact just a year after meeting him.
But clearly…
Things have been a little different on his end.
Now, you sat on the couch thinking deeply about it—and more so wondering why the fuck you weren’t completely creeped and grossed out.
“…Sorry,” he mumbled, looking directly at you. “Is that… weird?”
You blinked at him. Your silence stressed him out, clearly.
“I mean, it is—but it’s weirder for me to… tell you—”
“What do you think about?” you blurted.
“…What?”
You shrugged, biting back a smirk. “You jerk off to me. What do you think about?”
He frowned. “Just, uh… just you.”
“Yeah, but what???” you groaned.
“You want me to… tell you my fantasies or something?” He was now chugging the rest of his wine, so you could tell he was real nervous.
“You already told me you stroke your dick to me, so.”
“Don’t say it like that…” he mumbled.
“That’s what you do!” you giggled before softening your voice. “Come on. Please?”
He breathed heavily. “It’s uh, usually your voice.”
“…Not my body?” You raised your brows.
“I mean, I like… your legs, too…” He shrugged.
“You’re sugarcoating.”
“Your mouth.” He finally spat out. “Your lips, it’s… it’s normal shit, I’m not… that weird.” He looked down.
“Maybe if you say it enough times, that’ll be true,” you snickered.
“Are… are you joking? Are you… uncomfortable? Because, I can… just shut up, I mean—”
“No. I don’t care. I’m just curious, at this point…” you shrugged.
He was almost glued to his side of the couch, eyes avoiding yours and yet simultaneously… wanting to look at you. He sighed before he spoke again.
“I like your hands. When you… touch my hair…” His own hands fidgeted as he spoke. “It feels good. It’s just because it’s you, your… fingers… I think about it…”
You nodded softly, your mind immediately racing to every damn time you played with his hair. It’s soft, you couldn’t help yourself! Well, neither could he, apparently.
“How… long have you…” You didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Just from the way he looked at you, that twinge of guilt in his eye, you knew it would be a bad answer. Bad for him, mainly.
“It… I mean, I didn’t just do it and made you all I think of from day one—it was, I mean, it progressed over time.”
“So when did it start?”
“I just… you should know I wasn’t obsessed—I mean, I’m not now—but from the beginning—”
“From the beginning?”
“Not the day we met—”
“But that early on?” You raised your brows. “After day one you just decided to touch yourself to me? After first sight?” you giggled.
“It’s not that simple,” he huffed. “It was… like, when we went to the movies. Probably that night. That’s just how it started—”
“…Our fourth date?”
“It was a one-time thing.”
“Until it… wasn’t.” You shook your head. “What did it for you that night? God, I barely remember that…”
It wasn’t anything special, really. It wasn’t even a proper date between the two you, it was more of a double date plus two other friends who decided to come along. Ironically enough, what you do remember is that night being when you realized you couldn’t see yourself with this guy.
“Just… when I drove you home, and you were so grateful. You hugged me really tight before you went into your house, and… yeah. That’s it.”
“A hug,” you said, your tone a little more… judgmental than intended.
“You… pressed your body into me, and rubbed my back and all that—it was just you.” He breathed deeply, his hand fidgeting against his knee.
“I mean, I wasn’t trying to… seduce you.” You dragged your words out. He looked at you with a blank expression.
“Yeah, I know, that’s the thing,” he bit his lip. “You’re… so… fucking hot, you don’t even try—” He pushed his hair out of his face.
“Well, sometimes I do.” You posed, making a joke—but he clearly wasn’t in the mood for that.
“I can’t help it. Every time you… every time you touch me, I just… it wakes something up in me…” He stared off into the void as he spoke. “Nothing compares to you. Nobody. And… fuck, believe me, I-I’ve searched—”
“What, like, went on dates?”
“Dates… tried one night stands, tried… fuck, porn of… women who look like you.” He looked at you for a second. “It’s not the same, it’s never the same.”
You could only laugh at him again. You completely took him for a… sweetheart, a loverboy. Even doubted he’s ever even slept with anyone. Yet here he is, going on about how he’s been… gooning to you for the past year.
“Guess I’m… special, then.”
“I’ve never met a woman who could simply put her hands in my hair, and I could think of that and cum on the spot,” he rasped. “Yeah. I think you’re… special.”
“Keigo… you’re, like, a real pervert.”
“I know…” he mumbled, his voice slightly cracking. He looked you over for a long moment, before sitting up and speaking again. “You’re so pretty.”
You blinked at him.
“If… I mean, if we weren’t talking about this now—After this, I would probably go to my room and… cum so many fucking times just from you looking like this.”
You looked down at yourself. Literal pajamas, nothing even revealing, and god knows what’s going on with your hair right now.
“What’s… doing it for you… right now?”
“Your face. Your voice. The fact that… you’re even… talking to me about this…” he mumbled, swallowing and shamelessly looking over your body again.
“Keigo…” You looked at him more seriously. “I’m not gonna fuck you, Kei.”
“I know—” he sighed. “I don’t… want you to.” Surprisingly enough, he sounded pretty honest now. No hesitation there.
“Just… letting you know…” You got quiet, suddenly. You could tell it made him nervous because his eyes were now darting across everything but you. Due to his roaming eyes on your body, you couldn’t help looking at him—and noticing the… effects of him admitting his bad habit.
A bulge in his pants, and a big one at that. Big enough for you to even notice in the first place, at least.
It took a lot for you to not react. That just made everything feel… real. Not that you didn’t believe him, but it’s one thing to hear him say it, and another for… his body to show himself literally being accustomed to getting turned on by you. For him to think of these things, and can’t help but fidget and try to ignore the ache in his pants.
“You’ll have to handle that yourself.” You caught his gaze, then looked down at him again, and his whole body shifted away from you.
His breath picked up. “Y—Yeah, I didn’t… I wasn’t…”
“Right…” You got up, unable to hold back your giggles.
He simply looked up at you.
“Come on. I’m serious. Go. Deal with yourself.”
He blinked a few seconds before getting up quickly, looking at you with an expression of… concern? Sort of. “Are you… a-are you upset?”
“What?” You crossed your arms. “No. I’m telling you to go jerk off.”
“Yeah, but…” he mumbled. He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair.
“But? What?”
He shrugged. “I don’t… I shouldn’t have said anything, really. I don’t want anything to change between us. I really… I like what we have and I just… fuck, I mean, I just want you so bad sometimes—”
The sudden stern honesty in his voice caught you off guard for a moment, warmth creeping up in your gut. “Nothing’s gonna change,” you spoke softly. “So… just go.”
He sighed, before nodding. You didn’t wait for him, as you already started walking to your room—before you paused.
“Oh—wait, also,”
His eyes flicked up to yours immediately.
You took a few steps back toward him, standing in front of him again. “Think about my hands.” You raised them, wiggling your fingers at him playfully. “Not that you ever needed my permission…but, y’know.”
You chuckled, but he was silent and just… watching you.
“I mean, I should have some control over this now that I know, right?”
He hummed, one of his hands twitching at his side before he raised it toward yours. He placed his hand under yours, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles. It was a slow moment, but somehow also seemed to last barely a second before he pulled away.
“Okay. I will.”
He mumbled the words as he walked away, only looking back as he closed his bedroom door.
꒰ঌ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა໒꒱ thank you for reading!!!! first fic in a while and i really don't like this at all. sigh... it was rotting in my drafts and it was the only thing that was basically finished out of the 7 things in working on!!! this tumblr writing shit gets serious. i'll work hard, i'll do better, I PROMISE!!! my account has grown a lot despite me being gone so i'm a little nervous now... this tumblr shit gets REAL serious!
Heard wrong, fucked right || Adrian Chase x reader ||
Pairing : Adrian Chase x fem!reader W/C : 4396
Summary: Adrian thinks you’re planning to break up with him after Peacemaker overhears a wildly out of context phone call.
Tags/warnings : SMUT MDNI, oral female and male receiving, p in v sex, fingering, overstimulation, mating press (?), miscommunication, emotional overly needy Adrian.
A/N : got this idea, the pov kinda shifts in the beginning but it all comes together (I hope) towards the end. like always Comments, tags, and reblogs with reaction memes always make my day 🩵 Masterlist here
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
You press your phone between your shoulder and cheek while you dig through the kitchen drawer for a pen that may or may not exist.
“I swear I’m just gonna cancel,” you sigh into the phone. “He’s super sweet, but it’s not working out. I’m gonna tell him tonight.”
Your friend asks something about your schedule and you hum, distracted.
You’re talking about your manicurist, whose shaping technique somehow makes all your nails look like different people designed them.
But from behind the fridge, there’s… a noise.
A violent gasp like a dying sea lion. You freeze.
“…hello?” your friend says.
“Uh…sorry. Thought I heard something.”
You keep talking, stepping out of the kitchen toward your room.
The fridge shudders.
Peacemaker, peeks out like a raccoon in a metal helmet who just overheard a felony.
“Oh. Shit. She’s dumping him.” He whispers to himself. Then he takes off sprinting, knocking over a cereal box and stepping directly into Leota’s sneakers like a bat out of hell.
“CHRIS!” Leota yells after him, but he’s already gone.
Adrian’s room door bursts open before he can register the footsteps. Adrian jumps, nearly slicing his own fingers, he’s polishing a knife in bed, like a completely normal not at all concerning person.
Chris storms in, helmet gleaming.
“BRO.”
Adrian blinks. “Is this a—hi?”
Chris is panting. Sweaty. Helmet askew. “Bro. Bro. BRO.” He marches forward like a he’s about to deliver the worst possible news. “Actually, you need to sit down for this.”
Adrian, absolutely terrified by Chris’s tone, sits on the floor.
“You’re getting dumped.”
Adrian freezes. “By who? You?”
“Your girlfriend! You fucking moron!”
“That makes zero sense dude,” Adrian scoffs, and the next second his eyes are wide, “but it also makes too much sense, now I’m scared!”
Chris shakes him. “She said and I quote ‘it’s not working out’ and ‘I’ll tell him tonight.’”
Adrian stares at him, horrified.
“No… no. She wouldn’t. I haven’t even done anything wrong lately! I haven’t killed anyone in front of her in weeks.” Adrian’s face collapses in real time. His eyes go glassy. Like someone unplugged his hope. “No seriously what did I do??” he whispers, voice cracking. “We had sex twice this morning!”
“How many times did she actually cum?” Chris asks.
“I don’t know like at least twice,”
“That’s probably why she’s leaving dude,” Chris says gravely.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Adrian mutters, traumatized.
Chris shakes him roughly. “DUDE THIS IS FUCKING BAD.”
Adrian’s breathing accelerates.
“Wh—what do I do? Can you tell me what to do.”
“Alright, listen to me very carefully. You’re about to learn a very important lesson. You need to give that woman so many orgasms she thinks she’s fucking dying. Her knees should shake the second she sees your face. Blow her mind so hard she forgets English. Make her walk crooked for three days.”
Adrian swallows, absolutely terrified and absolutely ready for war.
“Three days??”
“THREE. DAYS. And then you gotta be so clingy she can’t shit without you handing her toilet paper. Full boyfriend mode. You basically become her emotional support animal.”
“But I don’t understand why she would—”
“Sometimes women can’t handle being dicked down too good,” Chris interrupts like he’s performing a TED talk. “They get scared. They run.”
Adrian sits there, devastated.
“Should I have done it… worse?”
“No dude. Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? You should’ve done it BETTER.”
Adrian’s eye twitches. “That sounds scientifically impossible. I do everything she likes.”
“Shut up. Get up. Go in there and prove you’re boyfriend of the fucking year. Touch her. Kiss her.”
Adrian shoots to his feet like his spine was yanked by divine intervention.
“I’ll fix this,” he declares, voice shaky but determined. “I’ll be the boyfriend of boyfriends.”
“Hell yeah,” Chris nods. “Now go get your girl back before she rips your heart out and eats it.”
You come out of your room stretching and freeze. Adrian is standing RIGHT THERE like he spawned in.
Wide eyed. Flushed. Smiling way too hard.
“Adrian,” you say slowly.
He doesn’t blink. He inhales sharply. “Hi.”
“…you okay?”
“Yep!” he says too fast, too high, too not Adrian. “Totally normal. Normal boyfriend. Normal day. Normal day loving being your boyfriend.”
“…Are you sure?”
“Mm-hm,” he says, voice cracking, “just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing. Provide… emotional support. Or physical. Or both. I’m versatile.”
“…Adrian.”
He thrusts objects into your hands like he’s bribing you to stay. Your favorite snacks. His sweater. A blanket. And a water bottle.
You look down at the pile. Then at him. “…are you buttering me up for something?” you ask. “I already told you I’m not dressing up as peacemaker when we—”
“No, no,” he interrupts immediately. “I’m just… doing things for you.”
“Honey, you always do things for me.”
He shakes his head aggressively. “No. No, not like this. I’m doing EXTRA things. Boyfriend things. Mega boyfriend things.”
“…mega.”
“Yes,” he whispers, intense. “Mega.”
“Are you hiding something from me?” You squint at him.
He laughs too loudly. Then lowers his voice dramatically. “No. I just love you and want to be close to you at all times while also being extremely attentive and also maybe touching you all day. That’s all. That’s normal.”
“…baby,” you drawl, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” He swallows, panic in his eyes. “Everything’s AMAZING.” He beams.
It is the most suspicious sentence you’ve ever heard.
He leans closer, almost chest-to-chest.
“Do you want your feet rubbed?” he whispers.
“What??”
“Or your shoulders? Or your thighs? I can do thighs too, I’m good at thighs—”
“ADRIAN.”
He freezes like a kid caught stealing cookies. You cup his face gently. “You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he lies instantly. “I’m confident. I’m sexy. I’m hydrated. I’m doing things for you. Because I want to. Because you deserve them. Because I’m a great boyfriend who does boyfriend tasks.”
You blink. “…what’s a boyfriend task?”
He sputters. “Like… following you. And holding things. And touching you. And doing that thing with my tongue that makes you—”
“ADRIAN.”
You clamp his mouth shut. “I mean,” he whispers, “if you want.”
He follows you into your room like a shadow that learned how to love. He’s carrying the snacks, the blanket, the sweater, and that cold water bottle like offerings to a beloved deity. He drops the items onto your bed and you turn to him, crossing your arms.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Talk. What’s going on?”
He straightens so fast his spine cracks. “Nothing!” A beat. “Except I want to take care of you. Because you deserve it. And because I’m your boyfriend and boyfriends are supposed to do boyfriend tasks.”
“…you mean ‘acts.’”
“No,” he says sincerely, “I’m pretty sure it’s tasks.”
Before you can interrogate that, he steps behind you and gently brushes your hair over one shoulder.
“Lay down,” he murmurs. “Please.”
Your heart stutters. “Adrian—”
“I just want to make you feel good,” he says quietly and there’s a softness there that melts your resistance. “Let me, please.”
So you do. You lie on your stomach across the bed, cheek against the pillow, feeling him crawl up to straddle your thighs carefully, gently, like he’s afraid you’ll break or vanish.
His hands settle on the small of your back. It’s warm and tentative, shaking just slightly.
You swallow.
“Honey… what’s—”
“Shh,” he whispers, leaning forward so his breath fans across your ear. “Just relax.”
His thumbs press into the muscles along your spine, slow and deliberate.
Not deep like a trained massage therapist, no, this is him learning your body by memory, by instinct, by devotion.
You sigh out a sound you didn’t mean to make.
He stills. “I like when you do that.”
You bite your lip.
His hands glide lower to the curve where your back meets the top of your ass. A place no professional would go, but a boyfriend with tunnel-vision panic sure as hell will.
His fingers knead your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft space just above them, slow circles that send warmth curling down your spine. You feel heat slip through your belly.
You try to ask again, breathless “Seriously… what’s gotten into you?”
He pauses.
You feel him hesitate like the secret is right there on the edge of his tongue. But he swallows it.
“I’m just appreciating you,” he says instead. “Properly. Like you deserve.”
Then he keeps going. His hands slide up, fingertips tracing the sides of your ribs, not your back, not your shoulders your ribs, where you’re sensitive, where you always shiver when he touches you there.
You do shiver.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I know you’re ticklish. But you also like it.”
You do. You really do.
He drags his palms down your waist, stopping just above the curve of your ass again squeezing gently, like he can’t help himself. Your breath hitches. You turn your head to glance back at him. He looks destroyed like a mix between desire and like he’s pushing himself. Like loving you hurts him physically.
“Baby…” you murmur, warmth curling between your legs. “Come here.”
He leans over your back, chest pressed to you, his mouth brushing your shoulder, breath shaky.
And you, god, you should ask more questions. You should get to the bottom of this weird clingy hyper-attentive behavior. But his touch feels like honey and you’re sinking into the mattress like you’re made of wax. “I love when you touch me like this.” You whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His hands tighten, fingers spreading over your hips possessively as he breathes a relieved, desperate laugh into your skin. “I wasn’t planning to.” He kisses the side of your neck as his hand fights its way between your body and the mattress snaking his way down the front of your shorts.
You arch into his touch, back curving, thighs parting just enough to let him settle closer.
Adrian exhales like he’s drowning in you. “I just wanna make you feel good,” he breathes into your shoulder. “Like… stupid good. So good you’ll never wanna leave.”
Your heart lurches. That’s not a line. That sounds like fear, stitched into a confession.
You twist slightly beneath him, enough to meet his eyes and what you see there wrecks you. He looks flushed, wild-eyed, desperate in a way he doesn’t usually show. There’s love in it, sure, but also panic, guilt, like he’s trying to make up for something you haven’t even accused him of.
Your voice comes out softer than you intend “Adrian…what are you doing?”
You can feel how hard he swallows. Then his fingers apply pressure over your panties, and he lowers his forehead to your shoulder blade like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m keeping you,” he whispers. You want to ask what the hell he’s talking about but when he starts rubbing tight circles against you, the thought dies.
You reach back pressing your palm to painfully hard cock straining against the fabric of his sweats. He leaves a trail of wet kisses up your neck, across your jaw until he meets your needy mouth. It’s a wet sloppy battle for dominance that you gladly let him win when you feel his hand push past your wet panties. He skips the teasing, slides a finger into you like he’s done it a thousand times, but tonight feels different. You clench around him instantly, already soaked, already aching.
“Fuck, no foreplay?” You tease before turning over to lay on your back. You spread your legs letting him settle comfortably between them.
“I have a couple things in mind,” he says against your neck and he begins kissing his way down your body. He removes your shorts in one fell swoop. You watch as his mouth goes straight to your heat over your panties, this is new. His hands spread your slick folds while his tongue zigzags around your clit over the fabric.
“Please tell me you’re gonna fuck me after this,” you breathe. He finally shoves your panties aside and hungrily licks your throbbing heat.
“Soon as you say the word,” he gasps, rubbing deep, slow strokes with his fingers inside you like he’s trying to memorize your pulse. “I’m gonna give you everything.” His voice cracks. “All of it. Everything I’ve got.” He reiterates.
You almost ask again, what are you making up for, but your body arches, thighs trembling, breath catching, and your words dissolve into sound.
And right as your thighs lock, your moan tipping into something shattering…there’s an obnoxiously loud knock. You both freeze. The knock is aggressive. Violent.
“FUCK OFF” Adrian yells against you, the sensation making your thighs shake.
They knock again.
“CHASE,” Harcourt’s voice barks through the door, dry as sandpaper and twice as grating, “get your dick out of her and your head in the game. We’ve got a live one.”
You slap a hand over your mouth.
Adrian lets out the most annoyed groan you’ve ever heard.
“I DIDN’T GET TO THAT PART YET! Oh and WE’RE OFF THE CLOCK,” he shouts.
“Not anymore.”
You hear rustling. The unmistakable click of her loading a gun.
“Gear up. Van leaves in five.”
Adrian pulls his fingers from between your thighs like it physically hurts him to do it. He lets his forehead fall against your lower belly and just… stays there for a second.
“I was two seconds away from crying in a good way,” you mutter into the blanket.
He sits up. Pants tented. Face flushed. Murder in his eyes.
“I HOPE WHOEVER THIS MISSION IS FOR FUCKING DIES.” He yells toward the door.
There’s a beat.
Then Harcourt, dry as hell “Wow. Romantic and professional.”
You both groan. Adrian flops onto the bed dramatically, hand covering his face. “I hate my job,” he mumbles.
You pat his stomach. “Get your suit on, Romeo.” He glares at the ceiling like it insulted your orgasm personally.
“I will be back in exactly two hours. I don’t care what does or doesn’t get done on the mission, but you be ready.” He says turning to look at you.
“Adrian….you’re not really yourself.” He stands and starts undressing himself. You watch as his hard member springs free.
“I’m fine, just be ready when I’m back,” he assures as he grabs his Vigilante suit from the closet.
“Come here,” you motion him with your finger. He walks over to the edge of the bed. He shuffles over as he gets his legs in the suit. You stop him from pulling it up past his thighs. You grab his member and slide your tongue across the tip, pumping him slowly wrapping your lips around the head.
“Shit,” he sighs, gloved hands fisting your hair pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His eyes screw shut as he thrusts his hips gently keeping you on him. His mouth falls open as you take him. He pushes deeper making you gag and he opens his eyes suddenly stopping. “Oh fuck, sorry—I’m sorry,” he stutters.
You furrow your eyebrows, “Sorry? What the fuck is going on with you?” This is so unlike him it’s kind of pissing you off.
“Nothing! I gotta go,” he quips, leaning down giving you a quick peck on the lips, “I’ll try and get this done quickly.” He says and he’s gone.
You decide to take a shower and change into pajamas. The house is quiet with every one gone. You hoped someone would stay, but even John’s cowardly ass went on the mission. With nothing to do you decide to doom scroll on your phone.
An hour goes by without any word from the team. Then another and you really did expect Adrian to bust through the door, but he didn’t. Then another hour. You checked their location making sure they were at least moving. At around 12 you decide to call it a night. Prepping for bed you play Gilmore Girls on your laptop watching it until your eyes get heavy and fall asleep.
You feel a familiar dip in the bed followed by damp hair against your neck.
“Adrian,” you mumble lazily, slowly turning to face him. “What time is it?” You ask.
His voice is low and hoarse, sleep drunk and yet also sex drunk. “Four-something. Maybe five. I didn’t check. Didn’t care.”
“Go to bed baby,” you sleepily groan, trying to push him back. He replies by taking your hand and putting it against his hard naked cock. You moan at the feel of his bare skin. The fucking affect this man has over your body is insane.
“I haven’t been able to think about anything but your pretty warm mouth around me,” he murmurs into your throat, voice wrecked. “Six fucking hours.”
You moan as his hand wraps around yours, guiding it over his cock again. He’s hot and hard and twitching in your palm, and this time, he doesn’t stop you.
You squeeze gently and feel him shudder.
“I played it over and over in my head,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Like, I full on came in my suit thinking about it. On the van ride back. I couldn’t stop.”
You blink, wide-eyed. “You came in your—”
“Yeah,” he gasps, already crawling between your legs, eyes blown wide with panic and worship. “Don’t tell anyone.” He pushes your tank top down exposing your tits to him. Your nipples harden instantly
You laugh, breathless, flushed, needy but it turns into a gasp when his mouth drops to your chest. His tongue flicks over your nipple and his hands are already pushing your pajama shorts down like they offended him.
He kisses his way down your stomach. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t talk. You cry out when his tongue drags through your folds, slow, deep, messy like he’s trying to imprint your taste on his soul. He groans like it hurts, like he’s starving, like he could stay between your legs until the end of time and still not have enough.
“Chris said if I do this right you’ll never leave,” he mutters into your cunt like it’s a prayer.
Your head jerks up. “What?” But your thighs tremble because he slides two fingers in at the same time, crooking them just right, and his tongue flicks over your clit like he wants a fucking medal.
You collapse back into the mattress, gasping.
He groans. “Fuck. That. Right there,” he mumbles, mouth full. “That sound. That’s the one.”
He presses deeper into your sopping pussy. His tongue works in tight, perfect circles so messy, wet, yet dedicated.
You thread your fingers into his damp hair and tug, and he moans into you, he switches to tongue fucking you harder in response.
“I’m gonna make you see god,” he whispers like it’s a threat. You laugh, or moan maybe both.
“I think I saw god when you skipped foreplay,” you choke out.
“Peacemaker says that’s a mistake. He says you’re supposed to worship the pussy first. And I trust him.”
You blink again.
“Baby, you CANNOT take sex advice from Peacemaker.”
“I can and I AM,” he says, voice muffled against your clit. “He’s always RIGHT.” You’re too far gone to argue.
Because his fingers curl just right, and his mouth sucks hard enough to make your back arch, and then he murmurs “Gonna make you forget every orgasm you had before me.”
You come undone. Hard. Thighs clenching around his head. You feel your whole body pulsing, but he doesn’t stop.
He keeps lapping up everything, groaning like it’s the best meal of his life until you’re gasping, sensitive, trying to wriggle away. He holds you steady under him. You’re panting Seeing stars, fuck seeing galaxies your thighs twitching as he continues sucking on your sensitive clit.
“round two should happen fast enough to disorient you.”
“Adrian,” you wheeze, “I literally can’t breathe.”
“Perfect,” he whispers, moving up to kiss you hard.
You taste yourself on his tongue. He presses his cock against your entrance, slow and steady, watching your face the entire time.
“I’m gonna do this so good,” he whispers almost to himself against your mouth, voice shaking.
You dig your nails into his back. He groans a raw, broken sound and pushes in bottoming out quickly. Your back arches off the mattress instantly. He lifts your legs to his shoulders and bends over you at the same time, folding you in half deeper, tighter and your mouth drops open with a sound that doesn’t even have vowels in it.
“Oh my god,” you choke.
He moans like he’s the one falling apart.
“You feel—fuck—you feel fucking unreal,” he pants, his forehead dropping to yours as he pulls back halfway and thrusts in again, harder this time. “You always do, but tonight?you’re…” He doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans. Deep and shaky. Like he can’t find the words.
His hand slides under your lower back, lifting your hips toward him, tilting your pelvis up at the perfect angle — something you didn’t even know he knew how to do. Something no one’s ever done to you.
Your eyes roll back. Your hands fist the sheets.
“ADRIAN—” He kisses you through it, swallowing the cry like he wants it for himself. He starts moving faster. Not jackhammer fast. Not rabbit fast. It’s just perfect-fast it’s measured, filthy, exact. Like he studied and is now executing a master plan to ruin you.
“Holy shit—”
He laughs, breathless, smug, unhinged and thrusts deeper, just to prove the point.
“That’s the one,” he whispers.
Your legs shake on his shoulder. Your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to anchor yourself to earth.
He slows down just long enough to reach down between you using his thumb to find your clit, lazy circles that should be too much, but instead have you gasping.
“I don’t want you to come yet,” he says, voice ragged, “but I kinda do, because I need to see it again.”
You grip his arms like you’re drowning. “You’re fucking obsessed.”
He kisses you hard, hips stuttering, breath broken. “With you? Yeah. Yeah, I fucking am.” He grunts. Then he starts thrusting again, his thumb not letting up, your body burning from the inside out.
You can’t think. You can’t talk. All you can do is feel his skin slick against yours, his mouth hot on your neck, his cock hitting just right every single time, like he tuned himself to your body.
And just when your orgasm starts creeping up your spine like a stormcloud. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” And that’s it. That’s all it takes. You fall apart around him with a cry that rips through your throat, thighs shaking, body going tight and wet and fluttering, and Adrian groans like he’s been shot.
He follows a few thrusts later, hips jerking, mouth open, hand gripping your shoulders like it’s the only thing tethering him to this dimension.
He spills into you with a moan you feel in your chest, collapsing against your body like he’s just survived something catastrophic.
You’re both trembling, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to crawl out of your chest and kiss him again. Adrian’s whole body is draped over you, skin sticky, hair damp, arms locked around you like he’s worried you’ll dissolve.
He’s still inside you buried deep. Still breathing like he just won a war. You rake your fingers through his hair.
Soft. Slow. And finally whisper “Why the fuck,” you pant, “were you following sex advice from Peacemaker?”
He goes completely still. Like you just asked him how many beanie babies he has.
His breath hitches. “I wasn’t!” He lies. “Ok, maybe I was. Fuck. Okay, wait, let me explain.”
You start laughing, breathless but you don’t let go of him.
He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are huge. Still wrecked. Still full of love and something else guilt? Shame? Something in between.
“I had to do it,” he starts, propping himself up on one shaky elbow. “Like, one minute I’m sharpening my knife, the next Chris is screaming that you’re dumping me because he heard you say we’re ‘not working out’ and ‘telling me tonight’”
Your eyes widen. “Oh my god…”
“I KNOW,” he says, eyes darting like a cornered raccoon.
You snort.
“But then,” he rushes on, “he said the only way to stop you from leaving me was to give you so many orgasms you forget everything. Verbatim. He said, and I quote…” He does an awful impression “‘You need to give that woman so many orgasms she thinks she’s fucking dying.’” You cover your face. He keeps going like he physically can’t stop. “He told me to be clingy. Said you liked ‘boyfriend shit.’ Said to worship the pussy and to rub your shoulders like I care about tension.”
You’re shaking with laughter.
“And then he said—he said—‘Breed her emotionally first. THEN physically.’”
You choke. Adrian nods solemnly. “I didn’t know what that meant, but I think that was really fucking close. You know? Like I understood it in my soul.”
You wipe tears from your eyes, trying to speak.
He leans closer, suddenly dead serious.
“I panicked, which I don’t do often. So I did everything he said. And it worked. You screamed and now you don’t wanna leave me right?”
You’re cackling now, whole body shaking under him.
“I did scream,” you wheeze. “And you were so gentle earlier, I thought you were possessed.”
“I was possessed,” he says grimly. “By Chris’s amazing advice and my secret fear of abandonment.”
You lose it again. He drops his forehead to your chest, groaning. “You’re not going to break up with me now right?”
You grin and kiss his temple. “Baby, I was talking to my friend about letting the man who does my nails go.” You explain.
He pulls back to look at you, eyes wider this time.
“What?” he asks, quieter. “You weren’t talking about letting me go…?”
You brush his hair off his forehead. “I was not talking about you.” You confirm.
“Fucking Peacemaker,” he groans, yet he sounds relieved. You laugh and pull him down into a kiss.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – garrett graham is very good at hockey, very bad at asking awkward questions, and unfortunately excellent at following instructions.
warnings – 18+, smut, oral sex, sexual conversation, praise, teasing, banter
notes from me – based on this ask!! thank u lovely, this was so much fun!!
word count – 8k
navigation – masterlist |
Garrett had been tapping his foot for twenty minutes. A restless, irritating little bounce of his knee beneath the desk, his socked foot thudding softly against the chair leg every few seconds while he pretended to read the same page of his textbook like the words might eventually rearrange themselves into something useful.
She let it go for the first ten minutes because, technically, she was supposed to be studying too.
She had a highlighter uncapped between her fingers, a notebook open against her thigh, and Garrett’s pillows shoved behind her back on his bed because his room had somehow become the easiest place to get work done despite the fact that he was almost always there being large and distracting and stupidly handsome.
By minute fifteen, she’d started counting the taps.
By minute twenty, she sighed through her nose and said, without looking up, “You know, at some point, you’re gonna have to ask whatever extremely weird question you’ve been building up to.”
Garrett’s foot stopped so suddenly the silence had a little shape to it.
She dragged her highlighter across a sentence, slow and neat, and added, “I’ve been waiting for this. You’ve been tapping your foot for, like, twenty minutes.”
Across the room, Garrett gave a short, breathy laugh, the kind that sounded like it’d been punched out of him. When she glanced over, he was still facing his desk, one elbow planted beside his textbook, pen caught between his fingers, the end of it pressed lightly against his mouth.
His hair was a mess from where he’d clearly been dragging his hands through it, dark curls pushed up and falling back down again, and he looked annoyingly good in an old Briar hockey hoodie and sweats, which was rude of him. Deeply unnecessary.
“Huh,” he said, and his mouth twitched like he was trying for normal and missing by a mile. “Yeah. Okay. Uh.”
She lowered the highlighter. “Uh-oh.”
“No, it’s not–” He turned in his chair halfway, then stopped, then turned properly, knees spreading a little as he leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs. “Can I ask you something?”
“Clearly not easily, but sure.”
His eyes flicked to hers, amused despite whatever panic was happening under his skin. “You’re a real comfort, you know that?”
“I try to keep you humble.”
“Impossible. I’m beloved.”
“You’re tolerated.”
“I’m adored.”
“You’re on thin ice.”
That got the real smile out of him for half a second, bright and quick and Garrett all over, and then it slipped again. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, glanced at the wall, at his desk, at the floor, anywhere but her.
“So,” he started, then stopped.
She watched him for a second longer than she meant to. “Garrett.”
“Yeah, okay.” He exhaled, then looked at her properly. “You’ve hooked up with girls before, right? Like– you’re, like, bi?”
Her eyebrows lifted.
Garrett immediately winced. “Jesus. Not like that. I mean– fuck. Sorry. That came out–”
“Why’re you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You just asked me if I’ve hooked up with girls like you were– like, a dad in a nineties sitcom who found a rainbow sticker on his daughter’s laptop.”
He pointed at her with the pen, relief breaking through his embarrassment for one tiny second. “Okay, first of all, oddly specific.”
“And accurate.”
“And second of all, I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You’re doing it with the energy of someone defusing a bomb.”
“Because you’re terrifying.”
She snorted, leaning back against his pillows. “You’re six-two and built like a refrigerator.”
“Six-three on skates.”
“Just proved my point.”
“I’m just saying.” He shifted again, then groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair until it stuck up worse. “Okay. I’m not asking because– I mean, it’s not a weird fetish thing, alright? I just… I have something.”
“A rash?”
He gave her a flat look. “Do not make me regret this.”
“Too late. You’re already sweating.”
His mouth opened, then closed, and despite herself she softened. Because Garrett could be a lot of things – cocky, loud, insufferably pleased with himself when he got under her skin – but this wasn’t him trying to be cute. This was him genuinely stumbling over himself, which happened so rarely that it made something in her chest sit up and pay attention.
She set the highlighter down on her notebook. “Okay. Serious face. What’s going on?”
Garrett stared at her for a beat, like he was checking if she meant it, and then his shoulders dropped just a little. “Someone asked me to do something.”
“Someone?”
“Yeah.”
His room hummed around them in the way his room always did when the house was actually quiet for once – the heater ticking somewhere near the floor, the muffled thump of music from downstairs, the occasional burst of laughter through the walls. His desk lamp threw a warm stripe across one side of his face, catching on the curve of his cheekbone and the edge of his mouth.
Her stomach dipped before she knew why. “Hannah?” she asked.
He looked at her fast. Too fast. Then nodded, then immediately shook his head, which was so deeply unhelpful that she blinked at him.
“Garrett.”
“It’s not–” He swallowed, thumb rubbing at the side of his pen. “It’s not Hannah. It’s someone important to me. To… to Hannah. Sort of. Not Hannah.”
She stared at him. “That answered exactly zero questions.”
“I know.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Is someone else in trouble?”
“No.”
“Is this a hockey thing?”
“What? No.”
“Is it illegal?”
“No.”
“Is it stupid?”
He paused.
She pointed at him. “There it is.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“Garrett.”
He dropped his head for a second, huffing a laugh into his hands, and when he looked back up his ears were a little pink. “She asked me to… help her with something. Tonight. And I said yes, because I wanted to, and because she trusts me, and because I–” His jaw tightened, like the words had gotten too close to something he didn’t want to put on the desk between them. “I don’t know if I’m the right person for it.”
She stared at him for another second, then sat up straighter on the bed. “Is Hannah a virgin? Is that what this is?”
“Not– No, don’t say it like that.”
“You’re the one having a crisis in front of me!”
“I am not having a crisis.”
“You asked me if I’ve hooked up with girls and then started talking in riddles about doing a thing tonight. You’re absolutely having a crisis.”
His mouth twitched again, but it didn’t last. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”
The joke sitting ready on her tongue went quiet. She looked at him then, really looked, at the way his knee had gone still but his fingers hadn’t, turning the pen over and over until the plastic clicked softly against his knuckle.
Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, professional-level flirt, human ego with good hair, sitting in his bedroom like he’d been handed something breakable and was terrified of dropping it.
Her voice came out gentler. “Garrett.” He glanced up. “If she asked you, she wants it to be you.”
“I know.”
“And if she wants it to be you, then that matters more than you having a perfect script.”
“I know that too.” His eyes dropped again. “But… I need to make sure she comes.”
A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.
Garrett’s head snapped up. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You’re absolutely laughing at me! She wants… like, there’s… things.”
“Babe. Do all the things. Everything. Do them all.”
His gaze sharpened at the word babe in a way it really had no business doing, but then he was nodding, focused. “I know. I know that. I just–”
“You’ve made girls come before, right?” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes. “Please say yes.”
Garrett scoffed so quickly it almost sounded offended. “Obviously yes.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, of course I have.”
“Great.”
“I’m good at sex. Great, actually. Really great.”
“I didn’t ask for your fucking résumé.”
“I’m just clarifying.”
“Consider it clarified.”
He leaned back in the chair, but the tension didn’t leave him. If anything, it settled lower, somewhere under his ribs. “This is different.”
It wasn’t like she had feelings for Garrett. That would be stupid. Impractical. A terrible use of her time. Garrett was her friend, and he was gorgeous in the kind of way people wrote angry diary entries about.
She could sit on his bed in his hoodie-scented room and listen to him talk about making another girl come without doing anything insane like feeling it under her sternum.
Except then he looked at her like that. Open and anxious and stupidly sincere, his usual smirk nowhere in sight, and something inside her gave a tiny, treacherous twist.
“Okay,” she said, because her voice needed to be normal. “Well. First thing: if it’s her first time, she might not come.”
Garrett shook his head immediately. “Not an option.”
She blinked.
Garrett’s brows pulled together a fraction. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
She looked down at the notes in her lap, at the little neon smear where her highlighter had bled too hard into the paper. “No, it’s just. Respect.”
His face softened, but he didn’t push. That was another thing people missed about Garrett because he was so loud in every obvious way. He knew when not to shove his way into a sore spot. He’d hover near it, sure, maybe make some dumb joke to give you an exit, but he didn’t go digging unless you handed him the shovel.
“She trusts you,” she said eventually. “That’s the part you don’t want to mess up.”
“Yeah,” he said, quiet.
“And you’re nervous because you care.”
“Gross.”
“Deeply embarrassing for you.”
“I know. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I’m telling everyone.”
He pointed the pen at her again, but his mouth was softer now. “I’ll deny it.”
“They’ll believe me.”
“Yeah, probably.”
She breathed out a laugh and dragged one knee up, resting her chin on it for a second. “Okay. So what do you actually need from me? Like, a pep talk? Anatomy review? Diagrams? Because I’m very good with diagrams.”
His eyes flicked over her face, searching. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, I know the basics.”
“Comforting.”
“I know more than the basics,” he corrected, offended again. “I just don’t know if I know enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To do it right.”
She let the words hang there. He looked so genuinely stressed that her mouth opened before her common sense could tackle it to the ground. “I can teach you.”
Garrett froze, like, actually froze. His whole body went still except for one blink.
She heard herself say it, and then immediately felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. She shifted against the pillows, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to reckless.
“I mean,” she added, because silence had started gathering in the corners, “if you’re that nervous.”
His voice came out careful. “Teach me.”
She gave him a look, even though her pulse had started doing something humiliating in her throat. “Garrett.”
His eyes dropped for a second, just to her mouth, maybe her shoulder, the bare skin of her thigh where her shorts had ridden up beneath the hem of her oversized sweatshirt. Then back to her eyes, fast enough that if she didn’t know him as well as she did, she might’ve missed it.
But she did know him. Which was the problem.
“You mean,” he said slowly, “like…”
“Go down on me. Finger me. Whatever.” She shrugged, too loose, too casual, like she couldn’t feel every inch of her body suddenly becoming extremely aware of the bed under her, the air on her legs, Garrett sitting three feet away and looking at her like she’d just handed him a loaded gun. “I’ll give you pointers. Tell you what’s good and what’s not. I’ll be honest. You know I will.”
Garrett stared.
She lifted both brows. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing face.”
“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re serious.”
“I am.”
His gaze moved over her again, more restrained this time, like he was trying very hard not to make it gross. That somehow made it worse. Hotter. The fact that he wasn’t leering, wasn’t immediately turning it into a joke, wasn’t giving her the full Garrett Graham grin and some line about how lucky she was.
He just looked startled and a little blown open, his fingers gone still around the pen.
“Isn’t that weird?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Only if you make it weird.”
“I don’t want to make it weird.”
“Then don’t.”
“That easy?”
“Probably not,” she admitted.
He let out a quiet laugh, low and disbelieving, his head dipping as he rubbed at the back of his neck. When he looked up again, some of the panic had changed shape. It hadn’t left, but there was something else there now. Something warm and assessing, tucked carefully behind the concern.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No, I mean–” He sat forward again, and this time his voice had that Garrett steadiness to it, the one he used on the ice, with the guys, when he’d decided something mattered. “I don’t want you offering because you feel bad for me or because you think you have to help.”
She huffed. “I don’t do pity orgasms, Graham.”
His mouth curved despite himself. “Good to know.”
“And I definitely don’t do homework I don’t want to do.”
“This is homework now?”
“Fieldwork.”
“Right. Academic.”
“Very.”
He looked at her for a long second, and the room seemed to shrink around the two of them. The textbook on his desk. Her notes sliding half-forgotten toward the rumpled blanket. The faint laundry smell of his sheets, detergent and boy and something clean underneath.
Garrett’s face was still soft with the leftover nerves from before, but his eyes had changed. Darker, maybe, or just more focused. He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t even close. But the space between them felt suddenly crowded.
“You’d really help?” he asked, and there was enough sincerity in it that her stomach dipped again.
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging. “Course.”
His shoulders loosened. She saw the relief move through him. Saw the way his grip eased around the pen. Saw the way his mouth parted slightly before he caught himself and nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” He set the pen down on the desk with an unnecessary amount of care, like if he moved too fast the whole thing might crack. “But we’re setting rules.”
She blinked, then laughed. “You’re setting rules?”
“Damn right I am.”
“Captain Graham has entered the chat.”
“Laugh all you want.” He stood, and that was unfair too, the shift from anxious Garrett in a desk chair to Garrett unfolding to his full height, hoodie pulling across his shoulders, sweats hanging low on his hips. “But if we’re doing this, we’re not doing some awkward, half-assed, ‘haha this is fine’ thing where neither of us says what we mean and then we pretend nothing happened.”
Her throat went a little dry. He noticed that too, the bastard.
“Rules,” she said, because it was the only word she trusted.
“One,” he said, holding up a finger, “you can stop it at any point. For any reason. You don’t have to make it cute or explain it.”
She nodded, all the teasing slipping just slightly. “Same for you.”
“Two,” he continued, “you actually tell me if something’s good or bad. No lying to protect my ego.”
“That’ll be devastating for you.”
“My ego is very strong.”
“It’s clinically concerning.”
“Three.” His voice dipped a little. “If it gets weird, we stop.”
She looked up at him from the bed. “And if it doesn’t?”
Garrett’s eyes held hers. The silence stretched so thin she could feel it against her skin.
“Well,” he said, quieter, “you teach me.”
For one second, neither of them moved.
Then Garrett crossed the room. He moved carefully, in that quiet, deliberate way he got sometimes when the noise dropped out of him and all that golden-boy bravado narrowed into focus.
The desk chair rolled back a little behind him, one wheel catching on the edge of the rug, and she watched him come toward the bed with her pulse already starting to act like an idiot in her throat.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that his knees brushed the side of the mattress, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at him.
For a second, he just stood there, eyes moving over her face like he was checking for something. A flinch. A joke she was swallowing. Some little sign that she’d changed her mind and was too stubborn to say it.
She hated, a little bit, how much she liked that he looked.
Garrett bent down, one hand bracing beside her hip on the bed, the mattress dipping under his palm. His other hand lifted slowly, and his knuckles skimmed the side of her jaw before he tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.
It was such a small touch. Ridiculously small, actually, considering the conversation they’d just had. But it went through her in a clean, warm line anyway, settling somewhere low in her stomach before she could pretend it hadn’t.
“This okay?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Rougher than it had been before.
She smiled, because if she didn’t smile, she might do something really embarrassing, like stare at his mouth and forget how to breathe. “Mhm.”
Garrett nodded once, like he was filing that away. “Good.”
Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to her shoulder, over the soft worn fabric of her shirt, his lips warm and careful through it. He paused, his breath barely moving, and she felt her fingers curl into the blanket underneath her.
“Like this?” he asked, mouth still close enough that the words brushed her skin.
She nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah.”
His smile touched her shoulder more than it reached his face. “Okay.”
The next kiss landed higher, at the curve where her shoulder became her neck, and she felt that one in her knees even though she was sitting down.
Garrett’s hand came to her waist, warm through her shirt, steady enough that it made her feel weirdly taken care of in a situation that should’ve felt like a terrible idea.
He kissed again, just under her ear, slower this time, and her breath caught before she could make it sound casual.
“This?” he murmured.
She swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Garrett.”
“What?” he asked, and the bastard had the audacity to sound amused now, like he could feel her starting to unravel by millimetres and was getting just enough confidence from it to become himself again.
She turned her head, trying to glare, but his mouth was right there. Too close. His eyes dropped to hers, and the air between them shifted so quickly it was almost embarrassing.
One second he was kissing up her neck like a careful student. The next, she was looking at his mouth and realising there was no way she was going to survive this if he kept asking permission in that voice.
“You’re supposed to be learning,” she said, though it came out softer than she meant.
“I am learning.”
“You’re smirking.”
“I’m absorbing information.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Probably,” he said, and then his mouth brushed the corner of hers. Barely there. More a question than a kiss. “This?”
She answered by kissing him properly. And the stupid thing was, it wasn’t as weird as it should’ve been.
She’d expected weird. She’d braced for it, actually. Some awkward, clumsy second where her brain would catch up to the fact that this was Garrett, Garrett from her classes and the dining hall and late-night study sessions and terrible jokes and arguments over stolen fries, Garrett who called her out when she was lying and remembered exactly how she took her coffee and had never once looked at her like a practice run until now.
She’d expected the friendship to press against the kiss like a bruise. But it didn’t, it just felt really fucking good.
His mouth was soft. Softer than seemed fair, considering how much of him was not soft at all. He kissed with this controlled kind of heat, careful for all of two seconds before she made a small sound against him and his hand tightened at her waist. Then the carefulness shifted.
She shifted up onto her knees before she thought too hard about it, arms sliding around his neck, and Garrett made a quiet sound like the movement had hit him somewhere low.
He caught her by the hips and pulled her closer, easy, like she weighed nothing, his mouth staying on hers while his hand spread across her lower back.
The front of his hoodie brushed against her chest, warm and soft, and she kissed him harder because that was who she was now, a person who kissed Garrett Graham on his bed and thought, distantly, oh no.
He lifted her slightly, just enough to move her higher on the mattress, and she grinned into his mouth because it was so Garrett. Casual strength. No announcement. No big dramatic move. Only his hands on her like he knew exactly where to put them, like he’d done this a hundred times and still somehow looked pleased when she laughed against his lips.
He pulled back a fraction, smile catching at his mouth. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a very suspicious nothing.”
“You just–” She shook her head, still smiling, breath already thinner than she wanted it to be. “You’re very jock-coded.”
Garrett blinked. Then laughed, low and warm, and used the hand on her back to ease her down onto the bed. “Jock-coded?”
“Shut up.”
“No, no, I wanna hear more.”
“I said shut up.”
“Mean,” he murmured, and kissed her again as he lowered her onto her back.
The mattress gave beneath her. Garrett settled between her legs with a careful kind of weight, one forearm planted beside her head, the other hand still at her waist like he wasn’t entirely ready to stop holding her there.
It should’ve been too much. The closeness. The heat of him. The stupid, intimate reality of Garrett’s body fitted against hers, his thigh nudging between hers, his mouth moving over her mouth like he had nowhere else to be.
Instead, she arched up before she could stop herself, and Garrett’s hips shifted down against hers. The sound she made was small and immediate.
Garrett froze for half a second, pulling back just enough to see her face. “This good?”
His voice had gone rough again. His eyes were darker, hair falling messily over his forehead, mouth a little swollen from kissing her. He looked like trouble. Worse, he looked like he was trying very hard not to be trouble unless she asked him to.
She nodded, breathless enough that it made her want to laugh at herself. “Yeah. Really good. Just…” She swallowed, then tipped her head back a little, exposing her neck because subtlety had left the building. “Kiss my neck more?”
Garrett nodded immediately, serious as anything. “Neck. Yep.”
It made her laugh, just a little, because he sounded like he’d been given a note in practice and was determined to execute it perfectly. Then his mouth found the underside of her jaw and the laugh thinned into a sigh.
He kissed down slowly, following the line from her jaw to the side of her throat, testing a spot beneath her ear before moving lower. She felt the brush of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the soft pressure of his mouth turning less polite when she tilted into it.
Her hands slid into his hair without permission from her brain, fingers curling into the dark messy strands, and Garrett hummed softly against her skin like the touch had done something to him.
“Yeah,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “There.”
He nodded against her neck, and she felt that too, the tiny movement of acknowledgement, his mouth staying exactly where she’d told him to stay.
It was unfair, the listening. The way he didn’t make her repeat herself. The way he didn’t get impatient or try to leap ahead because he’d decided he knew better. He just learned her.
Her fingers found the hem of his t-shirt under the hoodie, tugging, and Garrett pulled back enough to look at her.
“This part of the lesson?” he asked.
“Advanced module.”
“Good. I’m ready.”
She tugged harder at the fabric. “Take it off, Graham.”
His smile flashed, quick and boyish and far too pleased, but he listened. He sat back enough to strip the hoodie and t-shirt off in one movement, fabric dragging up over his shoulders, curls getting even messier when it came free. For a second she forgot to be clever.
Because, honestly. Fuck him.
He was all warm skin and solid muscle and the kind of athlete’s body that made a person feel briefly wronged by genetics. Broad shoulders, strong chest, the faintest flush across his collarbones from all the kissing, and that stupidly satisfied tilt to his mouth when he caught her looking.
“Pointer?” he asked.
She stared at him.
Garrett’s grin got worse. “No notes?”
“Don’t be annoying.”
“That’s not a note. That’s a personality critique.”
She pushed herself up before he could say anything else, knees bracketing his thigh, and kissed the centre of his chest just because she wanted to wipe the smugness off his face.
It worked. Sort of. His breath caught, and she felt the shift in him, the little tightening under her mouth when she kissed higher, over the warm plane of his chest, up to his collarbone, then finally back to his mouth.
He caught her jaw gently as he kissed her, thumb brushing the corner of her lips. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far.
“This not weird?” he asked.
There was enough vulnerability tucked under it that her chest squeezed.
She shook her head. “Not for me.”
Garrett looked at her for a beat, then nodded, like that mattered. Like her answer had settled something in him.
“Me neither,” he said.
And maybe that should’ve made things messier. Maybe the admission should’ve landed too heavy between them, should’ve made her sit up and go, okay, actually, let’s unpack that before your mouth is anywhere else.
But Garrett kissed her again before either of them could ruin it by thinking too loudly, and the moment folded back into heat and laughter and the shifting weight of his body over hers.
He started kissing down her neck again, then lower, over her collarbone, his hands working carefully at the hem of her shirt. He paused before lifting it, eyes flicking up.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He pulled it up slowly, like he was giving her a dozen chances to change her mind, and then his mouth followed the new skin he uncovered. Her chest, her ribs, the soft place beneath her breastbone where her breath kept catching.
He kissed like he had time. Like this was the point, not the part before the point. It made her body go warm and loose underneath him in increments, not a sudden spark so much as a slow, low spreading.
“Spend more time building up to it,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady and not entirely succeeding. “Like… don’t rush straight down. Kiss my neck and my boobs and my stomach.”
Garrett lifted his head just enough to look at her, eyes bright with concentration and something hotter underneath. “Okay.”
“And don’t look so proud of yourself when I say something works.”
His mouth twitched. “That one’s gonna be harder.”
“Garrett.”
“Right. Humble. Got it.”
He went back to her neck first, because she’d told him to, and somehow that made the whole thing worse. Better. Worse because he was listening and she liked it too much; better because his mouth found the places she’d already given away and stayed there until her fingers tightened in his hair again.
Then he moved lower, kissing over her chest with a careful, reverent sort of attention that made her stare at the ceiling for a second like it might offer assistance. It did not. It just sat there while Garrett Graham learned her body with his mouth.
By the time he kissed over her stomach, she was breathing harder, one hand still in his hair, the other pressed loosely to the pillow beside her head. Garrett’s hands slid over her sides, thumbs moving in slow arcs against her skin.
He kissed near her hip, then paused, and she could feel the question in the pause before he even looked up.
“And my–” She stopped, then huffed at herself because ridiculous, ridiculous, she had literally offered this, and now she was shy because he was looking at her like that. “My thighs too.”
Garrett’s expression changed. The smallest curve of his mouth, a little heat flickering through the carefulness.
“My thighs too,” he repeated softly.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just repeating instructions.”
“You’re enjoying the instructions.”
“Yeah,” he said, and the honesty of it made her stomach flip. “I am.”
He kissed the outside of her thigh first, over the edge of her shorts, then lower, then inside, slow enough that she had time to anticipate every next touch and hate him for it.
His mouth was warm against her skin, his hair brushing her leg, and when he used his teeth very lightly, more tease than bite, she made a sound that had his hand tightening around her hip.
He looked up at her from between her thighs, and Jesus Christ, that was not a sustainable image for her long-term friendship with this man.
“Do you like…” He paused, searching for the least embarrassing phrasing and failing adorably. “Talking? Like, me talking?”
The question was so earnest and so Garrett that she giggled, breathy and helpless. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, talking is good.”
He nodded, mouth brushing the inside of her thigh when he spoke. “Little hard to do with my mouth on you, though.”
She laughed again, the nerves shaking loose in her chest. “S’okay. You’ll manage.”
“Great. No pressure.”
“You asked for a lesson.”
“Yeah, and my professor is mean.”
“Your professor is doing you a favour.”
“My professor is very pretty,” he said, almost absently, like the thought had slipped out before he could package it into a joke.
She went still. Garrett paused too, then looked up. For once, he didn’t smirk. Didn’t walk it back. Didn’t make it safer by turning it into something stupid.
Her cheeks warmed. “See? That.”
“That?”
“Compliments. Good. Keep doing that.” She swallowed, then added, because she needed to make it about the lesson before the inside of her chest got too loud, “Make it fun. Like… be cute. Kiss me while you’re taking my clothes off. Compliment me. Don’t make it feel clinical.”
Garrett’s face softened. “Okay.”
“And don’t say my professor is very pretty like you’re trying to kill me.”
His grin came back, slow and devastating. “Noted.”
She covered her face with one hand. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m considering it.”
He kissed the inside of her thigh again, then the edge of her shorts, and hooked his fingers into the waistband. He paused there. “You good?”
“Mhm.”
“Enough… like…” He gave her an apologetic look, half amused, half genuinely checking. “Foreplay?”
She laughed into her hand. “God. Never say it like that again.”
“Sorry. I heard it as soon as it left my mouth.”
“You sounded like a health textbook.”
“I panicked.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Fine?”
She lowered her hand and looked at him. “Really good.”
The pleased little breath he let out should not have been as charming as it was. He leaned up to kiss her again, soft and brief, while his fingers worked her shorts down her hips.
That was good. Annoyingly good. The distraction of his mouth. The way his hand slid under her thigh to lift her slightly, taking care not to tug or make it awkward.
He kissed her once more when the shorts passed her knees, then tossed them somewhere off the side of the bed without looking.
“Cute enough?” he murmured against her mouth.
“Barely.”
“Liar.”
She smiled, and he kissed the smile like he couldn’t help himself.
When he moved lower again, his hand settled at her hip, thumb brushing the thin fabric left there. His expression sobered. The teasing didn’t vanish, but it stepped back, giving room to the thing beneath it.
“You sure?” he asked.
Her breath caught, not because she was unsure, but because he’d asked again. Because he kept asking. Because Garrett Graham, who could’ve made arrogance look like a sport, was kneeling between her legs with messy hair and swollen lips and still waiting for her to say yes.
She nodded. “Don’t leave me hanging now, Graham.”
He huffed a laugh, relief warming his face. “Right.”
He took her panties off slowly, and he kissed her while he did it, one hand sliding up to lace briefly with hers before he moved back down.
It should’ve been ridiculous, probably, how careful he was about it. She was already half-naked on his bed, already flushed and breathing unevenly, and Garrett was still treating the thin scrap of fabric at her hips like it required focus and dignity and a full team meeting.
His mouth followed the path of his hands, a kiss pressed to the inside of her knee, then her thigh, then the place where her hip curved soft under his palm.
He paused there, warm breath spilling across skin that had already gone too sensitive, and she felt her stomach tighten before he’d even done anything worth being smug about.
He kissed her stomach again, because she’d told him to build up to it and he was determined to be an overachiever in every possible context. Then lower. Then lower again, his mouth soft and unhurried, his hand spreading over her thigh to ease it wider, asking with the steady pressure of his fingers until her body answered before her brain could make a whole embarrassing thing about it.
By the time his mouth finally settled between her thighs, her whole body felt like it had been tuned too tight and then touched in exactly the right place.
And damn it, he was actually good.
He was patient. Focused. Careful in a way that didn’t feel timid. His first touch was a slow, hot drag of his tongue that made her inhale so sharply her ribs hurt, and he noticed.
Garrett, who sometimes couldn’t find his own phone while holding it, became some kind of terrifying scholar the second his mouth was between her legs. He did it again, lighter this time, testing the difference, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her thigh when her hips twitched up toward him.
She'd been fully prepared to give notes. She’d expected to have to, actually. She’d expected some overconfident athlete nonsense, maybe too much pressure, too much speed, too much of him assuming confidence counted as skill.
Instead, she stared at the ceiling with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other in his hair, trying desperately to remember she was supposed to be useful while Garrett licked into her like he was trying to memorise what made her go quiet and what made her make noise.
His mouth moved with this awful, devastating attention, warm and deliberate, tongue flattening where she needed softness, then narrowing to something more precise when her legs shifted around his shoulders. He made this quiet sound against her, almost pleased, and she hated him a little for how much she felt it.
“No,” she breathed at one point, because he’d gotten a little too eager, a little too much, the pressure tipping from good into sharp enough that her thighs tightened around his head. “Gentle. Gentle–”
He eased immediately. An instant shift into softer, slower strokes, his thumb brushing once over her hip like he was saying, heard you, without lifting his mouth.
Her eyes shut before she could stop them. “Actually, that’s good.”
She felt him hum against her, and her thighs tightened before she could stop them.
“Don’t be smug,” she warned, though it came out embarrassingly thin.
Garrett’s fingers pressed lightly into her hip like he was laughing without lifting his mouth.
“Garrett.”
He pulled back just enough for his breath to skim over her, his lips and chin wet, his hair a disaster between her thighs, his expression so careful and so pleased that she wanted to put a pillow over his face. Possibly for murder. Possibly for self-preservation. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m always thinking something.”
“Think less.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She laughed, then immediately lost the laugh when he lowered his mouth again. His hand slid from her hip to the inside of her thigh, slow enough that she had time to anticipate it, then his fingers touched her carefully, gathering the slick heat of her before pressing in with one.
Just one, at first. Her breath caught hard, her hand tightening in his hair, and he went still for half a second, eyes flicking up.
“Good?” he murmured, mouth barely leaving her.
She nodded too fast. “Yeah. That’s– yeah.”
His eyes stayed on her for one more beat, checking, and then he curled his finger slightly while his mouth found her again.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, so quietly it barely counted as language.
He made another low sound, and the thing about Garrett was that he was impossible to ignore. Even like this. Especially like this. His shoulders under her thighs, his hand firm on her hip, his tongue moving over her in slow, wet strokes while his finger worked inside her with the same annoying, attentive rhythm.
He wasn’t guessing wildly. He was watching everything. The way her stomach pulled tight when he crooked his finger just so. The way her knees tried to close when his mouth got firmer. The way her fingers tugged at his hair when she wanted more but was too busy trying not to dissolve into his sheets to say it out loud.
“You can add another,” she managed, then immediately wanted to die because his eyes lifted again, dark and amused and focused in a way that felt unfairly intimate.
“Yeah?” he asked, and his voice had gone rough enough to scrape over her skin.
She swallowed. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
That got the smallest grin out of him, quick and devastating, before he kissed her thigh like a complete asshole. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
“Probably,” he murmured, and then he gave her the second finger.
Her head tipped back into the pillow, a sound slipping out of her before she could make it prettier. Garrett’s mouth came back to her at the same time, and for a second she lost the thread of everything but that – the stretch of his fingers, the heat of his tongue, the obscene little rhythm he found like he’d been handed instructions directly from her nervous system.
Her hips moved before she could stop them, a small helpless roll up into his mouth, and Garrett held her there with his free hand spread over her lower stomach, grounding her while he worked her open with a patience that made her feel insane.
“Garrett,” she breathed, warning and plea and accusation all tangled together.
He pulled back barely enough to speak, fingers still moving. “What?”
“You’re–” She broke off when his thumb shifted, brushing over her in a way that made her whole body jolt. Her hand flew out, catching the sheet, then his shoulder, then back into his hair because she had no plan and no dignity. “Jesus Christ.”
“That a note?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She wanted to argue, but then he lowered his mouth again and did something with his tongue that made the entire thought evaporate. There was no possible comeback. There was barely oxygen.
He sucked softly, enough to make heat snap bright through her stomach, and then softened it with his tongue like he was apologising and absolutely was not sorry.
His fingers kept moving, steady and slick, curling into that spot that made her toes flex against the sheets and her mouth fall open around nothing useful.
At some point, his other hand slid up her body and found hers where it was twisted in the sheets. He didn’t make a big thing of it, just nudged his fingers against her palm until she opened for him, and then he intertwined their fingers, pressing her hand into the mattress beside her hip.
The intimacy of it hit her so hard she made a small, wrecked sound she couldn’t blame on anything else.
Jesus. Christ.
His hand was warm. Solid. Holding hers while his mouth worked between her thighs like he had no interest in being anywhere else, his fingers moving inside her with a slow, confident drag that had stopped feeling like a lesson and started feeling like something much worse. Something that had teeth. Something that sat low under her ribs and made every breath come out thinner than the last.
The whole thing had tipped from funny and hot and vaguely educational into something that made her chest feel too small for what was happening inside it.
She could feel it building. Slow at first, then faster, gathering low and deep until her body started moving without permission, her hips chasing his mouth in little helpless shifts.
Garrett stayed with her, didn’t get sloppy, didn’t change things just because she was close. Fuck, maybe he had listened. Maybe he was better than most people by accident and then better again because he cared enough to pay attention.
His mouth stayed exactly where she needed it, his tongue steady, his fingers curling at the same pace, over and over, until the pleasure stopped coming in sparks and started rolling through her in a hot, heavy wave.
She squeezed his hand hard. “Garrett,” she breathed, and his name came out wrong. Too soft. Too much.
He looked up without stopping, eyes lifting to her face. That nearly finished her by itself.
His hair was a wreck from her fingers, curls falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed, mouth slick and warm against her, and he looked at her like he wanted to see it happen, like he was right there with her. Like the sound of her losing control mattered to him. Like he was going to take her apart as gently as she needed and then remember every second of it.
“Right– Garrett, there. Yes. Oh my god–” Her free hand flew to his hair, fingers tightening, and he groaned against her like the sound of her losing it had gone through him too. “Oh fuck.”
He kept going, steady and warm and maddeningly good, his fingers locked with hers. His mouth got softer when her legs began to shake, fingers still working inside her but slower now, careful not to push her past where she wanted to go. Which was somehow worse. Better. Devastating.
She nodded, barely aware she was doing it, breath breaking into little half-formed sounds, and then it hit. Hard enough that her back arched off the mattress and her eyes squeezed shut, heat snapping through her in waves while Garrett stayed right where she needed him, gentle when she needed gentle, firm when she pulled him closer, letting her ride it out without making it about him for even a second.
His hand tightened around hers through it, anchoring her while everything else went bright and loose and shaking, while her thighs pressed around his shoulders and her mouth fell open on his name again, softer this time, almost ruined.
When she finally went soft against the bed, her hand slipped out of his hair and landed somewhere beside her head like it no longer belonged to her.
Garrett eased his fingers out slowly, careful even then, pressing one last kiss to the inside of her thigh like he was trying to be sweet and was instead making her want to throw herself out a window.
For a second, there was only the sound of her breathing.
Then he crawled up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at her with the stupidest, most careful, most pleased expression she’d ever seen on his face. “Good?”
She laughed because there was absolutely no other option. It came out ruined and breathless, her head tipping back into the pillow. “Uh huh.”
“No, serious.” He flopped down beside her on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, chest rising and falling like he’d been the one worked over. “Pointers?”
She turned her head toward him. Garrett turned his too, eyes bright, mouth twitching.
She shook her head. “You– no.”
“No?” he asked, grin spreading.
She covered her face with both hands and laughed harder. “I hate this.”
“No, come on. I need constructive criticism.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I’m a dedicated student.”
She dropped her hands, still catching her breath, and looked at him lying there beside her, shirtless and smug and soft around the eyes in a way that made her stomach do something dangerous all over again.
“Tens across the board,” she said finally.
Garrett’s grin went enormous. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“No, no, I heard you.” He lifted a fist between them, delighted and boyish and so aggressively Garrett that she couldn’t help it. “Tens across the board.”
She stared at his fist, then at him. “Are you seriously asking me to fist-bump you after giving me head?”
“Yes.”
“You’re such a loser.” She laughed, helpless, and bumped her fist against his.
Garrett made a quiet, victorious little sound, and that was what fully broke them. They dissolved into laughter, both of them lying there on his bed in the messy aftermath of what was supposed to be a practical favour, her shorts somewhere on the floor, his shirt gone, his hair wrecked from her hands.
It should’ve been awkward. It should’ve been impossible to come back from. It should’ve cracked the air open and left them staring at each other with panic creeping in around the edges.
Instead, she found herself rolling onto her side and resting her head on his shoulder like it was normal. Garrett didn’t freeze. He just shifted enough to make room for her, his arm coming loosely around her back, fingers settling at her side.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, still smiling, eyes half-closed.
His chest moved under her cheek with a quiet laugh. “That a good oh my god or a traumatic oh my god?”
“Shut up.”
“Good enough for me.”
She smiled against his shoulder, but inside, beneath the warmth and the laughter and the pleasant, boneless hum still moving through her body, something had gone very still.
Because this was the problem. His arm around her. His thumb moving once, absent and gentle, against her ribs. The soft sound of his breathing evening out beside hers.
The way it didn’t feel weird. The way it felt like she’d set something down she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying. She stared at the far wall of his bedroom, cheek warm against his shoulder, heart slowly sinking into the mattress.
Oh fuck.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist.
