Klaus Mikaelson x f!Reader – Headcanons (Crush Edition)
Request: hello can give me Klaus mikaelson x f!reader and Klaus has crush on reader friends with Mystic Falls group headcanons, please 🙏😊
Note: Hii 🥹 of course!! Here are Klaus Mikaelson x f!reader headcanons, with Klaus having a very obvious (but denied) crush, you being friends with the Mystic Falls group,
Klaus definitely notices you before he admits it to himself. You’re always around the Mystic Falls group, laughing with Elena, helping Bonnie, rolling your eyes at Damon and Klaus pretends you’re just another annoyance. He fails miserably at that.
He watches you constantly. From across the room, from the doorway, from the shadows. If you catch him staring, he scoffs or smirks like you were the one being strange.
He’s irrationally jealous when you’re close to anyone else, especially Stefan or Damon. He masks it with sarcasm, but the tension in his jaw gives him away every time.
Klaus insists he doesn’t care about you…yet somehow he always shows up when you’re in danger. Always. Too fast to be a coincidence.
He’s rough and sarcastic with everyone else, but noticeably softer with you. His voice drops when he speaks to you, his insults turn into teasing, and he never actually means them.
You’re not afraid of him, and that drives him insane in the best way. You talk back, challenge him, call him out when he’s being cruel. Instead of killing you for it, he finds himself smiling.
The Mystic Falls group notices before you do. Caroline gives you that look. Damon makes comments. Elijah raises an eyebrow. Klaus denies everything, loudly.
He pretends your friendship with the group annoys him, but secretly he likes that you’re loyal and brave. You stand by people you care about and that hits something deep and old inside him.
Klaus becomes subtly protective. If someone insults you, they don’t last long. If someone threatens you, Klaus’ wrath is immediate and terrifying.
When you’re hurt or upset, he loses control of his emotions. His voice softens, his hands hover like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure he’s allowed.
He gives you gifts “accidentally.” A painting he made and didn’t want. A rare book he “had lying around.” Jewelry he claims means nothing but he watches your reaction closely.
Late night conversations happen more often than either of you admit. Quiet moments, shared drinks, vulnerability slipping through the cracks. These are the moments Klaus falls hardest.
He struggles with the idea that someone good could care about him. That you see more than the monster. That scares him more than any enemy ever could.
When he finally admits his feelings, it’s intense, honest, and raw. No games. No manipulation. Just Klaus, standing there, telling you that you matter more than he ever planned to admit.
۶ৎ 𝓙𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐘 𝓖𝐈𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓 is your best friend’s brother who gets boners whenever you’re around ₁₈₊
being his sisters best friend , jeremy has to keep his cool around you but it’s extremely hard when you’re always around when he’s high as fuck . because suddenly you’re hotter than you were five seconds ago and he’s this close to throwing himself on you . his sister always pesters him about going somewhere else in a jokingly way but he has nowhere else to go other than his room , he has no friends and not even acquaintances for that matter . ‘ just let him stay ‘lena he’s never a bother ’
and all of a sudden his mind is spinning and his dick very much hard , sorry not sorry but he loves it whenever you mention him . you don’t even have to talk to him but just the idea of you thinking about him gets him off . he watches you , eyes wandering all over your body , the slight curves of your breasts , the dip in your hips , the thighs that he wants to hold onto . you catch him looking plenty of times and he just looks away . you know he’s high , everyone in the room knows that but for some reason you’re liking this jeremy a lot more
you get up to go use the bathroom and he follows suit , just like you anticipated and just like you wanted . you’re standing at the door of the bathroom waiting for him to catch up and when he does you get a better look at him . eyes bloodshot , heavy breathing , big biceps which you never seemed to notice , and the outline of his evidently hard dick . he only steps forward hands shaking as he threatens to take hold of your hips , you grab them and do it for him . his breathing his faster now as presses his body against yours , his bulge hard against your core
he kisses you , softly but sweet , not as intense as you expected for someone so high off weed . your fingers roam through his soft hair as he sucks the skin of your neck . never in your life would you have thought that you’d be kissing your best friends brother but it felt right in that moment . ‘ hey hey , we can’t do this here . not with everyone outside jeremy ’ he release his hold from you and looks at you with this faux doe eyes ‘ you’re cute but another time ’ you leave him standing in the bathroom reaching out for you and imagine the many things he would do you that he had to rush up to his room before he made a mess in the bathroom
Warnings: fluff! a little spicy if you squint at it <3
Word count: 4.4k (whoopsie)
Masterlist | Jeremy’s Playlist
Tyler Lockwood really didn’t know how to throw a small party.
The mansion was packed — people spilling out into the backyard, the music thumping loud enough to feel in your chest. Fairy lights twinkled from the trees, and the bonfire crackled somewhere in the distance. It would’ve been perfect… if it wasn’t so cold.
You hadn’t exactly dressed for the weather. When you left the house, it had been warm enough for a cute top and jeans, but the night air had turned sharp, and now you were regretting everything. Hugging your arms around yourself, you tried to focus on the party — on the laughter, the music, the people dancing in the grass — but your teeth were on the verge of chattering.
“You okay?”
You looked up, and there was Jeremy, appearing at your side like he always did when you needed him. His dark hair was a little messy, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie and his eyes flicked over you with that familiar mix of concern and softness.
“Yeah,” you said, trying to play it cool even though you were visibly shivering. “Just… you know. Little cold.”
Jeremy didn’t say anything — just raised an eyebrow in that way he did when he wasn’t buying your nonsense. And then, without a word, he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and held it out to you.
“Take it.”
You blinked up at him. “Jeremy, you’ll freeze—”
“I’m not the one who’s turning into an icicle,” he teased, his eyes twinkling. “Come on. Just put it on.”
You hesitated for maybe half a second — and then the wind kicked up again, and you weren’t about to let pride keep you from warmth. You slipped the hoodie over your head, and the second it settled around you, your whole body relaxed.
It was warm. And soft. And it smelled like Jeremy — like pine and soap and something you couldn’t quite place but was undeniably him. The sleeves were so long they fell past your hands, and the hem brushed the middle of your thighs. You tugged the hood up, half to hide the fact that you were blushing and half because you didn’t want to take it off.
Jeremy watched you with a barely hidden smile. “Better?”
“Way better,” you mumbled, tugging the oversized sleeves over your fingers.
He grinned, and you noticed the way his eyes softened when they lingered on you. “Told you.”
For the rest of the night, you didn’t take it off. You stayed close to Jeremy — partly because you were warmer with him next to you, but mostly because… well, you just wanted to.
At some point, you ended up by the bonfire. Jeremy’s arm stretched along the back of the bench behind you, and when the wind kicked up again, you felt him shift closer until his shoulder brushed yours and stayed there. At some point, his hand found its way to yours inside of the hoodie sleeve, sending a rush of butterflies through your chest.
“You know,” you teased, “now you’re the one who’s gonna freeze.”
Jeremy smiled, his dimples showing. “I’ll survive.” His voice dipped softer, the firelight dancing across his face. “Besides… you look better in it than I do.”
Your face went warm, and it wasn’t from the fire. You ducked your head again. “Jeremy—”
“What?” he laughed, his knee bumping against yours. “It’s true.”
The fire crackled softly in front of you, and the night air was still cold. But with Jeremy’s hoodie wrapped around you and his hand loosely tangled with yours inside the oversized sleeve, you barely noticed.
Neither of you spoke for a while, the music from the party fading into the background. You watched the flames dance, but your mind was fixated on the way his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles. Slow and soft. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“You’re quiet,” Jeremy said eventually, his voice low and warm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
You smiled, though you didn’t look at him. “Just… thinking.”
“About?”
You hesitated, because how were you supposed to admit that your thoughts were mostly about him? About the way his hoodie smelled like him, the way his hand fit so perfectly around yours, the way he always noticed when you needed him without you even having to say a word.
“Nothing important,” you teased instead, glancing up at him with a little grin.
Jeremy rolled his eyes, but there was a soft curve to his lips. “Sure.” His gaze dipped down, taking in the sight of you in his sweatshirt, and his smile grew. “Y’know, you could keep it. If you want.”
Your heart skipped. “What, the hoodie?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but there was a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. “I kinda like seeing you in it.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Because what were you supposed to say to that? Your face went warm, your fingers tightening around his without thinking.
“You’re blushing,” Jeremy teased, his voice dipping lower.
“Shut up,” you muttered, tugging the hood lower over your face to hide the fact that he was absolutely right.
He laughed softly, and before you could react, his hand let go of yours just so he could tug the hood back, brushing your hair away from your face. “Don’t hide,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “I like looking at you.”
That did nothing to help the whole blushing situation.
You were sure your heart was going to beat right out of your chest. And then, because your brain apparently wasn’t fully functioning, you whispered, “You’re being awfully sweet tonight.”
Jeremy’s smile softened. “Maybe I’ve got a good reason.”
Your breath caught. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers brushed against your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The air around you felt warmer, like the fire had crept closer, and you were suddenly very aware of how close he was.
“You should wear my stuff more often,” he said softly, his eyes flickering down to the hoodie you were practically swimming in. “Kinda like knowing you’re warm because of me.”
You were definitely not breathing anymore.
And then — because Jeremy Gilbert was apparently trying to kill you with sweetness — he pulled the sleeve of his hoodie back over your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in the process. “There,” he said softly. “All cozy now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “Jeremy…”
He smiled — that soft, warm, perfect smile — and his eyes searched yours like he was waiting for something. And maybe you would’ve said something, maybe you would’ve done something…
But then someone called Jeremy’s name from across the yard, and the moment broke. He sighed, his thumb brushing your hand one last time. “I should probably go see what that’s about.” You nodded, trying not to look as disappointed as you felt. But before he stood, Jeremy squeezed your hand. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“Okay.”
You watched Jeremy disappear into the crowd, your heart still hammering from the way he had just looked at you, the way his fingers had lingered, the way his voice had turned soft and warm like you were the only person that mattered.
The hoodie still smelled like him. That stupid, wonderful mix of cologne and something distinctly Jeremy. You curled further into it, biting your lip to keep from smiling too much.
“Hey, you.”
The voice was familiar, slightly slurred, and way too close for comfort. You knew Matt was drunk before he even sat down next to you. He plopped down on the stone bench, his blue eyes glassy and unfocused. The scent of beer clung to him.
“Hey, Matt. What’s up?” You smiled at his state, knowing he didn’t usually get this drunk at parties. He was usually the DD. It was good for him to have some fun once in a while.
“You’re cute, you know that?” he murmured, his breath tinged with booze.
Your stomach twisted. Maybe he was having too much fun.
“Matt, you’re drunk,” you said lightly, shifting away, but his arm wrapped around the back of your shoulders lazily.
“‘M not that drunk,” he mumbled, a grin on his face.
Matt wasn’t usually like this. Sure, he could be flirty, but it was always in a friendly, harmless way. But this? The way his knee knocked against yours, the way his arm stretched out behind you, the way his words were just a little too slow and a little too bold? This wasn’t Matt.
You glanced around, hoping to see someone you knew nearby, but the party was still in full swing, and no one was paying attention. Even the couple across the fire from you were sucking faces.
“I mean it,” Matt continued, his voice dipping lower. “You look… really good.”
He reached out, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Jeremy’s hoodie. “Even in this thing. What, Gilbert let you steal his clothes now?” He smirked. “Kinda cute, actually.”
You swallowed, resisting the urge to shrink back. “Yeah, well… I was cold.”
Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need his hoodie. I’d keep you warm if you’d asked.”
This was wrong. You weren’t scared, exactly, but you were uncomfortable. This wasn’t the Matt you knew—this was just the alcohol talking. But that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
You tensed, every instinct telling you to leave—
And then, suddenly, Matt was gone.
You barely had time to register that Jeremy’s hand was fisted in Matt’s shirt, yanking him off the bench.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jeremy’s voice was low but furious.
Matt stumbled, blinking up at him in hazy confusion. “Dude—what?”
Jeremy shoved him back, not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough. “Back off.”
Matt scoffed, swaying slightly. “Relax, man, we were just—”
“No,” Jeremy’s body tensed up immediately. His jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists, clearly trying to contain himself. His gaze hardened as he stepped forward, eyes locking with Matt's. The tension in the air thickened, and his voice cut through it like a knife when he spoke to Matt. “You’re drunk, getting in her space, and not taking the hint.” His entire body was radiating anger. “So I’ll say it again—back off.”
Matt let out an annoyed huff, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Whatever.”
Jeremy didn’t move until Matt turned and disappeared into the crowd. Only then did he let out a slow breath, his hands still clenched into fists.
You were still frozen in place, heart racing—not from Matt anymore, but from Jeremy.
The look in his eyes when he turned to you wasn’t just frustration. It was something deeper. Something messy.
“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Jeremy exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“I was fine,” you attempted to reassure him.
Jeremy gave you a look, and you sighed.
“Okay, maybe not totally fine,” you admitted.
His lips pressed into a thin line. He was still pissed—you could see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept flexing his fingers like he was forcing himself to relax.
And yet, beneath all of that, there was something else.
Something that made your stomach flutter.
You tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie, still wrapped around you, trying to ground yourself. Jeremy only shook his head, running a hand over his face. “C’mon,” he muttered, turning toward the edge of the property. “Let’s get out of here.”
The walk away from the party was quiet.
Jeremy still looked tense, his gaze fixed ahead, hands shoved deep into his pockets. You wondered if he was replaying what had happened—if he was still fighting the urge to go back and deck Matt for good measure.
You hesitated, then stepped closer, bumping your arm lightly against his. “You don’t have to be so mad.”
Jeremy let out a breath through his nose but stayed quiet. Your heart did a stupid little flip. You stopped walking, grabbing his wrist to stop him. “Jeremy.”
He sighed, finally looking at you, his expression softer now, but conflicted.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence between you two, stretching out like a wall you’re not sure how to break through. Then, his eyes met yours. There’s a softness in them; a crack in his usually guarded exterior. He opens his mouth, and his voice comes out quieter than you expected, barely above a whisper. “I don’t like seeing guys act like that with you.” The admission, so raw and unguarded, catches you off guard. It’s a side of him you didn’t expect, vulnerable and honest in a way he hadn’t been before.
Jeremy quickly looked away again, staring down at the pavement like he regretted saying anything.
Silence stretched between you.
You bit your lip, warmth curling in your chest.
“You know,” you mused, voice teasing but gentle, “for someone who keeps trying to hide his feelings, you’re really bad at it.”
Jeremy huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
This time, you definitely caught the faintest hint of a smile before he ducked his head, his ears just barely tinged pink.
“Just shut up and keep walking,” he muttered.
You grinned.
And you did.
The quiet walk away from the party took you back to Jeremy’s house, neither of you speaking much.
Jeremy’s hands were still shoved in his pockets, his jaw tight. But the tension between you hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had shifted—turning into something heavier. Something unspoken.
By the time you reached the Gilbert house, the air between you was thick with it.
Jeremy pushed open the front door, stepping inside first. The house was dark and silent—Elena must not be home yet.
You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly unsure. “I should probably—”
“Stay.”
Jeremy’s voice was quiet, but firm.
Your heart skipped.
He turned to look at you, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. “Just for a little while.”
You swallowed, stepping inside. Jeremy shut the door behind you.
The air felt different in here; warmer, heavier. Maybe it was just because the outside chill had faded. Maybe it was because your heart was racing.
Jeremy let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck before looking at you again. His eyes flickered down—just briefly—to where his hoodie still hung loosely on your frame.
You hugged it closer, suddenly hyper-aware of how it smelled like him.
“You want something to drink?” Jeremy asked, his voice rougher than before.
You shook your head. “I’m okay.”
Silence stretched between you again.
You knew you should say something light, something normal, to break the tension, but your brain wasn’t cooperating.
Because Jeremy was looking at you like that again.
Like he was fighting something.
Like he was dangerously close to losing.
Your pulse jumped.
Jeremy exhaled sharply and turned away, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t let guys talk to you like that,” he muttered, his voice tighter than before.
“I didn’t let Matt do anything,” you pointed out, watching him carefully.
Jeremy huffed. “I know. I just…” His shoulders tensed, his hands clenching at his sides. “It pissed me off.”
You swallowed. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Jeremy let out a breath through his nose. “I don’t want guys thinking they can just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t want him thinking that.”
The air felt impossibly thick.
You took a cautious step closer. “Jeremy.”
He turned, eyes locking onto yours, and that was when you saw it.
The frustration, the tension, the lingering anger from earlier. But mostly, you saw how much he wanted you.
Something in your chest tightened.
You barely had time to process it before he was suddenly right in front of you, his fingers brushing the hem of his hoodie where it hung loosely over your thighs.
“Looks better on you than it does on me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your pulse quickening. “You said that already.”
His fingers curled into the fabric, his proximity almost overwhelming. You could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering hint of beer from the party.
His eyes flickered down to your lips.
Your breath hitched.
And then—finally—his lips were on yours.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.
It was heat and frustration, all the pent-up feelings spilling over in an instant.
His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as he pressed you back against the hallway wall. You barely had time to react before he was crowding into your space, his body pressing against yours.
You tangled your fingers into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, as his groan vibrated against your lips. His grip on your waist tightened like he was afraid to let go, his desperation evident.
Maybe he needed to prove something to himself.
Maybe he needed to prove that you were his.
Maybe he was done pretending otherwise.
Your heart hammered, and a warmth bloomed deep in your stomach as you kissed him back, eager, breathless.
Jeremy finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was dark and intense, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice rough.
You swallowed, your breath still unsteady. “About what?”
His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer.
“About not wanting other guys to think they can have you.”
A shiver ran down your spine, but you refused to look away, locking eyes with him as you bit your lip.
“And what if I don’t want them?” you teased, voice barely a whisper, daring him.
His eyes flickered, his fingers tilting your chin upward as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.
“Then you should probably tell me who you do want,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped, your heart thudding in your chest as you met his gaze, your voice low, barely a whisper.
“You.”
Jeremy’s eyes darken and his hands move to your waist, lifting you effortlessly. You gasp into the kiss as your feet leave the ground, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. The motion is quick, almost instinctual, and you can't help but wrap your arms around his neck, holding on as he walks toward the stairs. His lips trail down to your jaw, kissing you in soft, heated bursts as he ascends, each step a reminder that this is real, that you’re here in his arms.
The warmth of his body against yours, the feeling of his lips moving against your skin, it makes everything else feel distant, like nothing else matters but the two of you. His lips press against your neck, and the sensation sends a shiver through your spine, your heart pounding in your chest.
By the time you reach the top of the stairs, his lips are back on yours, hungry but still gentle. He turns and kicks the door open to his room with his foot, never breaking the kiss. You feel the soft cotton of his hoodie wrap around you more securely as he carries you over the threshold and toward his bed.
As he reaches the edge of the bed, he gently lowers you onto the soft blankets, his lips lingering against yours for just a moment longer before he pulls back. His hands slide to your waist, making sure you're settled comfortably. The bed creaks slightly under your weight, but you hardly notice, lost in the depth of his gaze as he looks down at you, eyes dark with desire, but softened by something tender.
He hovers above you, his thumb brushing along your cheek as he leans down and kisses you again, slower this time, savoring every moment. His voice is barely a whisper, heavy with emotion, "I’ve wanted this... you, for so long."
His hands slid under the hem of the hoodie he’d given you, brushing the bare skin of your back, sending a shiver down your spine. You barely had time to react before he was kissing you again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Like he wasn’t just proving a point anymore. He was making a promise.
Jeremy’s hands were everywhere, his lips trailing down your jaw, kissing the side of your neck as if he were trying to memorize you, claim you in the most intimate way. Every touch sent a spark through your body, every kiss deepening the hunger you felt, the desire you’d never been able to name.
“Jer,” you breathed, your voice trembling.
Jeremy pulled back slightly. His lips moved down your neck, a trail of heat in their wake, and you shivered under his touch. His hands roamed lower, brushing below the waistline of your jeans, his touch careful, testing how far you were willing to go.
The tension was unbearable, but neither of you wanted to break it.
"Jeremy," you whispered again, your voice a mix of desire and hesitation.
He pulled back slightly, his lips just a breath away from yours. His gaze was dark, his pupils dilated as if he were barely holding on. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice strained.
You met his eyes, heart pounding in your chest. “Are you?” you whispered, grinning up at him.
Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of vulnerability—you both knew there was no turning back.
"Yeah," he breathed, his hands pulling you closer. "I’m sure."
You didn’t want to stop.
The world around you faded away as your lips met his again, desperate, fervent, as if this was the only thing that mattered. The kiss is deeper, pulling you closer as his tongue gently brushes against your lips. You don’t hesitate to respond, your breath mingling with his as his kiss grows more insistent, coaxing you into the moment. His tongue moves slowly, carefully, exploring.
The air between you is thick with desire, charged with something neither of you wanted to deny. Slowly, his shirt tugged up and was pulled over his head, and you could feel the warmth of his chest press against you. He pulled away slightly, his breath heavy as he looked at you—his lips swollen from the intensity of your kiss.
His hands slide up your back, this time pushing the hoodie off your shoulders, and it falls to the floor without either of you acknowledging it. His lips moved back down your neck, each kiss leaving a mark, a promise that you would both carry with you.
"God, you're killing me," Jeremy murmured, his voice strained with barely restrained desire.
Your heart thundered, and you leaned forward, capturing his lips with your own, placing your hands on both sides of his face.
You could feel the intensity building, each movement more frantic as you tried to pull him closer, your fingers trailing down his chest. Jeremy’s hands roamed lower, his touch teasing, brushing against the waistband of your jeans before his lips moved to your collarbone, kissing with intent, leaving marks.
But then—
You both froze.
The sound of the front door closing downstairs reached you, followed by the muffled sound of voices.
Jeremy tensed immediately, his breath catching in his throat. You pulled back slightly, eyes darting to the door as the voices filtered up the stairs.
“Do you hear that?” Jeremy muttered, his voice thick with frustration.
You nodded, feeling the pressure of the moment slip through your fingers. His hands slowly dropped from your waist, and the tension between you thickened.
“My sister’s home,” he murmured, his voice tight. “I don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you could feel his hesitation, his conflict.
You stayed silent for a beat, just staring at him, chest still rising and falling with every breath. His gaze flickered between you and the door, but he didn’t move closer. He stayed a respectful distance away, the space between you now thick with unspoken words.
“I don’t want this to end,” you whispered, your hand brushing his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.
He glanced down at your hand, then back up at you. “Me either,” he confessed, his voice soft but rough.
But the distance between you both lingered, the moment shifting as reality encroached once again. You smiled softly, your fingers brushing his jaw as you locked eyes with him.
Jeremy let out a frustrated sigh, resting his forehead against yours for a second before reluctantly pulling away. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn't ready to let go.
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lingering ache of want as you tried to sit up. "I should probably go," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Jeremy's hand caught yours before you could move. "Wait," he said softly, his fingers tightening around yours. His eyes, still dark with unspoken emotions, searched yours. "Stay. Just for a little while."
You hesitated, heart hammering as you looked at him. His shirt was still off, his hair messily tousled from your hands, lips swollen from your kisses. But beneath all of that, there was something deeper in his gaze, something raw, pleading.
Wordlessly, you nodded.
Jeremy exhaled, as if relieved, and gently pulled you back onto the bed. He wrapped an arm around you, tucking you close against him, his bare skin warm against yours. His heartbeat was steady now, a comforting rhythm beneath your palm as your fingers traced lazy circles over his chest.
Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.
His fingers skimmed up and down your back, slow and soothing, as your body relaxed against him. The tension from before still lingered in the air, but now it was softer, quieter. You felt the weight of his arm drape over your waist, pulling you just a little closer.
Eventually, your breathing evened out, your body melting into his warmth. Jeremy felt it happen, the moment you gave in, the way your grip on him loosened as sleep took over.
He didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the moment.
Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, holding you just a little tighter.
"Just for a little while," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
Masterlist | TVD Masterlist | Jeremy playlist
a/n: I literally have so many Jeremy x reader fics drafted! I want to post them all so badly <3
Likes, reblogs, and follows are never expected but greatly appreciated! These let me know I should keep on doing what I’m doing! (:
Taglist: @imanewsoul @s0urw00lf
Let me know if you would like to be added to a taglist <3
Summary: Kol & you are secrelty married since the 18the century. Something your brothers are not aware of. During completing the map to Silas, you join a masquerade ball taking Rebekah as your plus one. Unaware that your husband is undaggered and his sister had been keeping it from you till tonight.
“Kol!” You called out as he pulled you along. Pulling you away from under the archway, back into the rain. Moving a hand over your head, you tried to minimize the wetness, even though it was useless. Kol chuckling, tugging more at your hand to follow. “Where…where are we going?” Questioning as you lowered your hand to pick up pieces of your dress.
Not wanting to trip over it. Water splashing up from the puddles, you ran through. The cobblestone making your balance a bit wobbly. Luckily Kol had a tight grip on you. “Your family might wonder…” You began.
“Let them!” Kol cut in. Not caring a bit. Not that they would care that he had slipped away from the gathering with you. No one would probably look for him.
Leading you through the streets, avoiding any approaching carriages. Huffing and puffing loud, he quickened up his pace. Suit drenched. “Come on Y/n!” Calling out under the nightly sky. Laughing loud, you followed easily.
With any adventure he went through, you followed. You furrowed your brows as he ran up to a little cottage. A side-building close to the church. Kol pulled you under the little archway above the door.
Panting loudly, pulling you close to his chest. Moving some wet hair of yours away. “What are we doing here?” You asked. Kol shook his head, to get rid of the wetness in his hair. Making you laugh loud, hands up to shield you from his droplets.
He breathed out a laugh, moving his palm up to your cheek. Kissing you deeply. Breaking the kiss off, he moved his arm around you. You held on tight to him. Looking shocked up at Kol when he knocked on the door. “What are you…” Muttering the words out with a tug on his suit. He only chuckled, knocking some more.
It took a while for the door to open. An elderly man opened the door. From his attire, it was clear he was the vicar. “Kol…” You whispered out, tugging more on his shirt. Kol moved your hand down, keeping his attention on the man.
“Please may we find shelter from the rain…our carriage has broken down a few streets away.” Kol clearly lied. With your eyes you tried to signal to him that he was asking entrance to a saint’s home. Knowing vampires and faith didn’t go together.
The man mumbled a bit, stroking his chin. “Please…we have no place to stay.” Kol acted further. It kind of surprised you how convincing he could be without persuading the vicar. The man moved his head a bit further out of the door, looking up at the sky.
Hearing a soft rumble in the distance. “Alright, alright, come in before you catch the cold.” Moving aside to let you pass. Kol bowed his head to the man, taking your hand firmly. Taking a careful step forwards. Feeling no restrictions, he easily stepped over the entrance.
Taking you along. The vicar showed you to the gathering room. You came sitting by the fireplace. Kol kissed your hand. Asking the vicar if he could assist. The vicar nodded, signalling him over. Kol followed him to a back room. Holding his arms out as the vicar took out some blankets.
“I can’t thank you enough.” Kol thanked the man. “We were on our way to be wed tomorrow, but the weather made our carriage break down.” Kol filled further in. “Oh.” The vicar said curiously. Kol came leaning closer to the man.
“Say…can…can you perhaps wed us? You can conduct the ceremony can’t you? If it is today or tomorrow, the only change is the date.” He finished with his charm and wits. The man gawked a bit curious at him. “Did…did you not have arrangements yet?” He asked.
Kol shook his head as the man picked up the candle holder. “Our families are too occupied.” Kol said with some bitterness. Not that he wanted them around anyways. “Apologies, young chap.” The vicar responded with a pat on his back.
“If…if you truly wish…I can wed you under this night.” The vicar declared. “I wish.” Kol spoke back. Returning alone as the vicar went to fetch the preparations. With furrowed brows you stared at Kol. He took a blanket, laying it over your shoulders.
Kol swallowed softly when you pulled him down by his shirt. “Please tell me you didn’t feed on the vicar.” Keeping your voice low. Kol puffed loud. “Don’t you know me Y/n.” Was his response. “That is what concerns me.” Was yours, playfully pushing his face away by his cheek. Kol lowered himself to you. “Today will be a special day, my love. Remember it forever.”
Your eyes widened when the vicar returned in a new attire. Gesturing for you and Kol to kneel before him. Confused, you followed Kol’s movement. Facing him, holding hands. The vicar held his hand out above your hands.
Speaking the words of the ceremony as it got to you. Giving him an act of your eyes for being so sneaky and adorable. The vicar gestured at the both of you. “I Kol Mikaelson accept Y/n Salvatore as my lawful wife." He spoke.
The vicar then gestured at you. “I Y/n Salvatore accept Kol Mikaelson as my lawful husband.” You spoke, feeling him squeeze your hands softly. Both of you drank from the same cup. Arms wrapped around each other. With the final words of the vicar, the union was bound. Under the watchful eye of saints.
The memory faded to the back of your mind. Surrounded by the chattering sounds of voices. Making you blink a few times to bring yourself fully back to the present. Turning your head, to engage yourself back in the conversation.
Looking at your brothers, trying to fill in the gaps you had missed. Damon nudged you, giving you a brief look with the intention to ask if you were alright. You nodded in return with a smile. Filling the gaps, you quickly understood they were talking about the masqueraded ball.
Discussing their game plan to complete the map to Silas. There was a pause in the talking when both Stefan and Damon looked at you. “What?” You asked. They shared a glance before looking back at you. Then it hit you. “If you wonder who should be my plus one between the both of you don’t.” You replied.
“Sister it is not that we…” Stefan began, you silenced him by holding your hand up. “I was thinking about going with Rebekah anyways.” Explaining more. “Why her?” Damon asked with a pulled up nose. It made you roll your eyes back at him.
“Because I like her.” You said back. “It’s not because you dated a Mikaelson a few centuries ago, you still need to be attached to them.” Stefan explained more. “Which I never agreed to.” Damon pitched in, still disliking your choice in men. You rolled your eyes at them. If only they knew he was not only once your boyfriend but your husband up till this day.
Shrugging your shoulders, you didn’t wish to discuss it more. “It will be fun. Why don’t you two bicker about asking Elena.” Tossing a taunt at them. Both of them glared at you, then at each other. Laughing a bit, you took your leave.
Sighing softly, you quirked your eyebrow up at Rebekah through the mirror. “Do a twirl.” She let out, swirling her finger around. Sighing again, you opened your hands. Taking a slow turn just to please her. “Try enjoying it.” Rebekah chuckled out simply to tease you.
“This is pointless. I’m not going to dance anyways.” You told her. Rebekah got up, plucking a bit at your dress. “Still that doesn’t take away you should look smoking hot.” Her comment made you give her a little shove.
“Besides, who knows what the night might bring?” Locking her arm with you. “I’m not going for a one night.” Making it clear to her as you took your mask. “I wasn’t thinking about that.” She responded, putting on her own mask. “I was just saying.”
Something about her attitude made you question her. Feeling as if she was hiding something from you. Clearly when she was finding herself so amusing. Arm in arm, the two of you went outside. Picked up by your brothers to go to the masquerade ball.
Arriving in little time as you just wanted it to be over. Nothing seemed exciting since Kol had been daggered for the numerous times you couldn’t keep count. Far too long you had needed to miss him. The last time you saw him, cars were just being invented.
Taking Rebekah’s arm, you immediately pointed her to the bar. “I need a drink, instantly.” Calling out. “Be careful.” Damon shouted back at you before you disappeared into the crowd.
You pulled Rebekah with you to the bar. Ordering an immediate drink. Keeping your gaze on the bar, you drummed your fingers impatient on the wood. “If I have to endure this night wasted, I so will.” You told Rebekah, looking at your left to where she stood.
Rebekah hummed, trying to hide a smile. It made you look confused and silly back at her. Wondering what she had drunk before this to be this strange. “Excuse me, my lady, May I have a dance?” A man’s voice came through, approaching you.
Already groaning loud, you were ready to shout at the man. Turning your posture, your words were swallowed back in. Staring in shock at Kol. Gawking at him with such surprise it was a sight. “Well, aren't you going to greet your husband?” Kol let out with a smirk. “Kol!” You exclaimed, jumping in his arms.
Touching him around to be sure he was truly here. “How…how did you…when…?” Too speechless to utter a proper sentence. Kol chuckled, looking over his shoulder to his sister. Rebekah curtsied at him. “I…I don’t…how…are you…how…?” Remaining speechless.
Kol pulled your hands down, cupping your cheeks. “I’m here to stay my love.” He answered. Instantly you smiled, throwing yourself at him. Kissing him repeatedly. Tears rolling down your cheek, trying to wipe them away in a desperate attempt.
“I’ve missed you so, so, so much.” Confessing. Kol took your hand to kiss it. “I did too…I missed everything about you. I never wanted to go, but Klaus…” Feeling the bitterness in his voice. Shushing him, you didn’t want this to be ruined by bitterness. “I’ll gladly accept your dance.”
Kol smiled, giving you one more kiss. Leading you to the dancefloor to share a dance. Making sure your brothers noticed. Throwing them a smirk and wrapping his arms tightly around you.
Taunting with them that he was back and would cling to you as much as possible. Annoy your brothers to his delight, but most of all he loved being with you again.
synopsis: You loved Stefan. Why else would date him and stay by his side for years? But even if both of you were vampires (and you were the more dominant in bed), you loved pushing his buttons. And loved the monster he kept on a tight leash.
WARNING:
18+ SMUT AHEAD
Everyone in Mystic Falls assumed you were the one in charge between you and Stefan. You were louder, brasher, and quicker to grab what you wanted. You didn’t hide the fact that you were the one who usually pressed Stefan against the wall, who left him trembling from your bite. The town whispered about the two of you, but the verdict was always the same.
You’re the top and Stefan’s the pretty bottom who let you have your way.
Which was true.
Most of the time.
That’s exactly why you loved pushing him. Because nothing was sweeter than when Stefan’s self control cracked, and he showed you just how dangerous he could be.
Tonight, you’d been insufferable on purpose. Ignoring his advice on hunting, spending unnecessary time with Damon , even taunting him about how restrained he was. By the time the two of you were alone, Stefan’s patience had evaporated.
“Enough.” he snapped, slamming you against the wall with speed, his forearm pressed to your chest. His green eyes were now black with veins snaking under them. You smirked, fangs sliding down in challenge.
“What’s wrong, babe? Finally gonna admit I get under your skin?”
Stefan’s lips curled but not in amusement. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You want me to break. You want me to show you I can tame you.”
Your smirk grew larger. “Maybe I do.”
That was all it took. In a blur, Stefan’s hand closed around your throat, slamming you harder into the wall. His fangs grazed your jaw but didn't bite. “You forget,” Stefan growled, pressing a thigh between yours, “I’m not some human you can toy with. I can put you on your knees before you even think to blink.”
Your instincts roared to fight back, but, God, the look in his eyes, the raw claiming in his voice, had you standing still. “Do it then. Show me what happens when you actually grow a spine.”
Stefan didn’t hesitate.
His hand tightened just enough to make your breath catch. You could feel every flex of muscle, every pulse of hunger trembling through him.
“On your knees.” he ordered, voice low and ruined.
However, you didn’t move an inch. So Stefan forced you on your knees. “There we go. Was wondering when the real you would show up.”
Stefan yanked your head back by your hair and kissed you. Hard, sloppy, fangs dragging your lower lip until you tasted blood. His bloodlust hit like fire, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as he shoved you further between his thighs.
“No talking,” he growled. “You’ve done enough of that tonight.”
Your laugh vibrated against his skin, and he groaned, irritation and desire tangled into something explosive. Taking pity on him, you unbuttoned his jeans and dragged them down his legs, your tongue trailing down the inside of his thigh. Stefan’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in your hair as you nipped at the muscle there, close but not where he wanted.
“You’re still testing me. Even now.”
You looked up at him from your knees, lips parted, pupils blown wide. “Maybe I like seeing how long it takes before you break.”
Stefan pulled your head back, making your spine make an exquisite arch. “Open.” and you did.
His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking once, before he guided your mouth onto his dick. The first sound he made was a groan, something deep and involuntary, his hips jerking despite his effort to stay composed. Your hands slid up his thighs. You hollowed your cheeks, took him deeper, and Stefan’s head dropped back, eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck—” He caught himself, jaw tightening as he forced his gaze back down to you, watching every movement. “God, you look so—”
You smirked (or at least tried), but it seemed Stefan got the message as he let out a growl that vibrated through the room. Grabbing your hair, he thrust into your mouth with the kind of pace that said you started the fire and he was going to burn you with it.
Your eyes watered. Your nails dug into his hips. You moaned around him and he shuddered. Just when the tension in his grip shifted, just when you felt the tremor that meant he was close, Stefan yanked you up by your hair, dragging you to your feet and threw you onto the bed.
You bounced, breath knocking out of your chest, and barely had a second to compose yourself before he was on top of you, lips crashing into yours.
"You want me to grow a spine?" He whispered, ripping your shirt in half like it was tissue before doing the same to your pants and underwear. "You'll beg for mercy before I'm done."
He grabbed your hips and dragged you flush against him, your back arching instinctively. His claws of restraint were gone. Every muscle in his body was coiled, trembling with the effort not to simply tear you apart with hunger and want.
You laughed. Breathless, dizzy and already half gone.
“I’d like to see you try—”
He thrust into you in one sharp, overwhelming push that stole the rest of the sentence from your lungs. Your head fell back, mouth open, a broken sound caught in your throat.
“Still talking,” Stefan snarled, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand like it required no effort at all. “Still running your mouth.”
You clenched around him, voice wrecked. “You—love—it.”
His eyes went black. “I love shutting you up.”
He snapped his hips forward and you swore the world went white at the edges. Stefan wasn’t gentle not even close. He drove into you with the kind of rhythm that said he had held back for weeks, letting you push and tease and needle him just to see how far you’d go.
Now you knew.
Your back scraped the sheets with each thrust, your legs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper. Your fangs grazed his shoulder in a wild attempt to ground yourself. “Look at you. Falling apart because I’m finally giving you what you fucking wanted.”
You tugged at his trapped hand, desperate to touch him. “Stefan—”
“Beg.”
Your body reacted before your pride did. Hips rolling up to meet him, back arching, breath shaking apart into a helpless moan. He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours, his lips brushing your mouth but not kissing.
“Say it. Say you want me. Say you need me. Say I’m the one who breaks you.”
The words lodged in your throat. Not because they weren’t true, but because they were. And Stefan knew it. Your voice came out rough, trembling, no arrogance left to hide behind.
“Stefan, please.”
His expression changed. Something bright and devastating flashed across his face. “There he is,” Stefan whispered. “My beautiful ruin.”
Then he bit.
His fangs sank into your neck and your body shattered around him. You came with a gasp that sounded like surrender and victory all at once, your fingers clawing at his back, holding him in as he pinned you down and fucked you through the aftermath.
He followed seconds later, groaning into your throat, his grip on your wrists loosening. The room fell quiet except for the sound of your breathing. And then, Stefan softened.
His lips brushed the bite mark he’d made, slow and careful. His eyes shifted back to warm green. His hand released your wrists only to lace his fingers with yours. “You okay?”
You let out a tired, dazed laugh. “There he is. My sweet boy.”
Stefan’s mouth curved, small and shy. “You push me on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re going to do it again.”
“Of course.”
Stefan sighed, exasperated and hopelessly in love, before putting his forehead against yours. “God help me.”
summary. you want to read, and kai wants your attention. only one of you can get what you want, and kai always gets what he wants (0.9k)
warnings. fluff, swearing, mentions of the prison world and brief mention of death / murder
divider credits. @cafekitsune
Kai was overwhelmed with irritation, he wasn’t asking for much at all, simply some attention would suffice. He was sulking, his arms crossed as he glowered with a newfound hatred upon his face at those damning pages that you flicked through, all of your focus dispersed onto those printed words. It was even a grimoire for crying out loud, just some young adult fantasy novel that had you leaning on the edge of your seat beside him from the suspense.
None of the mythology would be correct, the heretic knew that and he hadn’t even skimmed a singular line with his leering grey eyes. He couldn’t comprehend why you would want to read something that contained such false nonsense when your life together was practically the same thing. There was fantasy, there was death and there was romance. It could be called The Vampire Diaries or some shit if it was fiction.
You lived a life that readers craved, and here you were ignoring the reality that surrounded you for wanton abandon of an author’s realm, held together by a spine that could break much more easily than that of a human. Kai released an audible sigh that filled the room, half expecting you to look up, but you did no such thing, happily entertained despite your ignorance of him.
“Y/nnnn.” He called to you, his voice loud and exaggerated although he was only inches away from your curled up legs on the couch. His annoyance was rising to a level that he had not experienced in a large amount of time, he could leave the apartment and return with a newly drained corpse to gain your undivided attention, but then you would be livid with him, and he would be doomed to sleep alone in the living room.
“Hm?” That was your reply. No words, just a sound that infuriated the Gemini Leader into a wave of mental madness. He leaned in close to you, shuffling along the couch so that he could rest his head against your shoulder, bringing a small smile to prohibit onto your features. Kai went to grab your hand, having the intent to bring it onto his hair so that you would mindlessly play with his brown locks. He always liked that.
As his skin touched that of your hand, instead of allowing your boyfriend to guide it to the destination that he sought, you swatted it away, returning your fingers to the outer cover of the book that held your undivided fixation. He loved that you had hobbies, he really did, however he liked it sufficiently less when they intervened with his craving to be close to you. “Y/n!” Kai gasped, offended by your rejection to appease his needs.
You fucking huffed at him, placing your bookmark to rest against the unfinished page as you snapped the object shut rather aggressively. “Can I help you Malachai?” Shit. Your needy boyfriend had pissed you off, and you were making him aware of it by using that name. He gritted his teeth, withholding some of the things that he could say so that the occurrence of a small couple argument would not arise. Kai loathed those, he’d had plenty with himself when he was trapped in the solitary prison world for stretching years.
“Love me.” It was an order, and you glanced down to where his head was rested on your shoulder, quirking a brow. Kai was looking defiantly up at you, the lines between his brows growing as his eyes silently pleaded with you. Those troublesome grey orbs always seemed to get you, reeling you into their inescapable depths as though he were compelling you, although he wasn’t - he never would.
They were the attribute that had first made you curious, his eyes held so many emotions, some maniacal of course. But there was a looming sadness that had been conjured within them, a distraught flicker of his past always resonating in those trauma induced pools. “I do love you.” You softly confirmed to him, knowing that sometimes, more often than not, Kai was hit with an unrelenting force to feel secure in his position of life and with other people.
“Good.” Kai mumbled into the crook between your shoulder and the beginning of your neck, placing a firm and meaningful kiss on your flesh. “Will you give me my attention now?” You pretended to think on it, putting on the act of having an internal debate with yourself over the matter by placing one of your index fingers onto your chin. There was no denying him when he was so adorable, however he did not give you the opportunity to make up your mind on the faux decision, for he raised his ring adorned hand and uttered a spell. “Motus.”
The book that had stolen all of the attention that was intended for Kai went soaring like a bird through the room, tumbling to the carpet whence it crashed into the opposing wall. He wanted the scripture of a writer’s informal story to be forgotten about, for now at least. Kai desired the gentleness of your affection, more than he had ever once desired life itself. You, his personal little bookworm had given him a reason to live - a reason to love and be loved. And the heretic would be damned if he did not bask in it during each moment that he was given.
“I’m going to need you here.” Stefan points to the map as he looks at you, “Damon and I will go in, retrieve the book for Bonnie, and then we’ll be out.”
“It’s an in and out job, easy.” Damon shrugs, “What does Bonnie need this book for anyway?”
You stare at Damon, “Do you ever listen?”
“What? I’m sorry.” He smirks as he rolls his eyes, “Yes, I listen, I must have just missed-“
“It’s basically a how to kill a hybrid spell book.” Jeremy cuts Damon off. A smile grows on your face, “What are you doing here?” He shrugs as he walks over, “Bonnie called, said you guys might need some help.”
“I’m glad she did. Having two guards is better than one.” Stefan glances at you, “No offense.”
You shrug, “None taken.” You look back over at Jermey and he walks up, “So the plan is y/n and I stand guard while you guys go in? Do you think anyone will show up?”
“Hoping not. Bonnie will do the spell to allow us to pull it from its box and we’ll be out..” Stefan hums, “ten minutes tops.”
You nod, “Alright.” You take a deep breath, “Let’s do this.”
You arrive at the destination, it was almost dark out, so you were hoping this wouldn’t take long. You got out of the car, listening in for anything around and you tap the car, “All clear.”
Everyone else files out and Jermey walks up to you, “How’d you get roped into helping?”
“One of Klaus’ minions got their hands on me. Almost killed me.” You look at him and his face falls, “I’m sorry.” You shake your head, “I’m fine. I ended up getting away, but I’m sure he’s still out there.”
He nods and Damon vamps to you, “If you guys are done with the chit chat, we gotta move.”
You follow everyone into the woods, coming to a giant rock that’s sticking up out of the ground. You go to it, helping Stefan slide it off of the entrance to the tomb.
“Is that it?” Jeremy asks and you nod, “They have to climb down this ladder.” You bend down and open the hatch, “Should be down and to the left.”
Stefan looks around, “alright. Damon. Come on. Bonnie should have already done the spell by now.” You watch as they climb down into the tomb, turning to look at Jeremy, “So.”
“If you’re going to rag on me about not saying goodbye, can you do it when this is over?” He laughs and you shrug, “Who’s to say you won’t just vanish again?”
He laughs some more, a noise in the woods shutting you both up instantly.
“What was that?” You ask quietly, “No one else knows this is here.”
“Well look who we have here.”
Jeremy pulls his bow up, but the guy vamps to you, holding you in front of him, “Let her go.”
“No can do. See, you’re not the only ones who knows about this book. You think a hybrid would walk around knowing there’s a way to take him out once and for all?”
“Jeremy? What’s going on up there!?” Damon yells out and Jeremy ignores him, “I said, let her go.”
You attempt to get free, but you fail, whining as the guys hand enters through your side, “N-no. No.”
Jermey steps forward, whipping around to take out another vamp as he comes at him from behind. He spins back around and steps forward, “I said, let her go. Now.”
“I missed my chance last time. I’m not missing it again this time.” He shoves his hand deeper into your side and Jeremy yells out, “You’re going to kill her!”
“That’s the point.”
Right as he’s about to go wrist deep, you bend forward, flipping him over and you shove your hand into his chest. You drop his heart as his skin dedicates, looking over at Jeremy.
“Jer!” You vamp in front of him, gasping as you take a stake to the back. He shoots the vampire, dropping his bow to help you sit down, “hold on, hold on.” He moves behind you, “One, two-“ he yanks the stake free and you let out a scream, “Fuck!”
“What? What?” He holds your shoulder, “Y/n, what is it?”
“There’s… splinters.. “ you gasp, “I can’t- ones by my heart.”
“Fuck, Damon! Stefan!” Jeremy yells, “Help me, now!”
Stefan comes out as fast as he can, “What’s going on, what-“ his eyes move to the bloodied stake beside Jeremy, “We gotta go. We gotta go now.” He looks over at the hole, “Damon!”
Damon comes up, book in his grasp, “What- shit.” He looks around, “Come on.”
Stefan picks you up, getting you to the car. The whole way home, as Damon is driving, Stefan is digging to pull all the splinters he can from your back.
Your pained screamed fill the car, your fingers sinking hard into Jeremy’s arm, you’re sure he’ll have bruises later on.
“It’s okay.” He assures, “It’s okay.” He looks up, “Stefan, are you almost done?”
“There’s a few- goddamn it.” Stefan groans, “Almost down, just-“ he digs his hand deeper into you and you rest your head on Jeremy’s chest, “Just kill me.”
“No, we aren’t doing that.” He holds you tighter, “You’re almost done.”
Stefan digs the last splinter out of your back and he sits back, “We gotta get this book, and her, somewhere safe.”
𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚊𝚢
It’s been a few days and you’re still at Jeremy and Elena’s lake house. Stefan, Damon, and Bonnie have been trying to figure out why they’re targeting you, but as of right now, no luck.
Jeremy hasn’t left, but he’s been acting weird, which was odd because you and Jeremy were best friends. You’ve click day one and nothing has changed since that day.
It was late, two thirty six when you looked at the clock on the wall. You heard noise coming from outside, which prompted you to get up. You walked over to Jeremy’s room, but he wasn’t there.
You walked out to the living room, no sign of him.
“Jer?” You called out, wrapping your arms around yourself, “Hello?”
You walked over to the door, peaking out of the window, but no sign of him. You closed your eyes, listening in, and you heard the familiar sound of a crossbow firing.
You walk to the back, pushing the door open and walking out onto the deck. You turn to the left, slowly making your way over when you see Jeremy bring his bow up.
“Isn’t it a little late for that?” You question, catching his attention. He shakes his head, mumbling, “No.”
You furrow your brows, walking down to him, “Okay. I’ll bite.” You watch as he puts another arrow on his bow, “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I just-“ he brings his bow up, firing at a target, “Want to stay on my aim, you know?”
“That’s not what’s going on.” You tilt your head, “You’ve been weird ever since we got here, and you’re not one to be weird towards me.”
“I’m fine, y/n. Just, go back to bed.”
“No.”
“Y/n.”
“Not until you tell me why you’re out here, at two thirty in the morning practicing your aim.” You cross your arms and watch as he turns towards you. He stares at you for a few seconds before letting out a sigh.
“I feel like I almost lost you, y/n, and I’m pissed at myself because I’m the reason for it.” He shake his head, “When I was holding you in the car, listening to you scream while Stefan had his hand in your back, I felt helpless and at fault.” He huffs, “No, It was my fault, if I could have just gotten the shot off right away, you wouldn’t have had to go through any of that.”
“Jer-“
“I’m out here practicing because I don’t ever want to have to hear the person I care about most beg me to just kill them, I don’t ever want to hear you cry like that ever again. I can’t lose you, y/n. I can’t lose anyone else.”
“You’re not going to lose me.” You walk towards him and he shakes his head, “I don’t want to. So that’s why I’m out here, so I can-” He pauses, his eyes moving down to yours.
You furrow your brows, “so you can what?”
He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching your face, “I can protect the love of my life.” He leans in, closing the space by pressing his lips to yours. He pulls away slightly, “I may or may not be secretly in love with you, y/n.”
You slide your hands up to his neck, “Look at that..” you smile, “I feel the same way about you, Jeremy Gilbert.” You pull him back in and he wraps his arm around your waist, his other hand moving to grip your thigh.
He carries you inside, making his way back to his room with you kissing down his neck. He spins around, closing the door before pressing your back to it, “I’ve waited what feels like forever to hear that.”
His lips connect to yours and you tilt your head back as he makes his way down your neck. He pulls away from the door, moving to lay you down on the bed.
He sits up, pulling his sweatshirt off of his body before tossing it. You sit up to pull yours off yours, leaning in to kiss up his abdomen before lying back.
He falls forward, holding himself up with a smirk before he presses his lips to yours. You gasp as he grinds against you, tilting your head back as you breathe out, “Please, Jer. I need you.”
He moves his hand down, kissing down your neck as he slips his fingers into the band of your sweats. You moan out quietly as his fingers press to yours clothed clit, bucking your hips as he draws circles on it.
He smirks, pressing a kiss to yours cheek as his fingers slip into your panties, “Look at that.” He whispers, “You’re already so wet.”
You turn your head, crashing your lips onto his, “You just look so good confessing your love for me.”
“Oh, so it wasn’t the crossbow?” He chuckles, brows raising as he watches your face twist with pleasure as he slips two of his fingers into you. You gasp out, “That, too.” You reach up, holding his face with your hands as you pull him back in for another kiss.
He slips his hand out, moving to sit up to push his sweats down, and you follow his action. You kick yours off your legs and bite your lip as your eyes trail down his body, landing on what you need most. You sit up, vamping him over to lay down and you straddle him.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he admires your body on his, “I forget how fast you are sometimes.”
His hands grip your hips and you sink down onto his cock, gasps leaving both of your lips.
“Oh, fuck.” He breathes out, “You feel so good.”
You tilt your head, brows furrowed in pleasure as you rise up and sink back down, “Fuck, Jer.” You fall forward, hands by his head as you roll your hips back and forth.
His face twists and turns with pleasure, sliding his hand up your side to cup your cheek, “C’mere.” He pulls you down, planting his lips on yours. Your moans swap as you quicken your pace. You let out a whine as your walls clench around him, your hand sliding up to tangle your fingers into his hair.
“That’s it.” He whispers, “Fuck, baby.”
You nod, pressing kisses back his jaw line, “I love when you get all protective of me.” You nip his ear, causing him to gasp, “it’s so hot.”
His hands grip your hips tighter and he rolls over, “What can I say?” He kisses down your neck and back up, “Hate seeing other people touch my girl.”
You bite your lip, back lifting off the bed as you feel that euphoric feeling working its way in. You moan loudly, legs tightening around his waist, “Almost.. there. Fuck, yes.”
You tighten your arms around his neck, crashing your lips to his. His thrusts pick up and your moans grow louder.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He whispers, “Come for me, you got it.”
You tilt your head back, brows pulled together as become a whining mess underneath him. He kisses over your face, groaning at the feeling of you letting go around him, “Fuck, you sound so pretty.”
You lay your hand on his cheek, pressing your lips to his before you roll over, “My turn to make you cum.” You sit up, hands pressed to his abdomen as you start to bounce. His eyes trail up and down your body, stopping to stare at your face.
His lips part, moans slipping out as his fingertips dig into your thighs, “Keep- fuck, yes. Keep going, baby.”
He groans loudly as he interlocks his fingers with yours, giving them a squeeze as you roll forward and back. You tilt your head back, moaning out as you quicken your pace.
“Fuck.” Jeremy grunts, “Don’t stop.”
You lean down, pressing your lips to his and his hands slide around to your ass, gripping right as he guides you to keep going. He gasps against your lips, moaning lowly over and over again as he pushes your hips down onto him fully.
You feel his cock twitch as he coats your insides white.
“Fuck.” You breathe out, rolling over to lay next to him, “That.. that was good.” Jeremy chuckles as he pulls the blankets up, “Yeah, it kinda was, wasn’t it?” He presses a kiss to your head, “I really am going to work to protect you. I don’t want to see you get hurt ever again.”
“Getting hurt is almost inevitable, Jer.” You lay your head on his chest and he sighs, “Not if I can help it.”
content warnings; power imbalance, oral sex (receiving) dom/sub undertones, degradation (verbal + implied) obedience kink / control play, size kink, public risk (setting: frat house office) semi-nonverbal reader (overstimmed, not dubcon) mild choking / gagging (during oral), objectification, spit / fluid emphasis, light emotional manipulation, kai parker being a gross, smug perverted freak
so this was supposed to be a normal frat fic. like. normal. there were supposed to be chores. mild homoeroticism. maybe a toga. instead kai parker walked in with a neck bruise and a vendetta and decided the entire plot was gonna be "bully the dumbass frat president until he cries or cums (whichever happens first)." anyways comments & reblogs fuel my shame spiral. xo.
THE frat house had a way of trapping history in its pores, like the whole building was a damp sponge that had soaked up every bad decision and decided it was going to keep them forever; stale beer lacquered into the carpet fibers, sweat ghosting the couch cushions, a faintly metallic undertone from old keg taps and cheap coinage and the kind of nervous adrenaline that only exists in rooms where too many men try too hard to look unbothered. somebody had gone apeshit with lemon cleaner right before the meeting, too, going nuclear with the spray bottle like it was an exorcism rather than basic sanitation, and now the whole downstairs had this weird sensory dissonance, citrus brightness slicked over the underlying funk without actually neutralizing it, a smug olfactory mask over something that absolutely still needed therapy.
(it never fooled anyone. not the brothers who lived here and had watched the couch cushions gain sentience, not the pledges who pretended this was aspirational living rather than a structural cry for help, not even campus security when they did their quarterly “we’re sure there’s nothing illegal in here, right, boys?” drive-by and pretended they couldn’t hear the bass rattling the windowpanes. it was the olfactory equivalent of a fraternity apology: loud, performative, and structurally useless.)
kai was supposed to be at the frat meeting. so were you. technically. (technically you were supposed to be running it, but what the hell did that ever mean, right? you only called yourself president because no one else wanted the job—or maybe because you flexed your pecs during beer pong once and half the house just nodded solemnly and said "bro’s in charge now.") either way, it was a bunch of dudes in snapbacks talking over each other about whose turn it was to clean the basement bathroom and whether or not hosting another “toga but like sexy” counted as a theme or just an excuse. (it was always just an excuse. it was also absolutely going to violate probation, which you kept trying to explain to guys who heard the word “probation” and interpreted it as “a challenge.”)
you stood in the lounge with your clipboard like it was a badge, like paper and pen could transform a room full of men into something resembling governance. the folding chairs had been arranged in a lazy semicircle—the geometry of plausible deniability—and the brothers had melted into it with the same posture they used for football games and disciplinary hearings: spread out, too relaxed, legs wide, shoulders loose, faces arranged into expressions that said i’m listening while their eyes said i’m waiting for you to stop talking so i can resume being an inconvenience. the television was off, but the room still had that phantom blue glow of a screen that had seen too much and regretted none of it. (the secret tragedy of being frat president was that everyone acted like the title was mythological until it came time for someone else to do a chore, at which point suddenly you were the supreme court.)
“basement bathroom rotation,” you announced, leaning into that too-loud register that made your words bounce off the walls and sound confident even when your brain was buffering. “because apparently the concept of cleaning is—”
“oppressive,” someone muttered immediately, because men will call scrubbing a toilet oppression with their whole chest and then name a keg “gertrude” like they’re doing anthropology.
the room laughed, that tired communal laugh that fraternities perfected—the ritual cackle of people who cannot admit they are scared of consequences but love the idea of someone else getting them.
“—a foreign language,” you finished, mouth tightening as you scanned faces, as if your stare could manifest disinfectant. “if i find another sink full of whatever the hell that was—” you tap the clipboard for emphasis, plastic on paper making that sharp little crack that feels good, like a punctuation mark, like a gavel hit if you squint, “i’m instituting a sign-up sheet. legal names. student IDs. blood types. maybe a sworn affidavit and a notarized pledge not to vomit in the soap dispenser.”
somebody groaned, someone muttered something about fascism, someone else said “bro, you don’t even know what that means,” and you took a breath and tried not to let the room’s collective weaponized incompetence seep into your skull. you were halfway through pointing at a whiteboard when the lounge door took a hit like it had personally insulted someone; it wasn’t kicked so much as body-checked, the hinges protesting with a squeal that felt like the house itself complaining about the lack of respect.
kai parker rolled into the room like the universe had just yanked back a curtain for his entrance, and the worst part was how natural it looked on him, he didn’t knock because he didn’t believe in doors as boundaries. he believed in doors as suggestions. (kai treated rules the way some people treated speed limits: like a personal insult from the state.) he wore a threadbare tank, sleeves massacred into existence, the collar stretched low enough to show off collarbone and that dark bruise on the slope of his throat, and the bruise itself had the audacity to look pretty about it, like it was a deliberate accessory instead of the aftermath of somebody getting too enthusiastic and too close.
(you do not think about teeth; you do not think about how hard someone would’ve had to bite to make that color; you especially do not think about how your stomach does an absolutely humiliating little swoop when you imagine his face tipped back, throat bared, while someone did it.)
his hair was a mess that looked curated, his mouth already had that half-smile—a smirk that didn’t ask how are you? so much as how do you plan to survive me today? his whole presence did what it always did: rearranged the room’s oxygen, made everyone either straighten up or slouch harder, made the air feel like it had teeth. he walked in like he owned the frat house, like he paid the utilities, like the carpet stains had asked permission before they formed.
kai’s gaze found yours immediately, of course it did, because he always looked for you first, like you were the punchline he wanted to deliver personally. his eyes traveled over your face, the set of your jaw, the broad line of your shoulders in your faded frat tee, lingering half a beat too long on your chest where you were unconsciously keeping your stance wide, filling space with your body because it was easier than filling it with coherent policy explanations. he took you in the way some people looked at a puzzle they’d already solved and only kept around so they could take it apart for fun when they were bored. then his mouth twitched like he’d just tasted something interesting.
“president,” he said, dragging the word out like it was a joke he could chew on. he said your title the way some people said slurs, like a little cruelty wrapped in velvet. “sorry i’m late. got held up.”
a couple of the guys snorted, because “held up” could mean anything in this house from “couldn’t find my shoes” to “got arrested” to “got sucked off in the parking lot behind a shitty restaurant,” and kai looked like the kind of person who would commit to any of those without even wrinkling his tank top.
you cleared your throat, made your face do that expression you’d practiced in the mirror—the one that said competent authority instead of easily-distracted idiot with a crush—and tried to pretend your brain hadn’t short-circuited at the bruise and the way the tank clung to him like it hated him. “we’re talking basement bathroom rotation,” you said, forcing your voice into that steady, overly-loud frat-president register. “because apparently the concept of cleaning is—”
“still oppressive,” the same guy chimed in, and someone threw a balled-up napkin on his forehead with a soft, humiliating thwap.
kai hopped up onto the edge of the coffee table without asking, no warning, just up, like gravity had a crush on him and didn’t mind. he sat sideways, one leg hanging, the other bent so his knee pointed at you like an accusation, and he leaned back on his palms with his chest open, posture loose and languid, as if he was bored by the very idea of accountability. (he always managed to look like everyone else in the room was performing for his amusement, and the worst part was that half the room would have happily done an encore.)
his bent knee nudged against your thigh, not hard enough to count as a collision that anyone could call him on, but precise enough that every neuron in your leg lit up in recognition. the warmth of his skin through worn denim registered all at once, like your body had been waiting for the contact without your consent. you tried to shift, a subtle angle of your hips meant to reclaim a sliver of personal space, but kai matched you with the ease of someone who’d made a sport out of proximity; his knee stayed there, an unspoken insistence, a boundary he was redrawing in real time.
“wow,” he said, voice sweet with poison. “bathroom rotation. riveting. this is why i pledge every year, you know that? for the intellectual discourse.” he lifted his chin slightly, adressing the room but aimed at you; his mouth quirked further as he added, “truly a polis of the mind.”
“shut up,” you told him, which got a laugh out of the room because you were allowed to say it to him in a way nobody else was. (there were hierarchies in frat houses, and half of them made absolutely no sense until you realized most of them were built on tension you could practically taste.) you angled your body like you were trying to address the room as a whole, but really you were just attempting to get your thigh out of his gravitational field; kai shifted again, just enough that his knee stayed glued to the side of your leg. his fingers, meanwhile, drifted down from where they were braced on the table behind him, sliding along the battered wood until they reached the edge closest to you.
they didn’t stop there.
they brushed your thigh once, quick and light, like a testing touch. then again, slower, the pads of his fingers gliding over the fabric of your shorts with the same careless precision he used when he palmed cards or picked locks or messed with people’s heads. it was nothing—the kind of touch you could explain away as accidental if someone demanded an explanation. it was absolutely nothing anyone else would notice unless they were staring directly at your leg instead of, say, the ongoing argument about whether chaz was banned from hosting pre-games because he’d broken the sink that one time.
(your hand tightened on the clipboard, the edge digging into your palm hard enough to leave dents, which at least gave you something plausible to blame the flush creeping up your neck on if anyone decided to ask why the president suddenly looked like he’d just done a sprint.)
kai didn’t look at you. that was the worst part.
he kept his gaze lazily roaming the room, eyes flicking to a sophomore in a backwards cap who was trying to argue that “i threw up in the sink” was less offensive than “i missed and hit the towel basket,” his mouth still moving in some sardonic commentary while his hand made a slow, exploratory pass over your leg.
“i cannot believe,” he said, directing the sentence at the sophomore, “that you guys are still arguing about whose turn it is. just clean the bathroom. it’s not that hard. you spray, you wipe, you try to forget anything that looked sentient.”
his tone had that airy, performative reasonableness he used when he was being hypocritical on purpose, and the room snickered on reflex, which gave him perfect cover to let his fingers drift higher along your thigh. still technically innocuous, still deniable if you called him out in front of everyone, but there was intent in the slow, incremental movement, a very specific knowledge of exactly where your composure started and where it ended.
you stared straight ahead because you knew that if you turned your head even an inch you’d catch him looking at you with that too-bright, too-knowing stare and it would be game over for your whole “responsible president” persona. presidents did not get reduced to flustered animals by one guy’s hand on their leg in front of their entire chapter.
(they absolutely did, actually; they just tried to do it while still holding the clipboard and pretending the bylaws on the last page of the packet were very, very interesting.)
kai’s fingers slid higher.
not enough to be obvious, not enough to cross any line that would make the room go quiet, but enough to make your stomach drop, because he knew exactly where the line was and he loved dancing on it. the touch lingered, a slow press, the kind that said i’m doing this in public and you’re going to let me, and you could feel your pulse in your thigh like your body was tattling on you.
“parker,” you warned, voice dropping low, leaning in under the cover of a sigh that could have read as exasperation about anything from the bathroom situation to the existential crisis of your major. to anyone watching, it looked like you were about to discuss fraternity policy.
(fraternity policy, according to the very outraged spreadsheet in your head: don’t lose your shit during the meeting, don’t let kai see you unravel, and for the love of god don’t get visibly hard in front of guys who weaponize even the slightest blush into three weeks of jokes.)
he tipped his head toward you with this mock-innocent expression, wide-eyed and irritatingly angelic, the kind of expression you’d see on a stained-glass saint if the saint had been caught stealing vodka from the donations bin. “what?” he mouthed, barely moving his lips, then said louder, for the room, “i’m just trying to help. as a concerned citizen.”
“a concerned citizen,” you repeated, flattened the phrase the way you might flatten a beer can under your heel. and the words came out with that particular cadence you’d perfected, the one that sounded like a joke to everyone else but tasted like a threat on your own tongue, dry and metallic.
kai’s grin widened, slow and feline, as if your skepticism was a flavor he particularly enjoyed. “yeah,” he said, rolling the agreement lazily between his teeth. “this is a community.” his fingers flexed behind him on the coffee table, tendons shifting under the thin skin of his wrist, and he tipped his head just enough that the bruise on his throat caught the overhead light. “i care about public health. i care about sanitation. i care about you not getting stress wrinkles, president.”
he hit the title softer this time, almost gentle, like he’d wrapped it in velvet before tossing it at you. the syllables dragged out in this low, coaxing drawl that felt suspiciously like a thumb pressing into something tender. not enough pressure to do damage, just enough to remind you the bruise was there. (if kai parker had a religion, it would be the worship of pressure points; he never went for the obvious weak spots, always the ones you didn’t realize you were offering until it was too late.)
you snapped the clipboard against your palm in a sharp, percussive smack that made a few heads turn—the sting anchoring you in your body again. you dragged your gaze back to the half-circle of brothers who were now watching the two of you with the anticipatory tension of a live-streamed fight. (or porn. no one was willing to say which.) you could feel their attention sliding back and forth like a metronome: you, kai, you, kai. a tennis match of psychological edging. engagement with kai was a zero-sum game; if you gave him too much of your focus, he would take the rest without asking, and you’d come back to yourself twenty minutes later with nothing accomplished and a roomful of idiots ready to vote on whether vodka counted as a food group.
“okay,” you said, letting your voice punch just a little louder, slipping that frat-president performativity back on like armor that never quite fit right across your shoulders but at least made you look like you belonged at the front of the room. “here’s what’s happening.” you let your eyes sweep across the guys, made and held contact in that way you’d been told communicated authority in leadership seminars you’d half-slept through. “we’re doing a rotation. names are going on the board. if you miss your week, you owe a fee. if you don’t pay the fee, i’m taking your pledge paddle and using it to stir whatever swamp-mystery is forming in that shower drain.”
a wave of groans rolled through the lounge, the communal, theatrical suffering of grown men asked to encounter their own bodily byproducts in a non-celebratory context. a couple of them dropped their heads back against the couch, eyes closed like you’d suggested tearing up the charter and transforming the frat into a monastery instead of making them scrub mildew.
kai clicked his tongue once, a small, precise sound that slipped under the larger noise and landed in your ear with uncomfortable intimacy, like he’d reached over and tugged on your earlobe. “look at you,” he said, the words projected outward, toward the cluster of guys half-listening, but the weight of them settled on your skin as something personal, sharp and oddly fond. “leading. governing. bureaucratizing. you’re like… a golden statue of accountability.”
he let the metaphor hang there with an almost academic flourish, as if he’d just given a presentation in a seminar about the sociology of frat governance, except the way his mouth wrapped around golden statue made it sound like he was describing something shiny, hollow, and fuckable—was obscene. like a trophy he’d jerk off onto. like an object he’d keep just to pin it in place. (it was an insult delicately gilded enough that if you weren’t paying attention, you might actually take it as a compliment and proudly install yourself on a pedestal in the foyer; kai had that talent, weaponized ambiguity, and he liked using it on people who glowed when he looked at them.)
you forced your jaw to stay where it was instead of tightening, kept your expression neutral through sheer obstinacy, because if you gave him even a little flinch he’d squirrel it away and feed on it for weeks. “hands to yourself,” you said, each word enunciated with the narrow patience of a babysitter who’d just taken scissors away from a toddler for the third time in twenty minutes.
kai blinked, all wide-eyed innocence, lashes too long for anyone who’d set an armchair on fire once “just to see what would happen,” his head tilting a fraction as if you’d just spoken in another language. “these are my hands,” he said, tone so reasonable it could’ve been lifted from a philosophy debate, and then, without breaking eye contact, he let his fingers drift again, this time in a slower, more deliberate arc, down off the edge of the coffee table and onto your thigh.
the pad of his index finger traced the seam of your shorts where fabric met bare skin, barely any pressure, more like a cartographer outlining a border than a touch, but you felt it like a lit fuse. the movement was unhurried, almost studious, as if he were taking notes on how your quadriceps curved under the cotton. (if you’d had the vocabulary in that moment you could’ve called it a tactile ethnography; kai, conducting fieldwork in the geography of your body, discreetly fascinated by the way you tensed when he drew his finger over a particular spot.)
you tried to shift your weight in this casual, no-big-deal widening of your stance that should have created distance, angling your torso toward the whiteboard and the list of agenda items like you were just reorienting toward the real business of the night. but kai moved with you as though you’d rehearsed it together, his knee rotating toward yours, erasing the space you were attempting to reclaim. the inside of his leg brushed yours again, warmer now, the contact lingering long enough that it stopped feeling incidental and started feeling like a configuration, like the two of you had locked your bodies into some quiet axis the room turned around.
in your peripheral vision, just beyond the narrow tunnel of focus where kai’s hand and your thigh existed, you caught movement on the couch: one of the juniors leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, a slow grin spreading across his face as he elbowed the guy next to him. the second guy followed his gaze, registered your proximity to kai, and smirked too, both of them wearing the open, delighted expressions of people who had stumbled upon a wildlife documentary airing live in their own living room.
they didn’t say anything; nobody in this house was stupid enough to narrate whatever-the-fuck this dynamic was out loud when you were within throwing distance of a clipboard. (spectator sport, absolutely, but high-risk; the splash zone around you and kai included potential duty assignments, emergency sober shifts. and, in one memorable case last semester, a strongly worded email to the dean that had your name in the subject line and kai’s fingerprints all over the circumstances.)
you cleared your throat and pivoted your shoulders more decisively toward the center of the room, lifting the agenda like some flimsy ceremonial shield. the paper fluttered, the list of bullet points suddenly looking insultingly flimsy for all the chaos it was supposed to contain.
“okay,” you said, louder again, corralling the ambient noise with that practiced, slightly overbearing frat-leader energy that got people to shut up even when they didn’t technically respect you, “dues are due, the party budget is a disaster, and whoever keeps leaving protein powder in the bathroom sink needs to stop before we summon something.”
that got them. a chorus of reactions rippled through the room: exaggerated groans, a theatrical “boooo capitalism” from the guy whose parents paid his tuition in full every semester, a muttered i’m not paying to clean my own piss from the corner, and, from somewhere near the back, a very wounded “i only did it once” which did absolutely nothing to identify the protein sink saboteur because everyone here defined once differently.
closer to the tv, one of the business majors muttered that your obsession with receipts and itemized lists was “kinda fascist, bro,” which, coming from a guy whose entire personal accounting system was a shoebox of crumpled atm receipts, was almost funny. a different voice complained that you were “uptight” about the party budget, like you hadn’t personally witnessed what happened the last time you loosened the leash and let them improvise a theme; the house was still hemorrhaging glitter from “funeral glam” and you were ninety percent sure the vacuum cleaner was now haunted.
you pushed through the noise because you had to; if you let them drag you off track, even for a second, the agenda would disintegrate, and in three days someone from nationals would be on the phone demanding an explanation for why “halloween social” in the calendar had been annotated with a hand-drawn devil and the word maybe explosives?
the truth was, as much as you resented being the one who had to care, the one who kept the ledger and argued with the greek life office and pretended to understand liability, the thought of losing this place—the ugly couches, the beer-stuck floors, the sagging porch with its questionable railing—made your chest ache. somewhere between your shoulders and your sternum lived this ridiculous, dog-brained loyalty to the fraternity as a concept, and it translated naturally into you standing here, clipboard in hand, trying to keep the whole thing from collapsing under the weight of its own chaos.
kai’s fingertip made another slow, experimental pass along the seam of your shorts, this time drifting a shade higher, just enough that the touch flirted with the edge of where cotton ended and softer skin began. heat spiked across your nerves, bright and disorienting, your heart stuttering in your chest in a way that had nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with proximity and suggestion and the fundamentally unfair fact that your body responded to stimuli before your brain could veto anything.
you kept your voice steady only by brute force, cutting words out of your throat with deliberate care. “budget,” you said, like you were announcing a ruling from the bench, “is not infinite. we’re already pushing it with two socials this month and the halloween thing on top of probation, so if you idiots want a ‘toga but, like, sexy’ night, then someone’s giving up jaeger or decorations or both.”
you flipped a page on the clipboard, the gesture a little sharper than necessary, like you were trying to decapitate the argument by beheading the paper. “and no, sexy does not count as a theme,” you went on, letting the exasperation lace through with just enough humor that it didn’t quite curdle. “it never has. it never will. stop trying to brand horny as a philanthropic cause.”
that broke the tension in the room in a way that had nothing to do with the tension in your muscles. laughter rolled through the crowd, bigger and more genuine this time, some guys clapping, others pounding fists against couch cushions; frat boys loved a bit, loved being given a line to repeat later. someone shouted “put that on a shirt!” and someone else responded “we can’t, nationals will crucify us,” which only made them laugh harder. you felt your shoulders loosen a fraction, tension bleeding out just enough that you could take another breath.
unfortunately, the rest of you did not get the memo about relaxing. there was a spreading heat low in your gut, a kind of heavy, restless awareness in your own body that made your shorts feel tighter, the waistband suddenly more present than it had been five minutes ago. you shifted your stance, ostensibly to redistribute your weight, trying to angle yourself at the whiteboard so that if anyone was paying too close attention they wouldn’t catch more than you wanted them to.
beside you, kai let out a soft, almost companionable little chuckle that brushed against your ear like a warm exhale, somehow managing to sound both approving and mocking at once. his knee pressed more firmly into your thigh, anchoring you there. and you felt the subtle, unmistakable tilt of his head as he glanced down, as if casually checking your notes or the agenda, except his gaze lingered lower before sliding back up, and you knew, with a sinking, electrified certainty, that he’d clocked the way your body was betraying you.
he didn’t say anything about it; of course he didn’t, not outright. that wasn’t his style. but his mouth curled at one corner, that tiny, knowing uptick that said he’d filed this away as new data, a fresh nerve to press on later. l
“you heard him,” kai said then, addressing the room more broadly, his voice slipping into that faux-magnanimous register he used when he wanted to sound like the cool uncle or the devil on their shoulder, not the guy who provoked half the disciplinary infractions on record. “sexy is not a theme,” he repeated, letting the words roll lazily off his tongue. “it’s a lifestyle choice. and you’re all doing it wrong.”
the guys howled, a rising chorus of laughter and mock outrage, a few exaggerated boos tossed in for texture, the sound echoing weirdly off the cheap wood paneling and the badly framed posters that had come free with someone’s rolling stone subscription. someone near the back, probably still half-buzzed from the leftover keg in the kitchen, lobbed an empty at kai without even a warning shout; it spun end-over-end through the humid, lemon-and-beer-stained air like a tiny silver comet. kai didn’t bother to look. of course he didn’t. his hand just came up, smooth and unhurried, fingers closing around the can with lazy precision as if he’d known its trajectory before the guy throwing it had even made the decision.
the shift of his weight to make the catch pulled his whole body a fraction closer to you, and knee shifted when he made the catch, weight rolling inward with just enough force to press the blunt point of his kneecap firmer into your leg—except it wasn’t your leg anymore, was it? not where it was pressing. no, it was right up against where the mesh of your gym shorts had gone taut across the front, right against the hard, unwelcome bulge you’d been trying to pretend didn’t exist for the past seven minutes.
“eyes front, prez,” he murmured, voice pitched for you and only you, too low to carry but sharp enough to slice through the haze of noise. his breath didn't hit your ear, not quite, but the words landed there anyway, intimate as fingers dragging under your chin. his knee stayed exactly where it was, angled just so, not grinding, not thrusting—nothing overt enough to catch eyes—but not pulling back, either. not letting go. “they’ll think you’re not paying attention.”
(the spoiler was obvious: you weren’t. you were staring at the whiteboard like it might spontaneously combust and let you die in peace.)
you swallowed hard, mouth dry, throat catching on itself like your whole respiratory system had been reconfigured for humiliation. kai’s knee stayed exactly where it was, that soft, awful pressure against your dick—because there was no pretending anymore, not to yourself, not to him, not to the slowly grinning guys on the couch who were definitely watching too closely now.
this wasn’t flirting. this was a test. an experiment, maybe, if you wanted to make yourself feel better about the fact that you were currently semi-hard in mesh shorts during a house meeting.
he was testing how long you’d sit there, clipboard in your lap like a sacrificial shield, shoulders all squared up and presidential while your jaw slackened ever so slightly and your pupils dilated like a kid on his first cigarette. testing how much he could get away with while your cock thickened behind the thin, traitorous mesh like it was straining for parole. testing how much tension your spine could absorb before it snapped in half from trying to act like a rational, functional leader of men when your entire lower half was screaming danger and your higher functions had already abandoned ship.
(the real joke was that you were trying to look dignified in a room with a lava lamp, a half-deflated exercise ball, and a life-sized cardboard cutout of pamela anderson in the corner—none of this had ever been dignified, not from the second kai walked in with that fucking bruise on his throat like someone had sucked the color right out of him and left it to bloom like a rotting violet under his jaw.)
and kai, of course, just kept talking. he lobbed another smug line into the room about how “maybe some of us don’t need theme parties to feel sexy,” drawing another round of jeers and a loud, affectionate “shut the fuck up, parker!” from someone across the room, but he didn’t look away from you.
didn’t blink. didn’t shift. just left his knee against you like he was measuring something—pressure, proximity, pliancy. how much tension your body could hold before you broke posture. the worst part wasn’t that he was doing it. the worst part was that you weren’t stopping him.
(you could’ve leaned away. could’ve made a show of adjusting your stance, shifting your weight, standing up and demanding focus like a real president would. you could’ve said his name like a warning, not like a plea stuck in your throat. you could’ve told him to knock it the fuck off. but you didn’t. and he knew you wouldn’t. because he could feel the way your thigh was tensing under him. could feel the way your breath came just a little shallower now. could feel the heat building under that mesh barrier like your body had already made the decision for you.)
and god help you—god help your stupid, obedient, sunshine-for-brains body—you weren’t thinking about the cleaning schedule anymore. you weren’t thinking about bathroom mildew or dues or what you were going to tell nationals when someone inevitably tried to set up a stripper pole in the backyard again. you were thinking about the way that finger of his had traced the seam of your shorts earlier, slow and methodical like he was mapping it for later. you were thinking about the pressure of his knee and the smug curl of his mouth and the way he looked at you like you were something he’d already taken apart with his hands once and was wondering how long it would take to do it again.
you did not exactly make a decision so much as you reached the end of the very flimsy rope you’d been clinging to all night and your body handled the rest for you; your hand shot out, fingers curling in the front of kai’s mangled tank, knuckles brushing the warm patch of skin just above his sternum as you fisted the fabric and hauled him up off the coffee table. he made a surprised sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a protest, more like an inhale that came out crooked, and the room gave a half-hearted chorus of “ooooh”s as you pivoted, keeping your grip tight, steering him through the congested lounge like you were dragging a malfunctioning appliance down the hall to unplug it from the wall and see if that fixed the problem.
(kai, as an object: not a toaster exactly, more like a miswired arcade cabinet that occasionally zapped the people who tried to play it and somehow that only made it more popular.)
the hallway felt cooler after the humid press of the main room, the overhead fluorescents buzzing with that faint high-pitched whine cheap fixtures always had, the linoleum runner under your sneakers still tacky in certain spots from spilled beer and the failed mop job someone had sworn they’d done last week. you kept moving anyway, jaw set, your hand still tangled in his shirt, and kai let you, which was infuriating in its own way, because he moved with the loose, cooperative gait of someone indulging a tantrum rather than being forced anywhere he didn’t secretly want to go.
“you’re manhandling a brother,” he murmured as you passed the closed door of one of the upstairs doubles, the muffled sound of a nirvana cassette bleeding faintly through the wood, but he didn’t actually try to slow you down, just kept pace, shoulder bumping yours occasionally as if to remind you he was still perfectly capable of walking away and simply choosing not to.
you ignored him, because right now the only thing keeping you from spontaneously combusting in the middle of the hallway was momentum, and you were not going to lose that to banter. your fingers tightened on his tank, dragging the stretched cotton higher over the lean lines of his torso as you reached the small office, the only room in the house that nationals insisted exist as a “designated administrative space,” like that phrase could tame anything.
you shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, the cheap brass knob knocking against the wall hard enough to leave yet another scuff in the already abused paint, and you shoved kai over the threshold, following him in on the same breath. the air changed immediately; the door swung shut behind you with a solid, resonant click that seemed disproportionately loud in the cramped room, and the storm of voices and laughter from the lounge dropped away to a dull, distant hum, like a TV in an apartment below you in some other universe.
the office smelled different from the rest of the house, always had. the beer and sweat and fried-food residue did not quite reach in here; instead, the dominant notes were paper and dust and that faint, papery-ink scent from the old university-issue filing cabinets and the milk-crate stacks of outdated student handbooks. there was a battered desk shoved against the wall under a narrow window with crooked blinds, overflowing with manila folders, forms in triplicate, and a plastic tray holding a tangle of pens that all technically worked if you coaxed them long enough. an ancient beige phone sat near the corner, the coiled cord twisted into knots, and next to it, the fax machine that had been a point of pride in 1990 and now sounded like a small animal suffering whenever it tried to spit something out.
kai hit the edge of the desk with the backs of his thighs and let himself lean back against it, palms bracing casually on either side of him, fingers curling around the wood like it belonged to him. the posture was relaxed, almost negligent, but his eyes never left your face. he watched you with this intent, unhurried attention that felt more pinning than any physical hold, head tipped slightly as if he were checking your alignment.
“wow,” he said softly, and the word held less mockery than you expected, though it still slid out of him wrapped in that ever-present amusement. “power move.”
(it did sound like one, if you said it fast enough: dragging your most unmanageable problem into the one room on campus that contained your bylaws and your liability insurance and your sad little calculator, like you could solve this the same way you balanced the budget, with highlighters and grit.)
you stepped closer because distance was pointless now; you’d burned that bridge when you hauled him down the hallway in front of half the house. your chest rose and fell in short, controlled breaths, each inhale dragging the scent of him into your lungs—some combination of cheap laundry detergent, cigarette smoke that never quite washed out, and the ghost of someone else’s cologne from earlier that clung to his skin like a story you would never ask him to tell.
“you think you’re funny,” you said, the words coming out rougher than you intended, like they’d snagged on something on the way up your throat.
kai’s smile flashed brighter, that fast, blade-sharp curve of his mouth that always looked a little like trouble. “i know i’m funny,” he corrected without missing a beat, the arrogance so casual it was practically a reflex. his gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, tracking the rise and fall of your chest under your t-shirt, the tight line of your jaw, the way you were hovering in that too-close space without actually touching him yet, as if some part of you still wanted to pretend this was about discipline. “you’re the one who dragged me into your little president cave.”
(“president cave” sounded filthy when he said it, like a euphemism, like something you’d overhear in the men’s locker room and pretend you didn’t understand; kai had that talent, turning harmless phrases into innuendo with nothing but tone and eye contact.)
you planted your right hand on the desk beside his hip, close enough that your knuckles brushed the worn denim of his jeans, effectively pinning him between your body and the wood. the desk gave a small, complaining creak under the redistributed weight. being this close to him felt like standing too near a malfunctioning radiator, all heat and potential burn.
“you were messing with me,” you said, and this time your voice had a low, vibrating quality that surprised even you, more frequency than volume, like the words were resonating out of your chest instead of just your mouth.
kai tilted his head to the other side, putting on that wide-eyed innocence like a mask he’d stolen from a church play, except the effect was undermined by the bruise on his neck and the sheer amount of lived-in sin radiating off him. “i would never,” he said, the false sincerity thick as honey, and then, because he literally did not know when to stop, he let one of his knees slide subtly between yours.
it wasn’t a full step, not a crude shove, just a small forward nudge that insinuated his leg into the narrow space between your thighs, crowding you that last incremental inch, the inside of his knee brushing the inside of your leg. the pressure was minimal but strategic, destabilizing your center in a way that felt both perfectly calculated and infuriatingly intimate. “i was supporting leadership.”
you exhaled sharply through your nose, a sound that was almost a laugh if you stripped it of humor and left only incredulity. “you were touching me,” you said.
kai’s eyes lifted to meet yours, bright and unblinking, pupils blown a little wider now under the flickering fluorescent strip above your head. “yes,” he replied simply, as if you’d asked him whether the sky was blue or whether beer was a food group. “because you let me.”
the sentence hit your chest like a thrown object, a direct impact that knocked something loose inside you, hot and irritating and, worst of all, accurate. there was no angle from which you could argue with it; you hadn’t stepped away from him out there, not when his fingers had found the hem of your shorts, not when his knee had edged up against you, not when every nerve ending in your body had screamed move and you’d stayed rooted to the spot as if obedience was a reflex. kai knew it; you could see the knowledge in the smug, small quirk of his mouth, the quiet triumph that sat there like he’d just won a game nobody else knew they were playing.
he lifted one hand from the desk, that hand with the faint ink stain along his index finger from whatever notes he’d scribbled on his own skin earlier, and he hooked two fingers lightly through the front belt loop of your shorts. there was no real force behind the gesture, the tug barely more than a suggestion, but it erased the last ghost of space between you, pulling your hips flush to his.
your hand left the desk and came up fast to his face, fingers catching his jaw, thumb digging into the hinge just below his cheekbone as you grabbed hold, not quite rough enough to hurt but nowhere near gentle. you forced his head still, angling him up to you like you were finally done indulging his commentary.
then you kissed him.
it was not sweet. it was not cautious. it was heat and pent-up frustration and the raw, ugly satisfaction of finally finding the off switch on something that had been buzzing in your ear for months. your mouth crashed into his, teeth knocking softly against his lip in a way that would bruise later, and kai made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half something else, something disarmed and delighted. the noise came out as a muffled, pleased “mmh,” vibrating between your teeth and his, and it ran down your spine in a sharp line of sensation like a live wire.
he kissed you back immediately, without a heartbeat of hesitation, like the whole evening had merely been foreplay for this exact moment. his hands slid from the edge of the desk to your waist with unnerving precision, fingers spreading wide over your hips, thumbs pressing in as if confirming the reality of you standing there. he pulled you in closer with a smooth, sure motion, closing whatever infinitesimal gap remained, aligning your body with his like you were puzzle pieces he’d been quietly memorizing the shape of.
the desk bit into the backs of his thighs as he leaned into you, the wood digging into denim and muscle, and your own body pressed forward in response, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, every inch of contact dragging an increasingly ragged edge onto your breathing. kai’s mouth was warm and demanding, lips moving against yours with that infuriating mix of skill and playfulness that made it impossible to stay properly angry at him, no matter how much you wanted to.
his tongue brushed against yours, a teasing flick rather than an invasion, testing, tasting, like he was cataloguing the exact flavor of your frustration for later reference. the sheer audacity of him being playful now, when you had him literally backed up against the documentation for house insurance, made something sharp and reckless unfurl in your chest. you responded by catching his lower lip between your teeth and biting down, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to steal his breath for a second.
kai inhaled sharply, the sound hitching in his throat and then spilling out as a hushed, reverent “fuck” that slipped across your mouth, the syllable warm and damp in the narrow space between your faces. his fingers tightened at your hips reflexively, grip firming, thumbs digging in just above the waistband of your shorts like he was anchoring himself against you so he didn’t float away.
you broke the kiss, but only by a fraction, enough to drag your mouth along the corner of his lips, across the rough dusting of stubble along his jaw, and down to his throat. his pulse beat there, fast and insistent under thin skin, the bruise you’d stared at all meeting now framed between your lips. you pressed your mouth against him, open and hungry, tasting salt and the faint ghost of someone else’s lipstick from earlier, all of it overwritten by the present fact that he was here, with you, pinned against this desk.
kai’s head tipped back, the back of his skull thudding softly against the edge of the corkboard mounted on the wall behind the desk, the vibrations making a few pushpins tremble. a sound escaped him that started as a scoff, as if he’d meant to deliver some clever line about your sudden aggression, but it melted halfway through into something softer, more uncontrolled, and you felt the vibration of it against your mouth as you worked your way along the line of his throat.
“you’re mad,” he breathed, the words scraped thin around the edges, but the thread of delight running through them unmistakable.
“i’m busy,” you corrected, your voice rougher than before, rasping against his skin between kisses. you could feel him shifting under you, restless, muscles in his stomach tightening as he fought some instinct to arch or press or move that he refused to give you the satisfaction of naming.
his hands slid up the sides of your torso, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt without ceremony, palms flattening against the bare expanse of your back. his skin was warm, his touch firm, and his fingertips dragged lightly over your spine and the ridges of your shoulder blades in small, exploratory paths that made involuntary shivers chase themselves across your muscles, betrayals that you hoped he didn’t fully register and knew, deep down, he absolutely did.
“busy doing what?” he murmured, the question taunting in shape but blurred at the edges by the way his breath hitched as you found a particularly sensitive spot just beneath the bruise and lingered there, lips parted against the slope of his neck. his body was giving him away now too, his careful nonchalance fraying, hips shifting forward in a slow, unconscious seeking motion that betrayed exactly how not in control he was of his own reactions.
you lifted your head then, pulling back just enough to see his face properly. he looked back at you with that bright, feral focus, the kind of attention that made the rest of the world feel like it had been put on pause. in the muffled quiet of the office, with the door shut and the roar of the house reduced to a faint, distant roar, it felt like the two of you were occupying a smaller, more intense universe nested inside the larger one.
on some stubborn impulse, you reached down and caught his wrists, fingers closing firmly around them, the tendons flexing under your grip. you guided his hands up and back, pressing them flat against the desk above his head. the wood was cool under his palms, paperwork crunching faintly as his fingers splayed across some poor, unsuspecting risk-management report. you pinned his wrists there, not hard enough to cause pain, but with clear intent, holding him in place like you were finally asserting a rule you had the authority to enforce.
(just enough pressure to announce: this is not an accident, this is not you going along with his momentum; this is you choosing the angle.)
kai’s eyes widened for the first real time that night, a flash of surprise breaking through his habitual composure, and his breath caught in his chest, the next inhale coming in a fraction sharper. you felt the subtle shift of his weight as he tested the hold, not to escape, but to feel the edges of it, and the realization that he was not pulling away, that he was choosing to stay exactly where you had put him, landed in your stomach like a heavy stone.
“busy making you behave,” you said, the words coming out low and steady, a verdict rather than a threat.
kai laughed under his breath, short and pushed-out, the sound almost immediately dissolving into another quiet, involuntary noise when you rolled your hips forward, closing the distance between you with deliberate purpose. it was not a crude grind, not a cartoonish rutting, but a firm, unambiguous press of your body into his. letting him feel the weight and solidity and tension you’d been forced to carry through the entire meeting, letting him experience his own handiwork in the sharp intake of breath that followed.
his gaze dropped momentarily, drawn irresistibly down to the point where your bodies met, the lines of t-shirt and tank and denim intersecting, proof of proximity. when his eyes lifted again, his pupils were blown wider, iris color reduced to a thin ring around black, the feral gleam sharpened by something like satisfaction.
“you’re such a brat,” he said, but the word came out on an exhale that sounded suspiciously like admiration, like he’d just discovered a new favorite flavor and was taking his time tasting it.
you leaned in so your mouth brushed the shell of his ear, your breath ghosting over the soft skin there, and you let your voice drop even lower, the words vibrating through your chest into his. “say something smart,” you murmured, “and i’m walking back out there and finishing my paperwork.”
his throat worked as he swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing against the line of your thumb where it rested along his jaw. for the first time all night, you saw actual calculation flicker in his expression, that reckless impulse of his reined in by the awareness that the stakes of whatever he said next had shifted.
“that’s cruel,” he said finally, voice quieter than before, stripped of some of its habitual bravado. then, because he was constitutionally incapable of not pushing, he added, “and kind of hot.”
you made a low sound that sat somewhere ambiguous between a laugh and a groan, lodged in your chest like it couldn’t decide which way to go, and you let one of his wrists go so you could get your hand on him properly, palm flattening over his chest. the cotton of his tank was thin enough that it barely registered, more suggestion than barrier, and under it his heartbeat thudded against your hand, quick and steady, like he was enjoying this as much as his smirk pretended he was above it.
kai didn’t waste the freedom. the instant you loosened your grip on his wrist, his hand dropped, sliding down the curve of your spine with unerring accuracy, fingers finding the waistband of your shorts and then the curve beneath it, grabbing a handful of your ass like he had been waiting all night for the chance. he pulled you in harder, your hips bumping his in a clumsy, hungry alignment that knocked a loose pen off the desk. his other hand slid down your side, catching the back of your thigh and squeezing like he needed to prove you were solid, not some stress-induced hallucination in a bad fluorescent-lit office.
his hands moved with clearer intent now, less teasing and more claiming; he dragged your t-shirt up in slow increments, knuckles skimming bare skin as he went, palms sliding over the flat of your stomach, the tense line of your ribs. his thumbs traced idle circles as he explored, each tiny orbit landing on a nerve you hadn’t even known you had, sending flinches of sensation across your torso, muscles jumping under his touch despite your best efforts to stay steady.
then he hooked two fingers in your waistband and hauled you that last impossible inch closer, the fabric biting into your skin as he did it, aligning you so, so neatly against him that friction became a tangible thing instead of a threat, your breath stuttering on the inhale.
he came after you like he’d been reeled in, mouth finding your throat first, lips hot and insistent against the line of your pulse. he kissed there once, then twice, open-mouthed, letting his teeth scrape lightly at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder before moving up, chasing the line of your jaw. each kiss was a punctuation mark, a little proof of concept, and by the time he reached your mouth again, you were already leaning to meet him, caught halfway between wanting to shove him and wanting to climb him.
he kissed you like he was trying to get his hands and his mouth to agree on a plan and failing; one moment his grip on your waist tightened, the next his fingers were pushing higher under your shirt, pressing into the warm skin at your lower back, and in the middle of it his mouth kept coming back to yours, greedy, unfocused, like you were too much and not nearly enough all at once.
you shoved him, not away, but back, palms on his shoulders, driving him more firmly against the desk. papers skidded under his hips, a stapler thunked against the wall and fell over, and Kai let out that same pleased, involuntary “mmh” as his spine met the edge, his body arching into yours rather than trying to escape the confinement. he loved it, the handling, the lack of pretense; you could feel it in the way he relaxed right into the pressure, like being pushed around had been his angle all along.
your hands slid down his torso, following the path his tank laid out: collarbone, sternum, the ladder of his ribs under your fingers, the faint tension in his stomach muscles as he sucked in a breath. you dragged your palms over him like you were learning him by touch alone, mapping each line, each dip, every small twitch under your fingertips logged somewhere in the messy catalog of your brain.
you dragged your palm lower, over the zipper, and when you cupped him through his jeans. he reacted faster than you expected, hips bucking forward before he caught himself on the desk, breath breaking apart in a sharp, startled “ah” that he tried to swallow back down, jaw tightening around the sound like he was embarrassed by how quickly you’d gotten it out of him. his head tipped back again, the column of his throat exposed, tendons standing out for a second as he rode the aftershocks of his own reflex.
“feeling touchy, president,” he rasped after a beat, voice scratchy at the edges, the word president turned into something obscene and private on his tongue, less a title and more a pet name he could bruise at will.
the accusation would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been coming from him—the guy who had spent the entire meeting using your leg as a personal fidget toy, whose hand had already been halfway under your shorts in a room full of people. the idea that he was pinning “touchy” on you was the kind of cosmic joke that would have had you laughing if you weren’t currently pinned between the desk and his hands, your blood humming loud enough to drown out the house noise completely.
“you say that like you don’t enjoy it,” you said, and you hated how hoarse your own voice sounded, how it dragged like it had been scraped raw on the way out, but you didn’t stop. your fingers tightened just slightly where they rested, not gentle, not cruel, just deliberate, your movements slower now, more intentional; you were done pretending this was you getting pushed around by him. “you’ve been all over me since you walked in.”
kai turned his head fractionally, just enough that the corner of his mouth nearly brushed your jaw, a twitch of movement so minimal it felt automatic—like his body had been recalibrated to respond to your breath like it was stimulus, like your exhale was triggering some primitive reflex buried under all that swagger. his voice, when it came, was thinner now, more frayed at the edges—still cocky, because he didn’t know how to be anything else, but the confidence was laced now with something hoarser, something less performative. “you’re enjoying it too, though,” he said, and it might’ve hit like a jab if not for the hitch underneath it. “president’s got power trip wood—real constitutional crisis over here.”
you didn’t laugh. you bit him.
you didn’t warn, didn’t pause, just opened your mouth and sank your teeth into the side of his neck, just under the curve of his jaw, where the skin was warm and thin and already flushed from everything you hadn’t said out loud. your teeth pressed hard enough to make him jolt against the desk, the muscles in his neck going taut as his hands flinched against the edge of the wood, and the sound he made—sharp, surprised, half-choked—was real, nothing practiced about it, not clever, not rehearsed, just pure, unfiltered reaction.
(if he’d been smug about it you would’ve stopped. but he wasn’t. he gasped like you’d hit a fuse, like you’d found the edge of something he didn’t want anyone else to see, and now that you had your teeth in it he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or beg for more.)
you didn’t give him the chance to recover. you dragged your hand over him again, slower now, with intent, fingers splayed to apply pressure in a rhythm that was less about stimulation and more about control. this was a gesture with purpose. this was feedback. this was you saying without saying: you wanted attention, now you have it—let’s see how long you last under it.
you felt him shiver under your palm, that fine full-body tremor of someone not used to being handled. his jaw clenched so hard you could see the tendon flicker under his cheek. his head tipped back in a graceless arc, the long line of his throat exposed, unguarded, so clearly surrendering it felt like a physical confession.
the desk creaked beneath him. not dramatically—just that subtle shift of weight and resistance that told you exactly how his legs were adjusting, exactly how he’d spread them to make more room for your body between his, not enough to be vulgar, not quite, but just enough to tell you he was making space for you. inviting you in. waiting.
he looked wrecked, and it was fucking gorgeous. his lashes were absurdly long, dark against flushed skin, and his eyes—when he opened them—were hooded, dazed, pupils so blown you could barely see any color at all, just a thin ring of ice-blue-grey drowned in black. his mouth was open, that lazy, lolling slackness that came after too much heat, the kind of expression usually only seen in bedroom mirrors or medical textbooks about overstimulation. his lower lip looked raw now, bitten red from the inside, the kind of damage people did to themselves when they weren’t allowed to make noise. and his chest rose and fell in short, uneven waves that couldn’t be chalked up to anything but heat.
(he looked like someone who had been told to stay quiet and didn’t know how. he looked like a guy getting railed in a closet who couldn’t stop making sounds and was terrified of getting caught.)
then—he blinked slow, like he was dragging himself back from the edge, recalibrating, and the grin tried to return. when he spoke next, voice softer now, quieter, not because he was being tender but because he was recalibrating, finding the pitch that would get inside your skin.
“…you’re really gonna let the guys think you’re—what, throwing me a discipline fuck? in the admin room?” he smiled, but it twitched mid-expression like his lips weren’t fully convinced. “i knew you were repressed, prez, but jesus—you could’ve just asked nicely.”
(there it was. the line. the challenge. as if he wasn’t already halfway past the threshold of asking with every inch of his body. he wanted to be pushed. wanted you to make the final call so he could pretend he’d been dragged in like a martyr instead of jumping willingly.)
then kai moved—fast, fluid, all thigh and momentum—and pressed off the desk, pushing into you, backing you into it now. your back hit the edge and the papers crumpled beneath your hips, and his hand slid down—bold as ever, greedy—pressing the heel of his palm right where your shorts were tented the hardest.
“you know how much i like when you ask nicely,” he murmured, the words an exhale against your ear, the heat of his breath ghosting over the shell in a way that made your jaw twitch and your spine threaten betrayal.
his fingers flexed through the mesh, curved deliberately to cup you—full hand contact now, no more teasing—and the slow, predatory drag of his palm up your length made your knees go loose in a way that felt criminal. you braced one hand behind you on the desk, the other curling hard in the fabric of his tank, pulling tight just under the ribs like you could anchor him there, pin him to the moment the same way he’d tried to pin the “touchy” on you. his body was all tension now, his hips twitching with each pass of your breath across his cheek, the faint tremor under your hand nothing like the bravado he’d come in with.
you turned your head—slow, deliberate, no fucking hesitation—and kissed the corner of his mouth. not soft. not sweet. just a drag of lips that caught the edge of his teeth, that stole the smirk before he could use it. you tasted the sharp tang of adrenaline on him now, that metallic buzz that came from too much tension and not enough grounding, and you let your teeth drag over his lower lip again, less biting now, more a warning.
(you could kiss him pretty later. when you weren’t about to snap in half from the weight of your own cock inside these goddamn shorts.)
“you want me?” he asked, and he knew you did—of course he did, kai didn’t believe in rhetorical questions unless the answers were already scrawled out under his ribs in invisible ink—but still he asked, still pushed it into the air between your mouths like a gauntlet, like he needed to hear you cough it up raw and ruinous, to watch it fall out of your mouth all tangled in the heat of your own exhale.
(he needed it because he could see it already—see the way your knuckles had gone white on the edge of the desk, see the way your pulse was ticking so hard under your jaw it looked like your body was trying to tap out in morse code, see the way your cock twitched under the taut seam of your gym shorts every time his palm flexed over it like it was trying to shake free from its fucking cage.)
but you didn’t say yes. not yet.
instead, your hand shot back into his hair, not rough—but stubborn, hungry, like the ache in your chest had finally sharpened into something actionable. your fingers threaded into the roots and held, grounding both of you in the drag of friction and the scent of sweat and nerves clinging to his skin, and you bent your head just far enough to speak against the edge of his throat, letting your lips brush that raw column of skin where his bruise had gone purple-black.
“shut up,” you said, and it came out too quiet, too hoarse, but there was no way in hell he didn’t hear it. not with the way his breath stuttered, not with the way his hips rolled forward instinctively, not with the way his legs widened around yours like he was opening for something, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
(he was so fucking responsive it made your teeth itch. everything you did, he mirrored—never identical, never submission, but reactive, relational. like two magnets on the verge of snapping together, polarity flipping by the second.)
kai huffed a laugh that broke halfway out of his chest and landed messily against your shoulder, breath hot, words buried into the cotton of your shirt now as his hand pressed harder against your cock, deliberately now, his palm cupped with engineering-level precision to drag the seam of your shorts right over the head in one long, calculated grind. your legs buckled, knees knocking together for a second before you forced them back into place, shoulders bracing like you were trying not to crumple but kai fucking knew, didn’t he? he knew you were just a big puppy of a man, all broad shoulders and blind optimism and one-track good-boy brain, and he knew—he knew—how fast your body would break if he pushed just a little.
“god, look at you,” he said, voice slipping lower, softer, more dangerous now—not mean, not cruel, but thrilled, like he was witnessing something rare and beautiful and secretly illicit. “you’re throbbing for me. president fucking sunshine, leaking through his mesh shorts like a high school freshman watching porn for the first time.”
(and you were. you were, you could feel it, the slick spot blooming under his palm, the shape of it obscene now, soaked all the way through, your cock pulsing like it had its own heartbeat and it had chosen kai’s hand as its reason for existing.)
you tried to answer, tried to speak, but all you managed was a breath that collapsed halfway through your chest and came out as a strangled nnnghh instead, your throat locking down around the need to say something—anything—but kai caught it like a prize. his smile went sharp and too proud and hungry, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully again, watching the slow-bleeding panic and desire behind them like he wanted to memorize every frame.
“yeah,” he breathed, and his hand slid down between you again, fingers curling around the waistband now, thumb sneaking under the hem where your shirt had ridden up, skin on skin for the first time. warmth on raw heat, and you shuddered, eyes fluttering closed for a second too long, like your processor had finally crashed under the load.
“yeah, that’s what i thought,” he said, softer now, more like awe, like you were some beautiful toy he’d finally figured out the controls for. “fucking melting for me.”
and still—still—he hadn’t even kissed you properly yet. not after dragging you out of the meeting, not after pinning you against your own desk, not after grinding the shape of your cock into your thigh like he was testing whether polyester could physically combust. his mouth hovered just inches from yours, that constant potential humming like electricity in the space between your breaths, and it made the tension in your body vibrate, like your nerves were tuning forks tuned to his name.
but you—stupid, stubborn, presidential fuck—you still didn’t say yes.
instead, your hand slid off his ribs and down, catching his wrist where it had crept under your shirt, fingers wrapping tight, not to pull him away—never that—but to still him, just long enough to force some goddamn oxygen into your lungs. you stared at him like you were trying to find your fucking coordinates again, like you’d dropped your map in the middle of a hurricane and were holding onto the last recognizable landmark.
“what? no words?”
kai’s grin split wider, a sliver of predatory glee tucked inside the curve of his mouth, as if he already knew your speech center had taken a sabbatical and was now curled up somewhere behind your teeth, sobbing into your molars. he didn’t sound curious, not really. he sounded vindicated, like a kid who’d poked a vending machine for long enough that it finally spat out a jackpot. the words weren’t even directed at your face anymore; they were pressed into the warm slope of your cheekbone, his mouth so close it felt like the syllables were being stitched into your skin molecule by molecule.
“that’s okay,” he murmured, and every vowel dragged like velvet caught on a nail, snagging gently against the thin veneer of your self-control. “i like my boys dumb.”
(that did it. that shattered something. not cleanly. not like glass. like a rib popping. like something structural giving way under pressure you hadn’t realized was already breaking you open.)
his nose bumped your temple as he leaned in further, and his next breath scalded straight through your ear canal and into the wet meat of your brain. “you just need to stand there and let me play with you. that’s what you’re good at, right?”
the whimper that escaped your throat was immediate and utterly unintentional, some high, broken little vowel that cracked off your vocal cords without warning, the way a kicked vending machine might finally release the soda can. it wasn’t a full moan, not yet, but it was its younger cousin, shaking and wide-eyed and already halfway down your chest. you felt your thighs twitch, knees going soft, body betraying you in small, cumulative shivers—like the language center had shut off and now your nervous system had gone freelance, reacting in whatever animalistic code it had always wanted to revert to.
kai heard it. he felt it. his grin warped into something hungrier. his hand on your waistband dipped lower, now sliding down the front of your soaked shorts with a kind of clinical curiosity, not jerking, not desperate, just studying. measuring your twitch, the thickness of you under wet polyester, the subtle jump in your hips when he circled the fat head of your cock with the heel of his palm and pressed, just enough to feel your whole body spasm with restraint.
you weren’t just leaking. you were soaking. the patch at the front of your shorts had gone dark, almost translucent, a shameful inkblot of want that mirrored every heartbeat. his hand came away glistening with it, a light smear of slick on his thumb catching the light when he drew it up to his mouth and tasted it like he’d dipped it in frosting.
he moaned, softly, like someone rolling a cherry on their tongue.
(you couldn’t look at him. you couldn’t. you knew if you saw that tongue, saw the way his eyes fluttered like it was good, you’d start rutting against the desk like an untrained mutt humping a stranger’s leg, and you were still the fucking president. technically.)
he stepped back. just a little. just enough to make you wobble slightly where your knees had locked trying to keep your weight balanced. you blinked, your body so keyed up that even the absence of his hand was enough to make you ache in protest, cock pulsing once against the confinement of your gym shorts like it was trying to chase the heat he’d withdrawn.
kai let it hang, the silence, the non-touch, the humiliating gap between you. and then:
“hands behind your back.”
your head snapped up.
“what?” the word crawled out of you like a stunned animal—barely a whisper, more breath than consonants.
“i said…” kai stepped close again, this time chest to chest, his body grazing yours with maddening casualness as he pressed a hand against your sternum, pushing you gently but insistently back against the desk. “hands. behind. your back.”
he said it like it was a kindness. like he was offering to help you with something complicated. but you felt the steel inside it—the command, the structure, the invitation to fail. he wanted you obedient. he wanted to see if you’d fold.
(and of course you did. of course you fucking did. you’d spent months pretending not to stare at the way he walked, the lazy, insolent swing of his hips in joggers two sizes too low, pretending your neck wasn’t sore from all the nights you’d craned it trying to hear him laugh from across the kitchen. you were wired for this. he didn’t have to break you. you’d already been pre-assembled.)
your hands moved behind your back like they didn’t belong to you anymore, like you were puppeteering your own body from a distance, responding not to thought but to compulsion—compulsion carved out of weeks of friction, of side-eyes in the hallway and toothbrushes shared like a dare, of kai’s legs draped over yours during movie night, his fingers always too close to innocent. your shoulders pulled back, your chest bowed forward, and you stood there like a condemned statue in an empty museum, posed for judgment, every muscle drawn taut in anticipation of the sculptor’s next move.
kai didn’t touch you right away. he stepped back, slow, calculated, giving you room to quake in. his gaze wasn’t hungry so much as assessing, the way a sadist might linger in front of a piano before deciding which key to strike first. his eyes crawled over the swell of your chest, the way your pecs strained against the bottom hem of your bunched-up shirt, the thin dusting of sweat now caught in the dip of your sternum like you’d been working to hold this position. you were. just standing there for him—just being seen—was labor. humiliating, gorgeous labor.
“god,” he said, almost absently, but it wasn’t throwaway. it was worship in lowercase, like your body had just confirmed some suspicion he’d always had about you. “you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured. “you know that?”
you made a sound in response, but it wasn’t speech. it was noise—raw, caught, some blend of shame and oxygen failure and animal longing. your chest heaved with it, ribs fluttering under your shirt like a trapped thing. kai’s fingers found the hem again and this time he didn’t pause—he pushed your shirt up in slow, deliberate increments, baring you like a delicacy, the curve of your abs, the deep cut of your v-line, the way your obliques twitched like they were embarrassed to be noticed.
his palm slid up the plane of your torso as he lifted, hand flat, taking his time. not because he needed to—it wasn’t efficiency. it was reverence, perverse and meticulous. his thumb dragged along your sternum, catching in the shallow dip between your pecs, and you flinched, like a car battery had been tapped to your spine.
(you weren’t supposed to react that fast. you weren’t supposed to be this easy. but you were so big, and it took so much to hold it together all the time, and this—this surrender of posture—felt like relief shot straight through your bloodstream. you were leaking precome like a broken pipe and still hadn’t been kissed properly. you felt exposed and reverent and fucking stupid, in the way that made kai smile with his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth.)
he left your shirt bunched at your armpits like an afterthought and planted one hand on your chest—palm flat over your left pec, thumb angled up under your clavicle—and pressed, not hard, not pushing you back, just claiming that space like it was his. his fingers spread, spanning the full width of you, and you felt how small his hand was on your body, and yet how absolute the weight of it felt.
your cock twitched again, no longer restrained by modesty or compression or thought. it stood up shameless between you, red and slick and throbbing, the head flushed and glossy, the shaft lined with veins that had gone prominent under the strain of being seen. and kai hadn’t even glanced down at it yet.
that somehow made it worse.
he was studying your chest now like it was a chart—every rise of breath, every quiver under the surface, the subtle way your nipples hardened as his thumb rolled too close to the edge of one and then withdrew. his fingers trailed over the curve of your pec, his nails scratching lightly, idly, like he wasn’t even sure he was doing it. you gasped.
“aww, are you sensitive here too?” he murmured, and that mocking sweetness in his tone was devastating, a blade dipped in honey.
(you didn’t want to give it to him. but your back arched. your thighs flexed. you couldn’t help it. you were straining against your own need to be still, to be good, and he knew it, the bastard. he always fucking knew.)
kai leaned forward, breath ghosting across the damp skin of your collarbone, and his mouth dragged lower this time—not to kiss, not yet, but to hover. his lips paused just an inch above your nipple and you could feel it—that aching, awful anticipation, that moment before touch that stretches time into agony. then his breath spilled out, warm and damp, and your nipple peaked under the heat like it was begging.
he didn’t take it. not yet. he pulled back. smiled.
“so fucking easy,” he said. “i haven’t even done anything yet and you’re leaking like i’ve edged you for hours.”
you were. the head of your cock was shiny with slick, a trail of it having already begun to crawl down your shaft, catching in the pubic hair just above your waistband. it made your whole dick look obscene, like it had been soaked in something forbidden. you felt it slide now, thick and constant, and your hips jerked instinctively forward like your body was trying to follow its own desperation.
kai saw that too. of course he did.
“you’re not gonna last, are you?” he asked, like he was asking about the weather. “you’re gonna blow the second i put my mouth on you.”
your mouth opened—maybe to deny it, maybe to plead—but he cut you off before any real word could form.
“that’s okay,” he whispered, leaning in again. “good dogs come quick.”
kai’s fingers hovered at the waistband of your gym shorts, just barely brushing where skin met elastic, and the pause—that maddening micro-moment of almost-contact—hit harder than any actual grab. his nails skimmed the shallow dip of your hipbone, and he knew, he knew the anticipation was worse than impact, more maddening than pain. he could feel your cock throb against the mesh, could see the way your thighs twitched like you were trying to stay standing when every neuron in your body wanted to drop.
(and you were trying—you really were—jaw clenched, spine locked, fists shaking behind your back where you’d folded your hands like a good boy in some kind of religious re-enactment.)
“should’ve made you beg for it,” he murmured, voice husky now, a little frayed at the edges, like even he was running too hot to maintain the usual veneer of aloofness. “you’re too eager. gonna shoot before i even suck you, huh?”
he pulled down slowly—not dramatic, not teasing for show, just devastating in the steadiness of it. inch by inch, the fabric peeled from your hips, sticky where it clung to skin flushed and damp with sweat. the waistband caught momentarily behind the head of your cock—like even your shorts were reluctant to let go of you—and then finally cleared it, freeing you in a single humiliating lurch of movement. your cock sprang forward, slapping up against your abs, a thick strand of precome flinging off the tip and stringing downward across your stomach in one glossy trail. the head was swollen, a vivid shade of maroon that bordered on bruise-purple, so slick it glistened in the low office light like glass candy left out in the sun. your shaft throbbed visibly, twitching against your own abdomen, leaking in steady pulses that welled at the tip and spilled down again without interruption.
he didn’t say anything, didn’t whistle or mock or smirk. he just looked. his eyes locked on the sight of you like he’d been punched in the diaphragm—silent, dilated, reverent in a way that felt dangerous. his gaze dropped lower, scanning you like a problem to be solved, a machine to be disassembled. then slowly—methodically—he reached forward and touched just the head. one finger. just his thumb. the pad of it dragged across the slit and pressed down gently, smearing the gathered precum in a slow spiral over the crown like he was checking if you were real. you shuddered, visibly, hips tilting forward in a desperate, microscopic thrust, your knees nearly knocking from the reflexive need to fuck that tiny point of contact like a dog humping an arm it couldn’t identify.
kai brought the slicked thumb to his mouth without looking away from your cock, tongue flicking out to taste the shine.
he licked it slowly.
deliberately.
the contact was obscene. he didn’t just sample—he savored. the tip of his tongue dragged across the ridge of his thumb with culinary precision, smearing your slick against the pink of his mouth like he was testing it for sweetness, and when he swallowed, his adam’s apple jumped visibly. the noise he made—some soft, wrecked hum in the back of his throat—was the sound of someone discovering a craving they’d never named before.
your cock jumped at the sound he made, and kai’s gaze snapped to it, lips parting as if to greet it, but instead his hand wrapped around you again—this time with full confidence, no curiosity left. he gripped you like he knew what you needed, what you could take. the pressure was firm, practiced, selfish. his thumb rolled over the thick underside of your head in tight, circular drags, forcing more slick to bead and spill down his fist, and he stroked from base to tip in one slow, brutal pass. again. again. no quickening. just a steady, relentless rhythm, forcing your cock to drool for him like it was trying to speak.
you leaned back against the desk, legs spread wide now, bent just slightly at the knees like it was the only way to stay upright, your shirt still bunched under your armpits, your whole body trembling with the effort of not fucking his fist.
kai made a low, appreciative sound deep in his throat and dropped to his knees like he was settling into something ceremonial. from this angle, you looked even bigger. he seemed pleased by that. he sat back on his heels for a moment just to watch your cock throb in open air, untouched, standing proud against the low light, veins snaking along the shaft in delicate relief, tip glossy with fresh slick. it wasn’t just pretty—it was imposing, in that way kai had always liked: something too big to get his hands around and too tempting not to try anyway.
and then—then—he leaned in.
his tongue traced the underside of your cock from base to tip in one long, lazy drag, the pressure just shy of firm, the wet heat of it shocking even after all his threats, all his posturing. he licked you like it was something he’d been craving for weeks. like he’d tasted it in his sleep. like he wanted to burn it into memory. his tongue followed every curve, every ridge, sliding up past the raised veins, over the swell of your frenulum, finally cresting at the tip where he paused and breathed—hot, shallow air rushing over the slit in a way that made your cock twitch so hard it slapped lightly against his cheek.
kai groaned, low in his throat, the vibration of it echoing through the space between your legs. he pressed the flat of his tongue against your shaft and licked again, slower now, longer, more deliberate. with one hand wrapped tight around the base, he held your cock upright like it was an object of focus, something to be cleaned or documented. his spit mixed with your precum, warm and slippery, dragging in thin strings between his lips and your skin. he let it drip. purposefully. drool collected at the corner of his mouth and slid down his chin as he moved in closer, spreading it with his tongue, messier now, wetter, like he wanted to degrade the moment.
“f-fuck, kai—”
you weren’t even aware you’d said it until his mouth closed around the tip and sucked, hard. the sound you made then—loud, broken, some desperate combination of a groan and a choked cry—would haunt the walls of this office forever. your cock pulsed in his mouth, and kai moaned around it, a deep, wanton vibration that you felt in your spine, like he was sounding a tuning fork through your body and your entire nervous system was helpless to respond.
kai stayed down there like he belonged there, like he’d decided the floor was his territory now and your body was the only document he cared to audit, and the office felt suddenly too small for the amount of attention he was paying you, for the way his focus compressed the air until you could practically taste it. he didn’t rush, and that was the worst part, because it meant he was in no hurry to rescue you from yourself; he was content to let you shake, content to watch your thighs quiver and your breath turn thin and frantic while he applied the same steady, unflinching patience he’d used all night to take you apart in public one inch at a time.
his mouth stayed soft and steady around the head of your cock, suction perfectly calibrated, tongue never frantic—just committed, applying the kind of focused attention most people reserved for last rites or high-stakes chess. you could hear him breathing through his nose—short, sharp exhalations, hot and humid against the base of your shaft. his hand had tightened around you again, just beneath where his mouth stopped, a fist wet with spit and precum, jerking in slow tandem with the lazy pull of his lips. and every few seconds, without warning, he’d make this sound—this awful, perfect, filthy little noise that didn’t even qualify as a moan, not really. it was more like a sound of satisfaction. enjoyment. something obscene. the kind of groan a man makes when he takes a second bite of a meal he knows he shouldn’t be indulging in. like the taste of you had gone feral in his mouth and now he was addicted.
(and you were still standing there with your hands pinned behind your back like you’d been instructed, posture pulled open, chest exposed. and the worst part—the part that made your pulse race and your stomach twist and your dick throb with shame—was that it wasn’t forced. you weren’t being held down. you were choosing this. holding yourself open for him. presenting yourself like the dumb, obedient dog he knew you were under all that fucking leadership polish. and kai could tell, of course he could tell, because he’d always had a talent for distinguishing between compliance and surrender and he was treating your surrender like a delicacy.)
then—without warning—he pulled off. the sound was obscene, a wet pop that left your cock glistening and flushed, strand of spit still trailing from the tip of your shaft to his lips like a line of fuse wire, quivering between you in the stale air of the office. you could see the mess he'd made already—saliva smeared around the base, slick clinging to your thighs, his own chin damp and shiny like he’d just finished eating something too hot and hadn’t waited to cool it first.
he looked up at you again, shining, filthy, utterly alive. and there wasn’t a trace of softness in his face—just that look, that sharp, sick amusement that sat on his features like graffiti across sacred architecture. “don’t you dare,” he murmured, low and wrecked, voice roughened by friction and misuse. “you don’t cum until i say. you make a mess now, i’ll leave you hard for the rest of the week.” it wasn’t even a threat. it was a rule. one spoken like gravity: unavoidable, fundamental.
his mouth was still damp, his jaw sticky with spit and your slick, and he didn’t wipe it off. he wanted you to see it. wanted you to know exactly where your self-control had gone. the corners of his mouth glistened in the low light like gloss, like a badge. and your cock, pulsing and flushed and angry, leaked for him—one fat droplet trailing down the length like it was begging.
and then he leaned in again. not dramatic, not exaggerated—just close, the kind of proximity your body couldn’t handle anymore. your knees unlocked without warning, thighs twitching as if your muscle memory had finally tapped out and left the rest of you to fend for itself. your shoulders went rigid, overcorrecting, spine pulling straight in a desperate attempt to stay still while your cock begged for friction and your lungs forgot how to oxygenate.
kai’s free hand slid up your thigh in a slow, proprietary climb, fingers spreading just to feel how hard your muscles had gone, just to savor the tremor living under your skin, and when you jerked at the contact he made a quiet, delighted sound as if you’d proven his hypothesis. “that’s it,” he said, too pleased, too calm, like he was coaxing a large dog through a trick. “that’s a good fucking boy. just stand there and take it. you’re good at that.”
he leaned closer and ran his tongue just once over your leaking slit, barely a touch, not even enough to ease the ache. just enough to pull another rope of drool from the head and coat the underside of your cock. then, because he was vile and because he liked the way it made your face go hot with humiliation, he added, “big, pretty president, all muscle and no self-control, shaking because somebody finally paid attention to you the right way.”
(if your brain had been operational—if your higher reasoning hadn’t been steamrolled by endorphins and the unbearable pressure blooming between your thighs—you might’ve said something. anything. a comeback. a protest. something clever. but it wasn’t. you were running on base instinct now. pure stimulus-response. pavlovian. prehistoric.)
you broke.
there wasn’t a warning. there wasn’t a build-up or a preamble. one second you were standing there, hands trembling behind your back like you were still clinging to the illusion of control, and the next—snap—your body surged forward on pure instinct. your hand shot into his hair, tangled hard at the nape, and yanked. not carefully. not cautiously. just grabbed, fingers locking in like a fistful of fabric, the curl of it damp with sweat where it stuck to the back of his neck.
he made a sound when you pulled—not a protest, not surprise, but this guttural, cracked little groan, low in his throat and utterly involuntary, the kind of noise that had no business coming from someone whose mouth was already full of cock. but he didn’t pull back. of course he didn’t. he fucking loved it. his hands flew to your thighs, not to push—no, never that—but to brace, to hold on, to encourage.
you rutted forward hard, the head of your cock punching deeper into his throat with a wet, obscene squelch that echoed off the office walls. kai took it—mouth stretching wide, jaw flexing under your grip—and his throat clenched around you with a convulsive swallow so intense it made your hips stutter. the heat of him was staggering. the suction didn’t falter. his tongue curled around the underside of your shaft like a ribbon, like a welcoming committee, and he moaned, deep and so fucking pleased, like he’d been waiting for you to lose it.
(and you did. oh god, you did. you moved now like it wasn’t even up to you—like your body had decided it was time to breed something and kai’s throat was the only option.)
your grip tightened in his hair as you started to fuck into his mouth in short, desperate thrusts, each one met with a gag muffled into a whimper and a new bloom of spit down his chin. his throat fluttered every time you bottomed out, and fuck—the resistance was beautiful. he was sloppy, ruined, practically vibrating with the effort to keep up, but he let you. he wanted it.
your cock throbbed against the tight seal of his lips, precum leaking in thick pulses now, slicking the back of his tongue. he kept swallowing like it was holy, like he didn’t want to waste a drop, like your taste had lit up some sick, starving nerve in him and now he couldn’t stop. you felt it breaking inside you—that pressure, that heat, that line you’d been clinging to like a lifeline. it wasn’t just arousal anymore. it was instinct, unfiltered and violent, your whole body trembling with the need to finish inside him, to mark his throat with everything he’d pulled out of you.
your vision blurred. tears welled at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not from guilt, but from sheer, unbearable sensation, the kind that hits so hard your body doesn’t know where to send it. your legs shook. your jaw clenched so tight your teeth creaked. your breath came in these short, frantic bursts, and all you could do—all you could do—was hang onto his hair and drive yourself deeper, chasing the edge like a drowning man climbing toward the surface.
“f-fuck—kai—” your voice cracked on his name. you couldn’t help it. your throat was working against your lungs, and the effort to stay upright was beginning to feel like a punishment.
he didn’t pull away. he shoved forward on his own, taking the last inch with a filthy grunt and burying your cock to the hilt down his throat, nose pressed tight to your pubic bone, his cheeks flushed red and shining with tears and spit and heat. he blinked up at you through it, eyes glassy, pupils blown, and he smiled around your cock.
that’s what did it.
you broke with a shuddering gasp, every muscle in your body locking down as your orgasm hit like a fucking seizure. your hips snapped forward one last time, grinding into the wet heat of his face as your cock jerked violently between his lips and you came—hard, in brutal, involuntary pulses that made your whole body spasm. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not even from pleasure, but from the sheer, godless relief of it, the way your whole body emptied like a dam cracking wide open. the first shot hit his throat. the second followed so fast you barely registered the break between them. you were gasping, moaning, panting like an animal, your fingers yanked tight in his hair as you fed him every last drop of it, your body bucking helplessly into his face with every twitch.
kai swallowed all of it. he kept you in, tongue still moving in slow, coaxing licks under the shaft like he was trying to milk the last drops out of you, like he was draining a bottle. and then—only then—he pulled back, slow and deliberate, lips dragging along your shaft like he was cleaning you off with his mouth, letting spit and slick and the leftover mess trail across his tongue before he finally let you go with a soft, obscene pop.
kai sat back on his heels and grinned. his lips were wet. his chin was soaked. his eyes were blown wide and shining, his cheeks flushed, and he looked up at you with that infuriating, satisfied expression like he’d just finished a five-course meal and was considering seconds.
“fucking knew you’d taste good.” he said, voice hoarse, ragged, full of something so smug it made your chest ache.
