18+! smut w a little plot, mean!mikewheeler x f!reader, not really enemies but a strong dislike?, banter, p in v, teasing, 18+ characters
3.9k
You’ve been sitting in Mike’s basement for fifteen minutes after everyone left, staring at the same dent in the wall while your brain scrambles. You just found out your roommate wasn’t even in town tonight to pick you up. Lucas took off with Max, your original ride, and now you’ve got no way home.
“Isn’t Mike your friend?” she’d said over the phone, way too casually. “How long have you known his family? I’m sure they won’t mind if you sleep over for the night.”
Friend. For the love of god.
Mike Wheeler was not your friend. He barely tolerated you on a good day. You existed in his life like a problem no one asked him to solve, one he was forced to deal with because everyone else liked you too much to let him shove you out. You were part of the Party whether he liked it or not. Which, he never struggled to make clear; he really didn’t.
But that was only the tip of the iceberg. From the start, the two of you never stood a chance. You challenged him, talked back, took up space he of course thought belonged to him. He’d tried to push you out early on, but none of it worked. You were too close with everyone else, too stubborn to disappear. So the dynamic shifted.
Now it was just open hostility, verbal jabbing, passive aggressive remarks, pretending the other didn’t exist until it was convenient to tear each other down. It was easier than acknowledging the weird tension that sparked every time you were alone… Easier than questioning why his eyes lingered a second too long after he scowled.
And now, because the universe apparently hated you, you were alone in his basement. Late and trapped. You weren’t even sure he knew you were still here.
The silence starts to crawl under your skin. The basement feels wrong without everyone else…abandoned dice scattered across the table like the old days, empty soda cans tipped over like casualties. Your heart slams in your chest the longer you procrastinate.
Because Mike was going to lose his shit. The thought almost makes walking home sound worth it. Almost. But Hawkins at midnight? After everything? No chance. Your stomach twists as panic creeps in. You take a breath, force yourself up, and grab your jacket and bag.
You’re halfway to the stairs when—
“I’m going!” Mike yells upstairs, his voice sharp as the doorknob rattles. The basement door swings open, and you freeze.
Mike’s halfway down the stairs when he sees you. He stops short, eyes narrowing immediately, like he’s just stepped in something unpleasant. Surprise flickers across his face before it hardens into that familiar irritation, that familiar disgust. But somehow his eyes always spoke something different.
“Are you serious?” his face scrunches up, already becoming dramatic. You take a long blink, tired just from preparing yourself for the whining.
He looks at you like you’re a problem he thought he’d already gotten rid of. His jaw is tight, shoulders are tense, and his eyes are locked on you in a way that feels a little too intense for someone who can’t stand you. But you don’t think about things like that. That would be ridiculous.
“I’m leaving,” you say coolly, adjusting your bag. “Relax.” You start toward the stairs, refusing to look at him. But after he scoffs, you stop, forced to look up at him once again when he doesn’t move out the way.
“Yeah,” Mike says, flat. “I’m trying to figure out why you didn’t think to do that earlier.” That smart ass tone is as apparent as ever, per usual. It makes you clench your jaw. “Well, I am now, so will you move?” Irritation quivers into your tone, and you have to swallow hard the second his eyes meet yours. They narrow, mean and sharp, but feels like something else. Something else you gave up trying to decipher.
“That was a question,” he says strictly, not moving. He’s a step above you, towering in that annoying way, looking down like he’s got the upper hand. But his eyes linger. They flick down— then immediately back up again. If this is how he hates, there has to be something seriously wrong with you for the way it flips your stomach. It makes you hate him even more for it.
“You think I want to still be here?” you snap. “I’m walking home.” You finally shove past him, brushing his shoulder as you head for the door. The basement goes quiet—too quiet—until your hand’s on the knob. For some reason you don’t turn it yet.
“What do you mean you’re walking home?” Mike huffs, like just the idiocy of the idea is an immense aggravation. The silence that follows stretches on forever, and you’re frozen in place for reasons you don’t have words for yet. “It’s nearly midnight,” he adds. “Are you crazy?”
His brows are furrowed heavily, and his lips are in that same snarl he always has when you speak. But it all throws you off. He sounds annoyed, exasperated, like you’re an inconvenience. As always, though, so you don’t get why he won’t just let you go. It’s not like you guys acted this way for fun. He hates you, and you hate him.
Especially the way his stupid eyes look at you. It’s infuriating. The way they never match his expression or his words. The way they stay soft no matter how sharp his tone gets, no matter how hard his face tries to look pissed. It’s a pointless thing to notice. A stupid thing. But it makes your stomach twist anyway.
You swallow, forcing yourself back into your body. “You heard me, Mike.” You say it like it’s final, like it doesn’t cost you anything, and then you make yourself walk. Every step feels slower than it should, heavy and uncertain, but you ignore it and push through the door anyway.
The air outside hits you all at once. You stop at the edge of his driveway, staring down the street you’re supposed to take, and that’s when the anxiety finally catches up. Fuck it looks horrifying, and past memories flood your mind like stinging, annoying wasps. You’re standing there in the middle of his driveway with nowhere to go but forward.
So that’s what you do. Or at least, that’s what you plan to do, until you take one step forward and Mike’s voice cuts in behind you, sharp enough to make you flinch. “You’re not serious.”
You swallow, half turning your head. Your mind scrambles, coming up empty for once. No comeback, no bite. Just the sound of your own heart, too loud, and the thought of the long, dark walk home you’re trying to brace yourself for.
“My mom would be livid if she knew I let you walk home alone this late,” he says. Then, like it annoys him to even admit it, “Or—at all.” His tone is rougher than usual, almost forced sounding. There’s something under it, though. Something tight. You’re too cold, too on edge, to figure out what it is. Standing out here, alone in the dark, Hawkins feels bigger and emptier, and your anxiety only gets worse the longer you hesitate.
So you don’t fight it, things feel desperate enough already. Despite how weird it is knowing you’re about to sleep in his house, knowing his mom would probably insist on feeding you breakfast, knowing Holly would be thrilled to see you in the morning. The thought almost makes you laugh. Almost. You can already imagine how much Mike would hate that.
You ignore your thoughts and clench your jaw, turning fully to face him, arms crossing over your chest. He’s standing a few steps away, but the cold has already turned his nose red. His eyes look glossy under the moons light, fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. You watch his throat move as he swallows, like he hadn’t meant to look at you that long.
You swallow back, forcing yourself to look away. You lift your chin and turn back toward the house. Without looking at him as you pass, the breeze carries his scent anyway. It’s faintly familiar, stronger than anyone else’s in the party, something you’ve always noticed and no one else. You shudder as you exhale, hearing him mutter something under his breath as you head straight for the basement, not checking if he’s behind you.
You drop your jacket and bag beside the couch but don’t sit. Instead, you stand there, take a slow breath, and stare at the basement door. You swallow, barely letting yourself question why you care so much about whether he comes down or not—barely letting yourself register the thought at all.
The doorknob turns. Mike steps inside, stops when he sees you standing there, and his face shutters instantly—cold, flat, unreadable. He shuts the door and walks down the stairs. “I’m only down here to say you need to be gone before you get invited to breakfast.” He stops at the bottom step.
You knit your brows and shake your head, looking away. “Okay,” you say, voice sharp. “Did you really have to come all the way down here just to say that?” The attitude slips out easily, even with the relief settling in your chest. You hate that it’s either this or walking home alone. You hate that this is the safer option.
He scoffs. “I’m not yelling from upstairs and waking someone up, dipshit.” You roll your eyes, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is down here. Just the two of you. Nothing to hide behind. There’s a pause before you notice the blanket behind him and move toward it. As you pass him, he speaks again.
“I don’t need any of the others knowing about this.” He speaks with a disgust dropping from his tongue. It’s blunt... It’s harsh. And it snaps something in you.
You spin around, dropping the blanket at your feet. “What the hell is your problem with me?” Your shoulders slightly raise, unable to ignore his attitude any longer.
The anger comes out, and it isn’t loud. It’s sudden and sharp, but something feels off with it. The fury burns in your chest, on your face, in your voice. And he falters. Just for a second. His brows lift, surprise breaking through before he scrambles to recover, stammering.
“I don’t know how the others don’t have one with you!” he snaps, the words coming out jagged and loud.
Your face twists, scrunching toward his absurdity. You swallow. “I would rather get fucking mauled out there than sit here and listen to your bullshit.” You turn, ready to storm off. Planning to go anywhere, anywhere but here, but before you can even take a full step—
“This is exactly what I’m talking about, you’re acting like a—“ he scrambles as his irritation falls through, but trails off and pierces his lips together before he says something vile, something he doesn’t really mean. Even he knows not to cross that line, no matter how hard he tries to believe it himself. Your eyebrows raise, and your lips part. You can only muster out a scoff, a humorless laugh falling out as you turn to face him. “Like a what?” You ask, daring him to finish that.
He’s quick to stammer again, but he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t even begin to look apologetic. His words just stumble out until he says something like “well, you—!” Getting ready to name all the reasons he hates you.
But before he can finish, or really even begin, you snap back and shove his shoulder. “Do you ever stop whining?!” you practically yell in his face, exasperated with his attitude. But he’s quick to get defensive at your touch.
“Don’t put your fucking hands on me,” he spits out, way too fast to be angry, his voice sharp and disgusted. He’s more appalled by your touch than pissed about the shove itself.
And then a beat passes. Two. You don’t even say anything back, you’re both just catching your breath, giving up. Mike’s jaw clenches, tight enough you can see it working, looking at you like he’s losing a war with himself. It feels like it stays this way forever. It feels like you’re losing one too.
Then his hands are on you.
After saying it, after warning you. After every ounce of hatred you thought he had, you thought you had, he’s pulling you into him. You groan into it immediately, a low, betrayed "ngh" that vibrates between you, hands flying up not to push him away but to grip, to pull. The same boiling hatred is now spilling from your lips, out of your throat, into your touch.
Fuck, you didn’t know he had it in him. He’s devouring your mouth like he’s been starving for it, like every mean comment, every snarl was just restraint from having you exactly how he wanted. Your feet dance around eachother as you move, never stopping, keeping your hands on eachother, bumping into the wall until he spins you and you feel yourself back into the table where the game pieces scatter.
You fail to hold back a whimper, tugging at Mikes collar and pulling him into you, opening your mouth to allow him entrance. He takes the bait immediately. His tongue found its way around yours, dancing like velvet waves, tasting way too sweet for the nasty words that would spill off of it. You back up onto the table, feeling the cool wood press against your thighs, and sit down, legs brushing the fallen dice, ignoring them completely as your focus is solely feeling him. You pull him closer, rougher than before even, like that hatred hasn’t gone away, only got fiercer.
He presses into you harder, hand sliding down your spine to grip your lower back, pulling you flush against him, pressing, demanding, nudging your knee aside as he steps further into you. “Fuck—Say it,” he murmurs, low and husky between kisses, “tell me to stop.” The heat of him pressed against you, the unrelenting pressure, makes the words impossible. You don’t tell him to stop. Instead, you wrap your legs around his torso, pulling him closer, bucking your hips, grinding, needing. He lets out a defeated “shit” before melting into your lips, fingertips roaming your back, brushing against skin that sparks like static.
Every move he makes has you kissing him harder, filthier, teeth nipping, tongue tangling messy and wet, another soft moan spilling out of you, "mmph, fuck." God, he tastes like sin, feels like it… all the sharp edges you’d been holding melt into something stupid and hungry between your thighs.
You hear your name fall from his lips in the sexiest, most annoying way—a low growl that makes your chest skip. Breath ragged, eyes locked, he starts, voice low and rough, “You better stop before I fuck you right h—” Just hearing it ignites something in you. All restraint evaporates. You cut him off by pulling him closer, grinding against him. The friction sparks something wild and unbearable.
Your hands move with a mind of their own, fumbling his belt, unbuckling, tossing it aside. You find the button, and work down the zipper. Your fingers linger over the waistband of his boxers, teasing, brushing, testing him. He bucks slightly, growling in frustration. The way his body reacts drives something primal in you… fuck, you wanted to ruin him. But he wanted to ruin you just as badly.
He buckles under your teasing, growling into your mouth, hands gripping your hips, tongue tracing your lips before shoving back in. He’s faster with your pants than you ever were with his—and now you’re in just your underwear and socks, shirt clinging stubbornly to your chest as if daring him. There’s a moment of vulnerability, a flash of shyness at being exposed like this, despite the fact you feel like an eager wolf foaming at the mouth to pounce on him right now.
You swallow, chest heaving, feeling the desperate softness in his gaze press into you. He looks… different. Pathetic almost, undone in a way that makes you thrum and ache. His sharp brows softened, a faint shadow of anger lingering, but a raw truth underneath, making you tremble.
Your brows curve the same way his do, and when your eyes finally meet, the two of you crash into each other’s lips again, this time pathetically desperate. You finish pulling his pants down, and he kicks them off. Dice clatter across the floor, barely noticed over ragged breathing and quiet moans.
Once both shirts are off and you’re in just underwear, he presses into the fabric covering you, and you gasp, hips jerking at the pressure. Your clit pulses against him, slick and throbbing, desperate for more.
You start rocking your hips immediately, rubbing yourself along his length, feeling him pulse and twitch behind the fabric of your underwear. He groans, low and broken, desperate and messy… it makes you clench tighter. You move in just the right way to force a real, unhidden moan out of him, and it sends shivers through you. He lifts your leg, propping your foot on the table, and the grip on your hips is so hard you can already feel the potential bruises forming, a sweet reminder for later. He thrusts harder, like he can’t wait. Even with panties on, it’s almost too much.
“I can fucking feel how wet you are through your—ffuck—” he breathes out, thrusting. You throw your head back, thighs clenching as you let out a moan. “Take it off,” you breathe, desperate, and with a nod, he pulls his boxers down, letting them pool at his feet. The slight bounce of him freeing himself has you staring, mouth gaping, struck by how hard, throbbing, and needy his dick is.
"So pretty…" you mutter, rubbing yourself along him slowly. His hands anchor on your hips, fingers digging in like a promise he won’t last long. You bite your bottom lip, teasing. Your fingers pull your panties aside slowly, drawing out the tension. He whimpers, curses, dick twitching as he looks at you. His eyes are wide and glossy, but not ruined—yet.
He bites his bottom lip, unable to take his eyes off you as fingers slide down, teasing between your lips. The sensation, already overwhelming, makes you clench, struggling to stay still. It’s not even for your pleasure but his own—just to feel you, to feel his fingertips get coated from you. He breathes out a shaky moan, stepping a little closer, his tip grazing your folds.
Your panties shift slightly after he dropped them, and that’s all it takes. He tears them off, tossing them across the room. Hands settle on your hips, teasing with the head of him, every movement deliberate and torturously slow. “Ssshitt—” he moans, saliva catching, eyebrows curved in frustration and need.
You rock your hips to match, every nerve screaming for more. “Mike…” you breathe, a low, needy plea. He twitches, puppy dog eyes desperate, faltering, barely holding back. “I need you…” you whisper, almost a whimper, but refusing to break eye contact. You notice him inhale and gulp, forcing a blink. “Yeah?" he breathes out, but it's shaky and uncontrolled. His cool front is instantly diminished. Because your words were all it took.
You grin toward his faltering demeanor, but he lets out an unsteady curse and pushes himself into you, wiping that grin off your face and forcing you to gasp. He groans, your walls clamping down around him almost instantly, moaning back. It’s messy at first, uncoordinated, every thrust uneven. But he finds a rhythm fast—his movements perfect for you. He gives neck kisses, lips back to yours, tongue teasing. Your body feels electric. Finally his fingers are on your clit, but he circles delicately, slow enough to make you whimper and curse, which has him groaning.
“Fucking harder, Mike—god!—” you curse, bucking, swallowing him deeper. You fuck back against his teasing. He falters instantly, shaky whimpers melting into your movements, gripping tighter, moans and curses spilling.
And just when he starts thrusting back into you, you stop, refusing to let him continue. The sudden halt sends him over the edge, and watching him get frustrated makes something coil tight in your stomach, your body on fire. “Fuck you,” he growls shakily, gripping you tighter. And now, in return he drills into you. Your moans are messier and louder, and you know you should be worrying about how thin these walls could be, but you can’t think of anything other than the stars Mike is fucking into your vision right now. His fingers aren’t teasing this time either. They’re hard, fast, merciless on your clit, and it’s nothing like you’ve ever felt. Even as he pounds into you, his face is ruined, desperate, pathetic, like he might break under the weight of his own need, and the sounds he’s making push your body further over the edge. His body takes control while his face looks like he’s losing it. Fuck yes.
You’re quick to start shaking under him, gripping his shoulders so hard you’re probably leaving marks, arching into him, trying to muffle your guttural moans into his neck as you finish. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, forcing him as far into you as he can go, and that makes him hit his own release, trembling against you. He nearly collapses on top of you, breaths loud and ragged, both of you trying to catch yourselves.
He pulls his head back slightly, still buried in your gaze, mouth open, breath heavy, taking in the wreck he’s made of you. He looks so fucking ruined, so fucking beautiful, and you hate it. His hair is tousled, eyebrows arched, eyes glossy, lips red and wet. Utterly pathetic, utterly him. You hate it. He hates it. And still, you crash into each other’s lips again, desperate, hungry, before he finally slides out.
After you’ve cleaned up, you sit on the couch, your bed for the night, while Mike stands a few feet away. He’s paying you no mind, grabbing something from the basement to bring upstairs—just some random object you barely notice. His movements are stiff, controlled.
“Goodnight,” he says, low and clipped, that old edge of coldness trying to creep back in. Trying to. You watch him with that frosty, deadpan face like you always did, but something playful skips in your chest. And you swear it does for him too. The way his chest heavily rises and falls might admit it for you. The faint scent of his hair, the way his fresh shirt clings onto him—it all presses in, and your stomach flutters painfully.
But then there’s a pause. He doesn’t walk, or, look away. He doesn’t even blink. You sit there, caught in the look that lasts a heartbeat too long, and you know... he’s not done. He swallows before moving toward you, too quickly to process exactly when he broke. It doesn’t matter; your mind goes blank the second his lips crash into yours again, melting you into him. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him the same way he’s needing you.
You curl together on the couch, grinding into each other despite being fully clothed. His warmth is seeping through, grounding you. This time, the way his hands brush your skin, the way he holds you so softly, the warmth and delicacy in his kisses… it makes you wonder. What came first? The hatred or the longing? Whatever it was, you knew.
Can I have a wholesome oneshot with Sonar/Civilian reader after the events of episode 8? (The route where Sonar joined the red ring instead)
Like the reader feels so betrayed hearing that he joined Red Ring, so now that he's back on the Z-team after defeating Shroud, maybe he's considering getting in touch with the reader again, apologizing after everything,
Then the reader decided to give it a 2nd chance
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟSONAR written by yaskore
warnings. ANGST!, lil argument, happy ending :p, language obv it's dispatch
a/n. I got carried away and made it angsty more than anything im sorry omgsh. and pls bare w me this is my first sonar fic and I haven’t wrote in monthsss
Scrolling through the newest article, his name lands in your chest the way it always does now—sharp, impossible to ignore. Except… this headline hits differently. It knocks the breath out of you, twists your stomach the same way it did that day. The day you found out.
"SONAR DEFECTS — RED RING CLAIMS NEW MEMBER."
The words still echo in your skull like a migraine you can’t shake. And after that day… you never heard from him again.
But now there’s a new article. Still his name. Same impossible weight. But a different world.
"SONAR RETURNS — Z TEAM WELCOMES BACK FORMER MEMBER AFTER RED RING DEFEAT."
Your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling. You knew about the fall of Shroud, of course—you kept up with every rumor, every shaky broadcast, every fragment of news, scanning the background of every clip, hoping, wishing he was alive. Hoping he was safe. Even knowing others weren’t, because of him. Because he chose that life. Because he chose this. Over you.
And yet, the second your eyes lock on the headline, the second you realize he’s okay—not locked away, not dead—something inside you splinters and shifts. Relief hits so hard it almost hurts. And immediately behind it comes the anger.
Anger at how fast people forgave him. How easily they said “welcome back” like nothing ever happened. Anger at the ones who spat venom, who treated him like he wasn’t human. Well, half-human. But still.
None of them were there, watching, waiting, worrying every night, replaying footage, trying to make sense of it all.
You’re still angry. Still hurt. Still carrying the version of him who left. But beneath it all, something fragile stirs. Hope. Tiny, stupid hope. The kind that whispers: Maybe this time he means it. Maybe this time he’s staying.
And you hate that you can’t stop listening.
Your phone vibrates. Familiar. Almost stinging. Every time you thought of him before, he’d text. But… you remind yourself that hasn’t been true since he left.
So then, you look.
And you stop breathing. Stop thinking.
His name—not the one in the articles—lights up your screen.
Victor.
The message is short. Simple. Something that would’ve been meaningless on a normal night.
"Can we talk?"
You just stare, dont even breathe.
At some point, the notification fades. It slides back into the phone, and it hurts more watching it disappear than it did when it arrived.
Your hands shake. You swipe down and tap it, just to be sure it’s real. Above it, your last unanswered, frantic messages stare back at you.
A hot wash of anger hits, then shame, then embarrassment, relief—all at once. You don’t even notice how long you’ve been staring until another bubble appears. Typing. Gone. Typing. Gone. A beat passes.
Finally, a half-buzz.
"Please,"
The comma hangs. It feels like he almost typed your nickname—the one he gave you the night you met, the one no one else ever used. The thought of him calling you that now freezes you in place.
You don’t even realize when you end up in the kitchen. Motion has always felt safer than feeling you guess.
You crack eggs too hard, spill sugar across the counter, forget to set a timer. Stress baking used to calm you down. Tonight, it just keeps your hands busy while your heart aches and your thoughts spiral.
You mutter under your breath as you stir, not talking to anyone really, hardly even yourself.
“He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to just—just text me and act like—”
You scoff, leaving the sentence unfinished. You don’t need to end it. Every unfinished thought ends the same;
I missed him.
The oven ticks. Cinnamon fills the air. And you’re still angry. You bury your face in your flour-covered hands, trying to breathe.
But you don’t get the chance to calm down before the glass door rattles. Your heart skips because of it's familiarity. Too familiar.
You freeze. No one should be up here, you're on the sixth floor. It's impossible. Not for him.
You already know.
Outside, on the balcony, wings half-extended, claws curling around the railing, is Sonar. In the version he always used to see you faster.
His eyes find yours through the glass, and it feels weird to look in them. They're not glowing with rage, not hungry with power. Not twisted like the Red Ring broadcasts. They're soft...painful. Almost unfamiliar. But only for a moment. Because you’ve never seen this much hurt in his eyes at once, it almost breaks you.
Time stretches. A long, fragile moment—neither of you moving, both breathing like it hurts, and you swear it does.
Until he shifts. His wings shrink, body folds into itself. The dark shape collapses into a familiar silhouette. Half-man again.
Victor again.
He lands on the balcony with a tired kind of grace, straightening slowly, smoothing his shirt, adjusting his tie. His hands tremble slightly, though he tries not to show it. His expression is worn, shadows under his eyes. Sadness you don’t recognize. Vulnerability you didn’t expect. Yet… he also looks like himself.
It hurts.
He swallows once, voice low and muffled through the glass.
“Hi.”
It sounds, feels unnatural and practiced. He knows it.
When you finally exhale, let your eyes blink long and slow, you meet his gaze again with a sharper glare. He nearly flinches—a subtle twitch of his ear. And for a moment, you almost give in.
With a sigh, you move toward the sliding glass door. You stop just short of the coffee table, studying him carefully, scanning for wounds, but more so drinking in the figure you never thought you’d see here again. Your eyes sting at the thought, never seeing him again, imagining him broken beyond repair. Your chest tightens, the ache curling into your throat, and he notices.
He steps forward instinctively, hands twitching because he can’t quite touch you, and not because of the glass between you.
He says your name, low, and even though you’re closer, it’s like the glass thickened between you. You barely hear it, but you watch it form on his mouth.
His fingertips ghost against the glass, hesitant. You can feel the tension coiling in your chest. You can’t just stand here. You know he won’t leave without at least one word. So you move toward the patio, unlock it, and slide the door open.
Up close, the air carries him. Fresh night air tangled with that familiar cologne—your apartment would hold onto it for days after he left. But all you do now is glare, even when he looks at you with those eyes you always folded for. Eyes with a new scar trailing under one.
Because fuck, you’re furious. Distraught.
Because he came back the old way, the familiar way. Like he still had the right to.
Because some stupid, selfish part of you is relieved beyond words that he’s standing here at all. Alive. Breathing. Looking at you like you’re someone he still remembers how to miss.
Your voice is quiet—breaking—but it cuts.
“You don’t get to show up here.” You say it like it hurts.
He blinks, a small shake of his head. He knows you’re right. He just doesn’t want it to be.
His mouth tries to find words—opens, shuts, opens again—he hasn’t heard your voice in months. You get there first.
“You joined a group that kills people like me,” you say quietly, hard to keep your voice steady. It comes out slow, because you’re still trying to understand, to make sense of what seems like the impossible.
He reacts fast. “I would never have let that happen.”
He steps forward too quickly, eyes wide. You instinctively step back, and he freezes mid step, hand almost reaching for you before retreating. A micro flinch, guilt flickering across his features.
“You couldn’t have stopped it,” you argue, a thin laugh tearing out at the absurdity. “I could’ve crossed the wrong street, gotten in one of their ways, and been dead—just like that.” Your voice rises under the heat that boils in your chest. You feel it pile up your throat and suddenly you’re nauseous.
“That would never—”
“What the fuck makes you think you could’ve prevented that?” you laugh bitterly, disbelief sharp as glass.
“I would’ve figured it out,” he says, and the nickname he gave you slips out like muscle memory. It stings. “I would’ve kept you saf—”
“Your DUMBASS couldn’t have controlled SHIT in the Red Ring—” you snap, scoffing. The sound of your nickname, his nickname, makes something in you crack.
“Fuck—yeah, I got that now,” he mutters, voice cracking slightly.
“Oh, do you?” you shoot back. Sharp. He flinches again, doesn’t even argue, and it hits you harder than the words.
Silence falls. Cold from the open door bites at your skin. You look away, lip quivering before you can stop it.
Hearing his voice again—low, flat, beautiful, that dry monotone only you ever learned to read—hits you in a way you’re not prepared for. Most people could never read him, thought everything he said sounded the same, so they assumed he always felt the same, or nothing at all.
But you always caught the tiny shifts, the barely-there changes no one else noticed. And now you hear them again, slipping out before he can stop them.
It punches right into your chest—warm and awful and confusing all at once.
You force yourself to focus on the anger instead… because if you don’t, you’re going to fall apart right in front of him.
You swing a hand at his shoulder, pushing him lightly.
“Fucking prick.”
Jagged words—half anger, half relief, half everything unnamed. You don’t meet his eyes.
Until you do.
And then you see him; brows drawn, eyes soft, guilty, bracing for your collapse. He steps forward—instinct. You step back—reflex.
“You left me,” you murmur, trembling.
He exhales, defeated. “I was being a selfish dick.”
“Pft—yeah—”
He cuts in, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking. I—I wish I had some noble reason, but I don’t. I was angry. Blinded by it.”
He looks away, swallowing shame. Then a beat—one line that sinks everything.
“I thought I wasn’t worth being loved by someone like you… so I made sure no one could love me.”
Your chest constricts. The apology finally lands. Nothing else matters in this moment but that one truth.
“I know I fucked up,” he whispers, trembling in a way you’ve never heard. “I went back to what I knew. I told myself it was better than dragging you down with me. But it was just… me being selfish.”
“…Scared.”
His eyes lift to yours. Raw. Pleading. You can’t lie now.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You stare. And then the ache rises—the one you’ve been suffocating since he left. It hurts. But it’s also relief. And grief. And something you can’t name.
You don’t fight it this time.
You step forward. A pause. Your hand hovers, half reaching, half uncertain. His breath catches. A beat passes, and then—into him. Into his arms. This is still where you go.
Your voice is barely there.
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
His breath catches once, then he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he loosens even slightly.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he whispers into your hair. “Me too.”
One sniffle is enough for him to thread a hand through your hair—gentle, trembling. He holds you like he’s terrified of breaking this moment… or losing you again.
You slide your arms up his back, relearning his weight. Your palms trace upward, memorizing his warmth, his breath. Nights spent staring at ceilings, wishing to see him on the Red Ring News broadcast just to know he was alive—every memory collides with now.
Your chest tightens, a soft sob escaping. He feels it and lowers his chin onto your head, a kiss landing in your hair. His hands rub your back, coaxing calm into your shaking body.
He doesn’t let go. Not now. Not after letting go before, thinking it kept you safe from the Red Ring, from him, from the darkness he thought he had to embrace. Never again.
He swallows hard, grounding himself, hiding the silent tear you don’t see.
You back up slightly, hands sliding down his arms to his elbows. You tilt your head, meeting eyes full of guilt, hope, and softness reserved only for you.
Trust won’t snap back instantly. But relief is fierce. And right now, it’s enough.
“Don’t leave me again,” you whisper, raw. Inch by inch, letting the healing begin.
His lips twitch faintly. “I won’t be selfish ever again,” he says, monotone sincerity in every word.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I didn't ask that much from you.”
He chuckles quietly—half relieved, half giddy. “Thank god.”
You snort. He mumbles, adding on “—cause I dunno if I could’ve done all that—”
But your hand finds his, warm and grounding. You squeeze gently, leading him inside.
He shuts the patio door behind him carefully, almost hesitant, like measuring if it’s okay to be here. The apartment smells like cinnamon from your stress baking, and a faint trace of your perfume. He inhales sharply, anchoring himself to you.
You don’t speak. Just watch him. Alive. Scarred. Real.
Then the moment holds. It's warm and quiet, you want to bathe in it.
And then the kitchen chaos hits.
“Oh my god—” you gasp, rushing toward the counter. “I— I didn’t even— this place is a MESS, I’m so sorry—”
Flour everywhere. Cinnamon on the floor. Dishes piled. You panic-clean, rambling, laughing too fast, filling the silence.
He doesn’t hear any of it.
He watches you, memorizing this—the domestic chaos, your hair out of place, the way you move. Like he never thought he’d see this again. Like blinking could erase it.
A hand gently stops your reach for cinnamon. You freeze.
You look up. His eyes are soft, unguarded.
He says your name. The one only he uses.
“Thank you.”
The fragility in his monotone, the slight crack in his voice—it chokes you up.
“For being the only person who cared whether I was dead or alive.” His thumb brushes your wrist. Warm and careful.
“-Even when I went completely batshit.” He tries to grin, tries to joke, but you hear the truth beneath it.
Your smile trembles, and you feel your chest ache.
“How could I not?”
You lift a hand and stroke the fur along his cheek. Slow and familiar, with him leaning into it briefly like he used to.
“Never thought I’d feel that again,” he murmurs, smiling into your touch.
You snort and flick his face before he gets too comfortable. “Yeah, well—don’t get used to it.”
His face drops. “Wow. Quick turn.”
You cross your arms. “I contain multitudes.”
He shakes his head with a scoff, that same old grin on his face, wandering to the pantry like muscle memory. You realize exactly what he’s about to find.
“Oh, shit!” he blurts triumphantly.
“You got twinks!”
You go red, rushing to snatch them. “No! You don’t get to have these, mister!”
He stares, slow, knowing. He doesn't even try to snatch them back, his eyes are intently on yours.
“…Why do you have twinks?”
You freeze. His eyes narrow. Smug, almost predatory.
“Wait.”
A smile spreads.
“You—”
“I eat them,” you blurt, too fast. “Since you left—”
Silence.
His grin spreads, wide, unstoppable. “Oh-hoo— that is fucking adorable—”
He scoops you up, spins you. Flour is everywhere. You just squeal.
“PUT ME—DOWN—!”
He laughs, tightening his hold. His face buries in your neck, his breath warm and teasing.
“Secretly hoped I’d break in at night and raid your pantry like the villain I was?”
“No!” you giggle, squirming. “Shut up—!”
His nose brushes yours. “So you missed me, huh?”
You hit his shoulders weakly, laughing too hard.
“Are you in love with me?” he asks, voice teasing. His arms tighten, accidentally tickling you.
You try to hold composure. “No—!” You protest, a little too quickly.
But your body betrays you. Legs kick. Hands clutch his suit. You’re holding on for dear life.
Because even if you say you want him to let go, you’re not sure you could stand it
You could barely touch the shower handle without Nanami showing up behind you—calm, composed, always with some half breath excuse. Because you two were everything but official.
“My hair needs washing anyway.”
“Haven’t seen you all day.”
But tonight? Tonight isn’t soft. There’s no pretense of routine or need for excuses.
The second the water started running, he was already there. Shoulders tense, tie still on, hunger written across every line of his face as he shoved open the bathroom door. And you, standing there shirtless, jeans halfway undone—you hadn’t even made it in yet before he was pressing in close, guiding your hands to his chest, his tie, his belt. Urging, wordless, like he couldn’t waste a single second.
And even though you always complain—roll your eyes, call him insatiable—you’ve never once locked the door. Because deep down, you want him like this. Unraveled. Unthinking. Making excuses just to share an intimate shower.
This time you wouldn't protest.
“Couldn’t wait?” you murmur, breath hitching as he closes the distance, his gaze heavy and unflinching.
Nanami ignores your words, just clenches his jaw, his eyes dragging over every inch of your exposed skin with that cold, quiet hunger that makes your knees weak. His hands find yours, steady but firm, and he brings them to the buttons of his shirt, then lower—to his belt, his zipper.
His voice, when it finally comes, is low and frayed. “Do it for me.”
After a teasing, bratty beat… You do.
You strip him bare with trembling fingers, brushing over muscle, skin flushed with restrained heat. His breathing stutters once when your hand grazes lower, but he holds himself still, like he’s letting you have this moment.
When you finally look up, his jaw is clenched, gaze burning into you.
Then, without a word, he sinks down and drags your bottoms down your legs, kneeling just long enough to make your breath catch. His hands are hot and reverent at the backs of your thighs as he helps you step out of them, fingers hooking into your panties next. He's wasting no time getting you exactly where he wants you. This time he wasnt worried about easing into it—all he knew was that he needed you now, craved you now.
He slides them down with an aching patience, leaning in to press slow, open mouthed kisses to your thighs. Your hand finds the back of his head instinctively, tangling your fingers the closer he gets to the inside.
And when he stands again, his chest brushes yours like he needs to feel every inch of you. He slips off his glasses, sets them on the counter behind you as you’re backed up against it, then grips the back of your neck—firm, possessive—drawing a moan from your throat. He hardly gives you any time to admire him without his glasses on.
That sound cracks something in him; his mouth is on your neck immediately after, as if it snapped the last thread of restraint. His teeth graze your skin, biting slow. Your fingers tangle in his hair.
He takes your hand again.
The glass fogs up as you step inside together, warm mist curling around your shoulders, his chest pressed to your back before the spray even touches your skin. And when his mouth finds your neck, open and needy, there's nothing sweet about it.
His teeth are grazing your skin, and he growls as he tastes you. His hands slide down your back to grip at your waist, your thighs, your ass, tightening his grasp to pull you in toward him more, the press of his dick against your ass startling you. If you couldn't see just how hard he was when you stripped him, you can sure feel it now.
You grunt as he shoves you up against the wall, steam curling around you both like it knows exactly what’s happening—thickening the air, feeding the tension. “Nanami—” you moan, already breathless, stunned by the rough handling. He hums in response, the sound nearly slipping into a low growl. You can’t help the way your back arches in response, chasing the sound like it’s his promise.
His hand finds the back of your neck, soft at first, not quite gripping yet. His fingers brush your skin in a slow drag. He leans in, lips near your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me have this…” The plea scrapes through his throat, and his grip tightens around your neck in that aching desperation for even the slightest sign of approval.
A soft whimper slips out, and your hand reaches back, fingers just grazing below his stomach, dangerously close. It’s all he needed to break.
His grip slips from your neck, hand shifting up to cup your jaw instead, thumb dragging across your skin. He rubs the head of his pulsing cock along your slick folds, slow and needy, savoring it. He groans—low, rough—at just how wet you are. And not because of the shower.
“Shit—you feel like you’ve been thinking about my dick all day.” His voice is a rasp against your skin as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, teeth dragging along your shoulder and down your back. He pushes into you slow, careful at first—but the second he feels the plush, wet heat of you, a low, wrecked groan spills out of him. “Fuck—“ he moans, head slightly tilting back. You don’t even get a chance to respond. Your body answers for you, tightening around him, clenching hard. The stretch alone pulls a gasp from your throat.
It wasn't long until his pace picked up immensily, he was fucking into you as if it were the last thing he'd ever experience. God, you felt good. God he felt good.
Too much.
You’re already moaning, hand reaching back to push at him—he’s so deep, and somehow still driving deeper. Fast. Hard. Relentless. Fuck, you don’t know what got into him. Maybe he’d been holding back for too long.
His breath is ragged, grunts torn straight from his chest, and it’s like he’s working through every inch of want he’s ever buried. And Nanami, he might not say much, but god does he makes the most beautiful fucking noises when losing control.
He grabs your wrist with his free hand, holding you still—denying you even the smallest chance to push him away or slow him down. His breath is hot in your ear as he growls through it, voice unraveling.
“Yeah, you’ve been thinking of me—fuck, so wet—“
His grip tightens, like your wrist is the only thing keeping him grounded. The other hand fists into the soft flesh of your ass, grabbing, fingers digging in. And every sound you make—every loud moan, every breathless cry of his name—he fucks you deeper, slower, shuddering with each pulse of your body around him.
He lets go and grabs your face, yanking it to the side for the sloppiest, noisiest, most breathless kiss—like he’s proving a point, like he needs you to know no one else could give it to you like this. And fuck is he right.
You didn’t know he could be this raw, this desperate. His tongue traced your lips as much as it plunged inside, licking your neck like he wanted to taste you, nibbling your earlobe before diving back down your throat, swallowing every moan. He gripped your neck whenever you couldn’t return his kiss, getting too loud.
You'd moan his name, "Nanami—Na—fuck nanami—" loud, broken, breathless. He had you sounding like a nasty fucking pornstar and he loved it.
A sharp inhale. "Yeah keep fucking saying my name like that—"
And anytime you imagined it couldnt get deeper, rougher, needier, he makes it happen everytime you say his name, everytime you curse and it trails off into something close to a scream.
His fingers shook against your skin, not from nerves, but from desperation, raw need. Even in this moment, as he was taking you.
His need may seem unspoken, but it sure wasn't quiet. And the bonus? He was actually able to make you feel good. And the bonus bonus? That seemed to get him off even more.
Even if you wanted to, he barely gave you the chance to bounce on him the way he was pounding into you. It was like he was determined to keep you from doing anything but making those pretty sounds and taking him exactly how he wanted.
Without missing a beat, he flipped you over, lifted you up, and drove into you again, unapologetically. Now on top of him, you could finally move freely—bouncing in midair. It only made him louder, more desperate. Your skin slapped hard and wet as he stuffed himself all the way into your guts.
You barely had a chance to find a steady rhythm—his pace was so relentless it kept you off balance, making it hard to move how you wanted. Your body was on fire, every nerve alive, and even if you’d already come a couple times, his hard, deep thrusts pushed you right into another, more intense wave. The slick sliding down him was all you, and it felt like he’d been inside your head the whole time, blurring everything except the way you two fit together.
You’ve never seen him look so raw, his eyes burning with hunger, lips parted and glossy, brows furrowed in need...those sounds spilling out.
Your hands clutch his broad shoulders, nails digging in desperate and hard. That’s all it takes, because its as if he snaps into overdrive, pushing deeper, grunting louder, cursing your name like it’s his lifeline. His grip on your ass tightens, holding you close as he drives into you with even more ruthless precision, hitting every spot he never once missed.
Your name left his mouth like a prayer he’d been trying not to say. He watched you like he was trying to memorize you—like he’d lose you the second he blinked.
“You’re so—” he moans, pushing deep, “fucking good.” His voice is rough as he drives into you harder, pressing you down onto him. A sharp gasp escapes you, your back arching, nails sinking deeper into his shoulders.
But even after he rode out his own orgasm, warm, thick cum spilling deep inside you, followed by messy groans and breathless moans as he looked down at the ruined, broken mess he’d made of you, that hunger never left his eyes.
He wasn’t done with you yet, and suddenly, the line between fear and excitement blurred completely.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟSave a Horse, Ride a Cowboy, written by yaskore
A muttered, stupid joke meant to be missed—but he understood—and suddenly, restraint is a memory.
+SMUT, light aftercare, friends to lovers
He’s standing in the doorway in that damn outfit—the one you always swore you hated, always made fun of. The one from that picture you called ridiculous, even though you secretly zoomed in on it more times than you’d ever admit.
That stupid cowboy hat tipped just right, that camo jacket layered over a hoodie, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You want to laugh, tell him he looks ridiculous, but the words stick in your throat. Because he looks good. Damn good.
His head tilted just a little, one shoulder dipped, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smirk. Mocking himself before you can. Waiting for the eye roll, the cringe face, the same old shit you always throw at him.
But this time you don’t. This time you can’t.
You want to laugh, roll your eyes, but your throat tightens instead. The silence stretches, thick enough you could almost reach out and touch it.
His eyes catch yours, and something flickers there, like he’s daring you to break first. You shift on your feet, hands fidgeting, heart too loud in your ears.
“Save a horse or whatever,” you blurt out, the words almost embarrassing in their awkwardness, but at least they’re words. You scoff them out, a joke.
Atfer a shocked brow raise, he grins slow, like he just unlocked some secret.
It was a lazy joke. A safety net. You didn’t even say the full line—too chicken to risk it. But the moment it leaves your mouth, you kind of regret it. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because it wasn’t a joke. Not really.
You keep your eyes low, hoping he’ll just laugh it off like always. But he doesn’t. He goes quiet—just for a second too long.
You peek up.
His eyes are still locked on you, but now his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, slow, purposeful. His expression shifts into something you can’t name—like he heard every single word you didn’t say and understood them better than you did.
And then he moves—just slightly. His shoulders drop, the fake pose fading out, and now he’s just... standing there. Still. Watching you like he’s done pretending he doesn’t see what’s going on here. Like he’s ready to admit it.
That’s when the nerves finally hit you. Not all at once—just a slow curl of something fluttery and sharp that builds in your throat. Your chest feels tight, your legs fidget, your hands suddenly don’t know where to go. Because now it feels real.
Now it feels like he knows.
His throat bobs with a swallow. He doesn’t move much—just a step in, enough to leave the door open behind him but close the space between you. Close enough that you feel it shift. Like the joke’s over. Like the bit’s fading out, and something else is settling in its place.
His eyes stay locked on yours, but there's something different now—like he's squinting just a little, trying to see you clearer. Trying to put something together that just clicked.
Then, slow and a little rough in the chest, he murmurs, “You like this cowboy, huh?”
His voice isn't just teasing anymore. There’s a note of realization in it now. Like he’s saying the words for the first time but thinking them for a while. Like it’s just now sinking in that maybe you weren’t actually clowning the outfit in that picture—maybe you were deflecting. Trying to keep something to yourself.
And now he knows.
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the grin that’s starting to pull at his lips shuts you up fast. It’s not the usual smug smirk—it’s softer, curved with something closer to curiosity, maybe a little satisfaction. Like he’s watching something finally make sense. Like all the teasing, all the eye rolls, all the “you look ridiculous” comments are starting to sound more like cover ups than insults.
That realization—his realization—makes your skin heat up fast. You shift your weight, try to play it off with a small scoff, but you don’t say anything. Your gaze drops to his mouth again for a second too long. Rookie mistake.
He sees it. Of course he sees it.
“You didn’t hate it. You were into it.”
That slow, crooked smile starts to take over his face. He tilts his head like he’s studying you, like he’s proud of himself for catching it before you could bury it again.
You shift again. Your lips twitch like you’re going to say something sarcastic, but it doesn’t come out. It’s like your mouth forgot how to form a comeback the second he walked in looking like that and figured you out in one go. You just scoff.
“...Ride a cowboy, right?” He adds.
His smile tugs deeper, dragging a laugh out of you you didn’t mean to let out, a quick breathy one that gets stuck in your throat. You look away as if he’s ridiculous, but your heart hammers.
Your flustered reaction gives him all the answers he needs.
“What?” he breathes out a laugh. “You said it.”
You go quiet, brows raised, like you didn’t just lob the perfect setup straight into his hands.
“Not that part…” you mumble, voice low, barely there, eyes darting to the side like that’ll help.
“What?” He leans in slightly. “Didn’t think I’d catch that, huh?” He raises his brows.
You feel him in your space before he’s even touched you.
He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek now, fighting back either a smirk or an awkward blurt out—either way, it’s not helping. His eyes linger like he’s waiting for something.
You shake your head a little, barely, and that was it.
“No?” he murmurs, that teasing tone and smile never faltering. You swallow as he nears, slowly.
“No,” you mutter, more to yourself than him. But he’s so close now, towering over you a little… Even though he was basically making fun of you it didn’t feel like he was entirely opposed.
Theres a flicker of nerves in the way he teases, but that was just his awkward nature.
“Yeah?” he shoots back, eyebrows raised, voice curling around the word like it’s a joke just for him. He bites down on his bottom lip as he moves forward.
His hand brushed up, fingers warm and sure, catching your chin. You felt the slight callous of his thumb as it traced the curve of your jaw, and the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with something muskier.
He hesitates not once, not even for a beat, eyes dead on your mouth. “C’mere,” he says, low and rough, it’s obvious he shifted into hunger.
And just like that, his lips are on yours, quick and claiming. What started slow and curious quickly shifts, turning rough and urgent. When you finally pull back for a breath, he groans low before diving right back in, deepening the kiss. The sudden shift in the air practically punched you.
His tongue finds yours with a hunger that matches the way his hands grip your hips tighter, pulling you closer. You moan softly into his mouth, and it only makes him need you more. You didn’t know he could be like this.
He’s not really being dominant or submissive, there’s something raw and possessive in how he holds you, like he’s both desperate and in control all at once. His touches are firm but almost needy, and the sounds he makes—half growl, half sigh—tell you exactly how much this means to him. It’s messy and perfect. You don’t regret for a minute anymore blurting out what you did.
Then suddenly, he lifts you up, and you barely have time to react before he spins you, his back hitting the bed as you find yourself straddling him.
Your legs rest on either side, but you shift quickly, pressing down just where you know he wants. Why waste time now?
You feel him tense beneath you, his brows drawing together as he looks up at you—eyes dark, intense, and a little vulnerable. Ugh god he's gorgeous.
In that moment, he’s both giving in and taking over, and that mix of control and surrender, it pulls you in deeper.
You didn’t even bother with the slow teasing, no taking his shirt off first, no curious touches. Your fingers found the belt loop of his jeans, tugging gently like you couldn’t wait any longer. Your lips pressed together, that embarrassed but desperate look creeping back.
He shoots you a hesitant look. “You sure?” His voice was softer now, almost like he was asking himself as much as you. But there was this rasp, like he was holding back something, something urgent, that was starting to break through with every move you made on top of him.
You swallowed hard, trying not to sound too needy, even though you were. But your hips gave you away anyway. You shifted, grinding down slow and steady, chasing that friction. He let out this sharp breath, barely a gasp, and his hands dug harder into your hips, holding on tight. His eyes fluttered closed for a split second before snapping right back up, locked on you.
“I wanna ride,” you mutter, almost like a whimper—needy, barely holding back. You said it in your own way, just light enough to feel teasing, but the truth was, you’d been wanting to say it all night. Especially ever since he’d walked out in that damn cowboy outfit.
He hummed low, that slow sound like he was savoring it, then murmured, “Mm, horses to save..” His lips twitched into the smallest, playful grin from his joke, but his voice stayed breathy. His eyes never left your hands as they worked at his jeans—unbuttoning, pulling the zipper down, dragging them low enough to reveal the pulsing bulge in his boxers.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sight, biting your lip as your body betrayed you in every little noise you tried to hold back, just by being where you were.
He didn’t get a chance to do anything. You were straddling him, grinding down with this desperate kind of pressure that made his whole body jerk beneath you.
It was instinct. You didn’t think. You just needed.
He gasped before he even meant to—this broken, breathy sound from somewhere low in his throat, sharp and almost in a growl. “Agh—”
His head tipped back like he was overwhelmed already, his hands flying to your hips like they could ground him, but his grip said otherwise. He was holding on, hard, fingers digging in like he was scared you'd stop.
You didn’t. You couldn’t.
You were soaked through, and even with the thin layer of your underwear and his boxers between you, you felt how hard he was, how bad he wanted this. Wanted you.
He whispered your name, barely, but it hit different this time. Like he was trying to get a grip, to beg, or both. You just moved faster, pressing down harder, letting yourself chase the friction you needed so bad it made your stomach twist.
“F-Fuck—” he hissed, voice all wrecked and helpless as your name spilled out again, one hand clenching at the sheets while the other stayed locked on your hip like he could control any of this. He was right at the edge of something and you could feel it. Every twitch of his hips, every stuttering breath.
And still, his hands moved like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to push you down harder or pull you off before he came undone. His self control was hanging by a thread.
You didn’t let up. Not when you felt how wet you’d made him through the fabric, not when you caught the soft little growl that left him as he bucked his hips up into you, chasing more.
It was messy now, needy, your rhythm a little off from how hard you were both breathing, from how fast your pulse was racing. Your fingers trailed up, teasing the waistband of his boxers, watching his stomach clench and his lips part. His breath stuttered out and his head dropped back for a second like he couldn’t take watching you do this. He adjusted his hat after.
You were quiet now, lips parted, breathing just as rough as his, eyes flicking from his face to his boxers and back. Watching him fall apart like this, because of you, was turning you on more than you could ever say.
Then you tugged his boxers down, slow but firm. And when his dick finally sprang free, he looked up at you—eyes wide, lips parted, his expression somewhere between a little shy and completely wrecked.
The thinnest strands of his pre cum or your wetness still clung to his skin, sticky and stringing in faint little webs across his stomach as his dick twitched above his navel—bobbing, glistening, way too hard.
You nodded toward his jacket, “I want…”
Your hand slid up his stomach, feeling every little flex and stutter of breath under your palm. He was so warm. You pushed the fabric of his hoodie up just a bit.
“I want it off,” you murmured in a plea.
And of course, of course, he gave you that look—the twitch of a smug grin pulling at his lips like he was about to say something slick, tease you before obeying. But your head started to lower before he could even get a word out, eyes still locked with his the whole way down. His smug grin faltered as his eyes followed yours.
Whatever he’d been planning to say died in his throat the second your tongue touched the head of his cock. Slow, soft, swirling. Your spit dripped off your tongue as you started to take him deeper, and that noise, God, that groan he let out, rough and completely unfiltered, his head was falling back against the pillows.
His hands flinched at his sides like he was about to reach for something—maybe your hair, maybe anything to ground himself—but he was too focused on the way you felt.
And now he obeys, taking the hint as he peels his jacket off with some fumbling, tossing it somewhere as your mouth worked over him, and when his hoodie finally hit the floor too, you caught a glimpse of his hat off. He took it off to be able to pull his hoodie off his head, but you werent done with it yet. Giving him a slow stroke you perched it right back on his head. You couldn’t even help the noise that slipped out of you, low and breathy. You hummed.
He looked stupid good like this.
But the second you started to pull back from fixing his hat, his hand wrapped around your neck, gentle but firm, slowly guiding you back closer to him. His eyes are on yours so intensely your heart skips.
His lips crashed into yours before you could think to say a thing. Messy, warm, hungry. The brim of the hat knocked lightly into your forehead at first, but you didn’t care. Neither did he. His hand was already on your thigh, lifting you up and over until you were straddling him again, right over his cock—your dampness pressing into him just right.
You moaned into the kiss without meaning to, and that only made him smile against your mouth. One of those stupid, perfect smiles you could feel with your whole body.
His fingers found your panties and wasted no time. Hooked them. Pulled. Down your thighs, past your knees, off completely. He didn’t even break the kiss.
Then his hand slipped back down, between you, and when his finger finally slid between your folds, slow and warm, teasing—you jolted. He rubbed circles into your clit like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t care how desperate you were starting to sound. You moaned into his mouth again, hips bucking for more.
But he just smirked against your lips. And didn’t speed up.
His finger moved in those slow, maddening circles that made your stomach tighten and your legs twitch around his hips. He was so damn calm about it, watching the way your breath caught and your mouth parted mid kiss like he had nothing better to do than unravel you one flick at a time.
Your hand found the side of his neck, thumb brushing along his jaw as you broke the kiss, panting against his mouth. “Hamzah,” you breathed out like a warning, or maybe it was a beg.
But he didn’t stop. If anything, his touch softened just a little, like he wanted to savor the exact moment you lost it.
"Yeah?" he murmured, voice low, almost lazy. But his eyes, they were locked on yours, watching every single flicker of your expression like he needed it memorized. Like he just wanted to watch you fall apart first.
You tried to grind down harder against his hand, but he caught your hips again, holding you still. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face gently—too gently for how mean he was being right now—and tilted your head to look directly at him.
“Slow down,” he whispered. “I wanna feel everything.”
And fuck, he meant it. His thumb brushed up to your clit now, rubbing with a firmer rhythm, and your head dropped to his shoulder with a quiet, broken moan. You couldn’t even think. Your thighs were already twitching, your arms tightening around his shoulders just to stay upright.
You could feel how hard he was under you, the way his dick twitched every time you whimpered, but he still wasn’t rushing. He was breathing hard, like this was torturing him just as much, but he held back.
One second you were nearly falling apart in his hand, so, so close, and the next he stopped abruptly once you got a little too loud. Your eyes shut hard as you curse under your breath, a whimper trailing it off. You crumble on top of him, shuddering in the loss of his touch. You don't give up then though, a quick groan spilling out as you straighten your back again.
You didn't wanna wait any longer.
Your hand wrapped around him, guiding him right to your entrance with trembling fingers and a breath caught in your throat. Then you sank down immediately, no teasing, no pause. Just the sudden, full stretch of him filling you so deep you gasped, your head falling forward, your hands bracing on his chest.
“Fuck—” he growled, the word punched out of him as his back arched. “God, you feel—”
You didn’t let him finish. You started moving. His hands flew to your hips, fingers digging deep into your skin.
Grinding down first, slow and heavy, rolling your hips in hard circles just to watch him fall apart. Then your pace picked up. You rose and dropped again, and again—fast, hard, like you needed to feel every inch over and over. His name came out of you in a broken moan as your rhythm built, thighs slapping against his, wet and raw and loud.
You were riding him like you were starved for it.
One hand planted on his chest, the other gripped his forearm like it anchored you. Your body bounced, the motion frantic, your hips slamming down onto him again and again, swallowing him whole each time. You were chasing it—the pressure, the friction, the heat—riding like you didn’t care about anything else except the feeling of him inside you. You fixed his hat for him in the middle of it.
“Jesus—” Hamzah’s voice cracked as his hands flew to your waist again, fingers digging in tight. “You’re—shit, you’re gonna—fuuckk, riding me like that—” he trailed off into more messy moans, groans, even some whimpers as he bucked his hips urgently into you at the same time you bounced.
But you didn’t slow down.
You leaned in close, hair spilling around your face, lips brushing his ear as you tried to hold it together, tried to whisper something steady, but it broke apart the second you felt him thrust just right. “Keep fucking—m-moving like that,” you gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush of air and need. Your head dropped to his shoulder, burying into the curve of his neck as a shattered moan tore from your throat “Fuck—!”
He groaned so loud it echoed off the walls.
Pulling yourself together, even in the breathless, sweaty mess you are now, your pace only got rougher, your thighs flexing, your whole body working to take every inch, to use him until he was a mess beneath you. His hips bucked reflexively, chasing your rhythm, lost in the heat and pace you set.
“Look at you,” he panted, almost dazed, “riding me like you own me.” He trails off in a beautiful grunt, a shakey moan, gripping you even tighter it were sure to mark. You sure hoped it would. You'll take any reminder you can of this moment.
And maybe you did own him now.
Because when your fingers found his jaw, when you made him look up at you—face flushed, mouth parted, eyes dark—you saw it. The way he looked at you like he’d give you anything. The way his moans turned to pleas, his hands tightening, urging you faster, harder. How he was once the one in control, and now so utterly consumed.
You slammed your hips down, gasping when he hit the deepest spot inside you. That was it. That push over the edge. The burn in your thighs, the shockwave building in your gut, it hit hard, crashing into you. And the way his hat couldn’t stay still on his head somehow made it hotter.
Your climax took you by force. You came with a cry, hips stuttering, your body shaking so bad you collapsed forward into him, clinging to his shoulders as he kept fucking up into you through it, fast and needy, chasing his own high.
“Fuck—” he gasped, “gonna cum—shit—”
And then he did…hard, hands holding you down on him, voice breaking as he cursed and spilled deep inside you.
You stayed there, panting, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, your bodies flushed and sticky and trembling against each other.
He never stopped moving beneath you, his hips still bucking up into yours, not fast, but deep, purposeful. Each thrust dragged a new whimper or gasp out of you, his breath ragged against your skin. And somehow, like he could feel it building in you again, his fingers found your clit. He didn’t ease into it this time, he pressed hard, rubbing fast, tight circles until your hips started moving on their own again.
You were riding him again, this time completely for yourself, chasing the second orgasm no one had ever gotten you close to before. And somehow, this one was even better.
Your back arched, hips grinding and lifting with a rhythm so frantic and greedy it made him groan your name, swearing under his breath as the sensitivity started to hit—but he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not when you looked like that, unraveling on top of him, using his body like it was yours.
And then you broke, your moan sharper, louder this time, calling out his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say. You collapsed against him after, chest heaving, face buried into the crook of his neck, breathless and boneless and wrecked.
The room was quiet now, safe for the sound of your breathing, still uneven, still a little shaky. You were sprawled on top of him, skin warm and flushed, your legs twitching with leftover pulses that refused to settle. His arms stayed wrapped around you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles against the small of your back. No words yet. Just the sound of your heart slowing in your chest, and the rise and fall of his against yours.
His hand rubbed up and down your back carefully, like he wasn’t sure if it was what you wanted, wasn’t sure if you were okay with what just happened.
But after a long pause, he muttered under his breath, voice still a little hoarse, “You should probably pee.”
You snorted into his shoulder, caught so off guard you laughed in your throat. “Cute.”
“I’m helping,” he said, quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest grin. Then he shifted a little, brushing your hair away from your cheek, his hand resting against the side of your face for a beat longer than it needed to.
He didn’t say anything else. Just carefully eased you off of him.
He moved around the space like it was his. Like he already knew where everything was. Adjusted the water until steam began to curl up from the tub. You watched from your bed, able to look into the bathroom and see what he’s doing.
You can't help but smile, watching him test the water and jerking his hand back when it was too hot. He was a clumsy mess, but in the most beautiful way.
Because he's just here, taking care of you when he didn't need to.
a/n. hi sorry if this sucks i think i hate writing smut but i also love it idk ok, bye
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟHigh Enough to Mean It, written by yaskore
warnings. 18+!!, smut, friends to lovers, emotionally loaded, smoking!weed, angstyish
wc. 3k
Sitting by the window, you get nostalgic from an old routine you used to do before things got too busy. The air’s cool, the stars are actually visible, and everything feels like how it used to feel.
“When’s the last time we did this?” You rest your elbows so your hands are hanging out the window, feeling the breeze.
“Before everything got fast.”
It's quiet for a moment, so you turn your head to look at him. He’s holding up a joint like a peace offering as he shrugs at your question. “Wanna make it slow again?”
You don’t answer. Just lick your teeth and smile, leaning into the breeze as you wait for him to light it.
You don’t look at him as he does but you can hear the flick of the lighter and a quiet inhale. A moment later, smoke curls past your shoulder. He passes it over without a word.
You take it—slow—and lean out the window again, letting the cold air pinch your face. The first drag is always the roughest. You cough once, laughing under your breath. He laughs too, low and warm.
The smell poisons the air around you, but the faint scent of fresh air from outside the window peers through beautifully.
You clear your throat, face slightly scrunched. "I'll never get used to the taste."
He scoffs. "Just been out of practice."
A beat passes—he lets the teasing fade away.
"Me too though." He nods, grinning as he looks down. His teeth catch just a little in the glow of the lighter.
You watch his profile for a second too long. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and doesn’t mind.
But before you let yourself sink any deeper into how good he looks in the low light—the way the flame casts his features in that soft, amber glow—a song starts playing behind you. One you’d forgotten you loved. It hits you like a memory, slow and aching, with a beat that makes your heart feel like it’s dragging its feet.
The corner of your lip twitches into a soft smile. “Remember this one?” you ask.
He nods, eyes half-lidded. “You used to play it on loop. Back when you thought sad songs made everything feel more romantic.”
“They still do.” You snort, rolling your eyes.
“Yeah…” he inhales, eyes flickering to you, “I guess they do.”
He looks straight at you as he speaks, taking in the joint without breaking eye contact for a single second. Your gaze drops to his lips when he pulls the joint away, and you feel the weight of it…he noticed.
After a few quiet hits passed between you, you ease yourself onto the windowsill, the ledge just wide enough to hold you. Your knees draw in slightly, the night air brushing soft against your bare skin.
The tension is low—there and buzzing—but low.
Until the song makes it to that part. And suddenly everything hits you.
This is where you remember the song from, how could you have missed it? You try to push it aside, but your heart aches low in your stomach.
Does he know this song like you do? Is he hearing it the same way? Does he remember?
Your body aches to bring it up.
"God, I haven’t heard this song since..." You trail off, inhaling deeply. You couldn't not say something. You've been not saying something since that night.
"Yeah." His voice is soft, but there’s something there. Does he remember?
He hands you the joint again. Your fingers brush briefly, a jolt running through you. Too quiet, too significant to ignore.
You meet his eyes, and realize he's been watching you—his gaze steady. You swallow hard, bringing the joint to your lips.
"That night." he answers, casually, but there’s something underneath—something you can’t quite pinpoint. It makes your skin prickle nevertheless.
His words catch in your throat, and when you exhale, you cough a bit, the air suddenly thick with tension. You nearly forget to hand him the joint again as you catch his eyes in yours.
You swallow any cough that wants to come up again hard, already embarrassed at your very obvious reaction to his words.
"You remember." You mutter, not sure if it's a question or not. You kind of hoped he'd answer. But he doesn't. He just takes another hit.
Did you sound casual enough? Did you care to?
You clear your throat. It's silent for a moment before your mind gets the best of you.
“You ever think about that night?” you ask, not even sure which part you mean—just that it’s been replaying in your head since it almost happened. Since it didn’t.
He exhales smoke out the window, then looks at you, eyes flicking down to the joint before passing it over. He swallows before answering, voice low and slightly breaking. “All the time.”
You take it, but don’t hit right away. Your mind’s moving quicker than your mouth, and your chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke.
“But we never…” you trail off, barely. You were gonna find the words but he spoke up too quickly.
“Nope.”
Your gaze snaps to his. And of course, he’s already looking.
The look on his face, the linger in his gaze, it only shows he was saying it in a way that was like, but I wish it had. Or maybe, I think about if it had all the time.
Maybe. Or maybe it was just you.
“And we just… moved on.” You say it more to yourself, eyes falling to the joint between your fingers. But the weight of it sits there between you anyway. You shift your knees, your free hand rubbing your leg soothingly.
“I didn’t move on,” he says, shaking his head slightly. His voice dips low. “Just got good at pretending.”
You don’t even think before you push it: “Why?”
He swallows. You catch the subtle shift in his face before he moves his gaze, eyes dragging behind you and out the window.
He tries to answer. Fails. Scoffs softly, tries again.
“I didn’t think you felt it too.” His voice falters—breaks a little—but he got it out.
And your breath catches. You start to ask how he could think that, but he cuts you off.
“I couldn’t risk ruining us over something I imagined.”
“But it wasn’t imagined,” you say quietly. “It happened.”
“No. That’s the thing. It didn’t.” He shakes his head, scoffing a laugh to lighten the mood.
You’re about to argue otherwise when he speaks again, quicker this time—like the words had been sitting in his throat too long.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” He forces out.
Your brows furrow. He won’t look at you, so you look at him. The muscles in his jaw dance as his teeth clench, composing himself. Atleast in an attempt to.
“Because every time I almost did, you looked fine without it.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you bring the joint to your lips to hide it.
You take the hit slow, the smoke curling from your lips as you exhale out the window. His eyes finally come back to you—softer now, like he’s seeing you differently. Seeing the situation differently.
“You really thought I didn’t feel it?” you ask, quieter this time, like the air itself might shift if you say it too loud. You don't move your head to face him.
He shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s careful. “You didn’t do anything.” He scoffs a dry laugh, the corner of his lips tugging into an awkward smile.
“Neither did you.” You shrug.
His smile falters, expression softer as he finds your eyes. He swallows, ditching his attempt at escaping the tension.
“I almost did.” He leans back a little, head tilted against the wall, like the memory itself is pulling at him. “I wanted to.”
You shift your weight, pulse crawling up your neck. The joint burns low between your fingers.
“I thought about it every night,” you admit, not looking at him. “I couldn’t sleep for a week, just…” you exhale, “kept wondering if you were gonna bring it up.”
“I didn’t sleep either,” he says. “I wanted to. Bring it up—I mean. I just…" he sighs in defeat.
You glance up. “And now?”
He doesn't blink, just allows a breath before speaking. His expression softens as he studies your face, looking at you with gentle attention.
“Now you’re sitting here, that song’s playing. You looked at me like you did then, and...it feels like the exact same night.”
It’s quiet again, but now the silence is charged.
Your eyes were slipping lower with every breath. So were his. He looked unfair like this—soft in the low light, the edge of his jaw catching the glow, glasses slightly fogged from the warmth between you. He always did something to you, but like this? It was harder to hide.
And you were high enough to mean it.
He shifts, slow and deliberate, cracking his neck, adjusting in his seat like the tension got to him too.
His leg bounces, and it brushes the one of yours that's dangling out the window. A quiet jolt forces your leg to twitch—like your skin remembered him, remembered wanting.
You become suddenly aware of how close your legs are—how one shift could touch him. You were quietly glad you wore shorts today, as did he. The subtle skin to skin could do it for you.
His eyes dip to your mouth like he’s remembering all the ways he didn’t touch you. The ways he wanted to.
You didn’t notice how the wind moved through your hair so gracefully, or how the moonlight lit up the side of your face just right. How the weed left your eyes a little red, your eyelids lower. How the cold turned your nose pink and made your lips slightly fuller, redder.
You didn't see it.
But he did.
And he didn't know how not to anymore.
"Ask me something,” he says suddenly, his voice low, rough with something barely contained.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Just… get me out of this moment.” He exhales shakily, the sound of it flushing your cheeks.
“Avoiding more almosts?” you tease, trying to hide the satisfaction his blushing gives you.
He huffs a soft breath. “Is that your question?”
You both laugh quietly, the sound curling around the edges of the tension. You’re still stuck in the pull of the last moment, but now it’s a game—innocent questions passed back and forth like smoke from the joint.
“One question each. No lying, no dodging.”
It starts easy—favorite childhood snack, first crush, biggest fear. Light enough to breathe in.
Until he looks at you. Serious now, yet still teasing at the edges.
“Did you want to kiss me that night?”
Your lips part, but the words get caught somewhere between your chest and throat. You want to speak, but his gaze holds you—and shyness creeps. You inhale.
"Every time you looked at me that night... I thought you might." Your eyes catch his.
“And I was ready if you did."
No hesitation now.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and you see it—a silent signal, a shift. His breath is shallow, his chest tight, but his face remains unreadable—guarded, yet unmistakably hungry.
Every passing second makes it harder for him to compose himself.
“I..” he starts, looking down and scoffing. “I hated how quiet we got after.” He hesitates, almost reluctant. “And pretending like we didn’t care…” he trails off, shaking his head.
It feels like he’s been starving for this moment. You let it hang in the air, thickening, until it feels like it might swallow you whole.
His brows furrow slightly as he gives in to honesty. To confession. “But I care,” he whispers, lifting his gaze to yours, then down to your lips.
“I care,” you repeat, your voice barely audible, but it carries all the weight of everything unspoken between you.
Then, after a beat, his finger brushes the inside of your calf, trailing slowly up your leg. A shiver runs through you.
Before you can react in anyway other than your breath hitching in your throat, his voice comes out again. Softer now, but a need is unmistakably in tone.
Your name. Just your name. careful, breathless, awaiting permission.
You felt it settle beneath your skin. Your heart stutters at its simpleness, but you know what he's really saying beneath it. What he’s asking.
“Hamzah, we’re just friends,” you murmur, but your body is already moving on its own, pulling toward him. Your gaze can’t leave his, entirely abandoning your words.
He exhales the smoke, his eyes never leaving you, watching through the haze, lips curling into something barely a smile. He rises from his seat, inching closer to you on the window. “Not tonight.”
The joint disappears from his fingers without you even noticing, his focus entirely on you now. His hand moves—a little unsure, but still—along your bare thigh.
You don’t realize your legs have slipped down, no longer perched on the windowsill, until his knees brush yours.
Now both his hands are on either side of your hips, warm and still. Everything feels suspended, quiet, purely waiting.
"Just tonight?" you breathe, barely a whisper. Your eyes can’t decide—his, or his lips. You try to settle your gaze, but it keeps slipping, drawn to both.
"And every night after." His voice cracks slightly, raw and full of need, as if he can’t keep it in any longer.
You don’t realize how close he’s gotten until it’s too late. There’s half a second—just enough to feel the warmth of his breath—before his lips crash into yours, all heat and urgency.
It steals the breath from your lungs. It takes a moment before you remember how to kiss him back. Harder even, deeper, every part of you craving him in ways you couldn't explain.
You’re not thinking, not anymore. All you know is how badly you’ve wanted this, how long the tension has been building, how this moment has been months in the making.
You pull him closer, fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him in, lips crashing together with a hunger neither of you can hide anymore. His breath comes ragged, shaky with need, and it sets fire to your skin. You instinctively part your legs, and he wastes no time pressing his body into yours.
His hands trail down your sides, grasping, pulling you closer, desperate—he can’t get enough. You feel it in every part of your body—the need, the yearning that’s been simmering just below the surface for too long.
Your legs settle on either side of his hips, your body moving instinctively—shamelessly—arching toward him.
You pull back for a breath, just a moment, but he’s right there, eyes dark, burning with something you’ve seen before but never like this. Your hands hold his face, slipping in between his neck and jaw.
“Is this too much?” he breathes, voice thick with restraint. The need in his eyes is unmistakable—but he won’t move unless you want him to.
You shake your head no a little too quickly. “Not enough,” you murmur, catching your breath. Your eyes are glued to his lips, missing them.
He huffs a low laugh at your response, your own plea—that being all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours again, all heat and all hunger, like he’d been holding back just to keep from breaking. But he breaks.
Your legs wrap around his waist, and his hand wastes no time sliding to your back, lifting you effortlessly, pressing you close. The kiss deepens—messy now, breathless, practically all tongue.
His hands slide down, settling on your ass, fingers twitching with restraint he’s clearly about to lose.
He turns, walking backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed, pulling you down with him, your body draped over his.
Now his hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your ass—gripping like he doesn’t know where to start, only that he can’t stop.
You swallow his groans in the kiss, your hips grinding above his.
His rising boner startles a small gasp out of you, which only makes him smile wide into your kiss, burying his fingers in your skin.
You pull him closer, every kiss more desperate than the last, your hands finding their way to the hem of his pants, yanking at them, needing him, needing this, more than you ever thought possible.
And when he finally gets you unclothed, takes you, it’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s raw, it’s unrestrained, and it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for.
If he wasn’t already noisy, desperate—once he finally pushes inside of you it’s heightened, out of control, beautifully messy.
His pleas are relentless, each “please” slipping past his lips so quietly but repeatedly as his brows furrow…he was so beautifully ruined—already.
You want to see him fall apart, want to make him beg, want to push him until he’s completely undone…so your hips move with an urgency, your walls clenching around him. God, you didn’t think you could want more than what was already being given.
His groans grow louder, more urgent, making everything feel like it’s building to something you can’t resist. You ached to hear him, feel him lose himself in you. He grips your waist, pulling you down harder onto him as you bounce, no doubt leaving marks.
“Fuck, Hamzah.” Your hands roam over his chest like they’re searching for balance—for something to hold onto.
His mouth falls open, a hiss slipping out as his head tips back, only to drop again so he can watch the way you move on top of him.
His eyes are glassy, his lips swollen and red, glistening. He looks wrecked—completely undone by the feel of you. He was so ruined.
“ffuck yeah—keep saying my name,” his voice trails off into a whimper, unable to sound normal and composed under the pleasure, under the intensity.
He moans your name like he’s falling apart, hands everywhere—your wrists, your hips, your stomach—grasping like he doesn’t know what to hold onto.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip as his hips buck up into you, each thrust pulling another ragged sound from his throat—loud, unrestrained, desperate.
“Hamzah—Hamzah, oh fuck, fuck—shit,” you gasp, trying not to cry out, trying to stay quiet—
but you can’t.
You stop holding back. You let it out—all of it: the moans, the curses, his name.
Your sounds only drive his groans rougher—more frantic, more wrecked—and you realize you’ve never heard anything more beautiful.
The way he comes undone beneath you is what finally unravels you too—like the sound of him falling apart is the very thing that tips you over the edge.
You cry out his name as you finish, loud and desperate, clinging to him like it’s the only way to survive the feeling.
You didn’t know it could be like this. You didn’t know it could be this good.
When he cums, he’s holding both of your wrists tight, dragging them down, trying to bury himself as deep as he can inside of you. His curses slur, he pleads and cusses and says your name. His orgasm seems to last forever, which conveniently makes you finish again.
After, when the chaos settles and the smoke lingers in the air, you’re both left breathless, tangled up in each other. You’re wet, messy, your body still buzzing from the high, from the release, and from everything that’s just happened. You press your face into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek, still thundering with the intensity of the moment.
He pulls you close, his hands gently tracing over your back, soothing, grounding. After he barely starts to catch his breath, he speaks up. “Are we okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable in a way that you’ve never heard before. His breath is still shaky, his words soft.
“Yeah,” you whisper, your fingers brushing his biceps back and forth. “We’re more than okay.”
And you know that things have changed now. This moment, raw and real, has altered everything.
He’s yours now, in a way that’s deeper than anything you’ve ever shared before. And you’re his, just as completely. The tension is gone, replaced with something more—something solid, something real. And as you both drift off into a quiet, breathless sleep, tangled up in each other, you know that this is it.
This is what those agonizing, longing months have all led to.
a/n. sorry if this is bad, it was a draft I was rushing to edit js so I can post alreadyy!!
summary. anytime you and Hamzah argue or he gets upset, you can’t help but worry—not just for your relationship, but for her. The unborn daughter you’ve both always dreamed about.
warnings. angsty, boyfriend!hamzah, emotional conflict, apology, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inspired by lyrics
wc. 1.3k
'Sienna' by The Marias
Whenever arguments like this happen—rare as they are—you find yourself worrying less about yourself, and more about her.
Her.
The daughter you’ve always dreamed about.
The future you and him already named, already pictured in quiet moments between laughter and late-night talks.
Down by the beach.
You’re still in the house, wondering how he’d react if he saw you walk out the front door—or even just heard it close behind you. In your head, you’re quietly begging, Please… tell me not to go.
You’ve been here long before. And you made it through, somehow. But the silence—it killed you. It didn’t just hurt, it hollowed you out. It terrified you more than anything he could have said.
You live under his eyelids, woven into his every thought. You always have. And no matter how far things fall apart, you know one thing’s always been true...you’d always be his.
And when you’re curled up on the floor of his room, knees pulled tight to your chest, sniffling through the end of your tears, it’s her face—his features, your dimples—that presses into your mind. It makes your chest ache in that sharp, breathless way.
You think back to what he said. It was stupid—you see that now. But it still hurt. You were still sad over it.
Although you felt unseen in the moment—dismissed, even—you can’t help but wonder if things might have unfolded differently had you stayed calm, gathered your thoughts, and tried to talk it through with more care.
The fight wasn’t even the problem to you anymore. It’s the silence after. The fact that neither of you has said anything since. And this quiet is starting to scare you.
Because you don’t just miss him—you want to run to him. You want to fall into his arms and hear him tell you it’s okay. That you’re okay.
But instead, you’re stuck thinking of her.
Your future daughter. The one he’s always dreamed of. The one you have too.
If he doesn’t speak to you again… what does that mean for her?
As dramatic as it felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about how the name you picked for her would’ve been so perfect—how she would’ve looked just like him. But it was the silence after these arguments that got to you—the kind that made you wonder if would’ve was all she'd ever be now.
She was the face of your thoughts—in these moments especially.
The knock on your bedroom door is soft.
And even though you want to call out to him, you don’t look up. You stay silent—half out of pride, half out of fear that if you speak, your voice will break before the words do.
There’s a pause, a beat of hesitation, and then it creaks open anyway. His footsteps are quiet—he always tries to walk light when he knows you’re upset. Like he doesn’t want to scare the sadness deeper into you.
You keep your face hidden, chin tucked against your knees. But he sees the shaking of your shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sinks down beside you on the floor, his presence warm and painfully familiar. You feel his fingers hover for a moment before they gently touch your arm.
"I didn’t mean to make you cry," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I was being a dick. I know that." His voice cracks at the end, and it makes your throat tighten.
“I know it was stupid,” you manage, hoarse. “It was a joke, I get that. I just…”
You finally glance at him. His eyes meet yours, soft and full of guilt, wide with something like worry. He watches you so intently that you can almost feel the weight of his regret, radiating off him. It hits you like waves impossible to ignore.
“I just keep thinking about her,” you confess. “Our daughter. The one we always talk about.”
His brow knits, confused for a second.
You swallow hard. “If she ever came to you about something that made her feel small… and you chuckled… or said she was too sensitive—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t stop thinking about that. About how she’d feel. About how I’d feel watching her shrink the way I did.” You nearly break again, your voice betraying you. But you take a moment to sniffle and breathe, pulling yourself together.
It felt stupid now, saying it out loud. His words before meant so little. Yet still.
You expect silence again. Or maybe some rushed assurance. But instead, he reaches out and pulls you into his arms—tight, like he’s trying to put every sorry into his chest and press it against yours.
"God, baby," he whispers into your hair. The words break something inside you, and you can’t help but start crying again, your face pressing into his chest for comfort.
"I would never make her feel like that. And I hate that I made you feel like that tonight." His voice quivers, breaking in a way that could shatter your heart all over again—and it does. You’re trapped in this unending cycle of tears, unable to escape the weight of it.
You don’t say anything for a while. You just cry a little harder, buried in his hoodie, clutching the fabric like it anchors you.
He pulls you closer, his voice soft but laced with pain, cracking under the weight of his own hurt. “You’re not too sensitive. You’re exactly the way I want her to be—honest, feeling everything, never afraid to say it out loud. You’re the reason she’ll know it’s okay to feel.”
And just like that, the air feels a little lighter. You’re still hurting, but at least now… he’s hurting with you. And still, you can smile as you think of all the times you had—like the time by the beach, when the waves were mad. It was the first time you both talked about the daughter you’d always dreamed of, together.
He kisses your forehead, his sniffles breaking through as his voice cracks with the weight of his tears. He exhales softly, and though it’s painful to hear, it somehow reassures you.
In this moment, it’s clear—he cares not only about you, but about her too.
And now, you can feel him with you, like you did before. You came clean, spoke your heart, and it feels so good.
You’re reminded of what it means to feel truly seen. Only through him.
"I’m always yours," he whispers, his chin resting gently on top of your head. His arms never loosen their grip, pulling you closer with every passing second, as if anchoring himself to you. He holds on tight, as though any slack would lose you.
“She’s gonna look just like you.” your voice breaks, sniffling.
You hear a slight whimper escape his lips to your words. In relief, a laugh that couldn’t leave, and a sadness that stems from happiness. But still, his heart aches.
He pulls you closer, his hand gently weaving through your hair, fingers tangling in it. He pulls back just enough to look at your face.
“With a temper like yours," you continue, and your lips tremble as you meet his gaze, tears welling up—not from pain, but from the thought of a future with him. The kind of tears that now feel like hope.
“And run around like you,” you add, your eyes locked on his, barely even blinking. He doesn’t look quite as much of a mess as you, but his lips still quiver, and his eyes still glaze, sniffling as a smile begins to spread. The sweetest smile.
“She’ll sing to all her pets like you did,” he says, bringing a hand to your face, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “Be sensitive,” he pauses, pressing a soft kiss to your salty cheek. “Like you,” he teases lightly.
You smile wider, shaking your head, warmth spreading through you.
“Like you,” you tease back, your voice soft as you gently wipe beneath his wet eyes. Not as bad as yours, but the traces of his tears are still there.
He sniffles, letting out a small laugh, his brows furrowing slightly in the tenderness of the moment. His eyes never leave yours as he leans in, gently pressing his lips to yours, holding them there longer than expected.
A sweet, salty kiss—his silent promise.
a/n. hopefully y'all feel this fic as much as i did writing it... idk how well i conveyed everything i wanted to keep it under 3k words lmao !!
summary. "oh you kissed me, just to kiss me. not to take me home."
warnings. fluff, tender yearning, second person, quiet tension, gentle!hamzah
wc. 1.4k
'We'll Never Have Sex' by Leith Ross
It’s been months since you last saw his face. In person, at least.
Online, he flickered in and out of your life—thumbnails of videos you never clicked, a blur in someone’s story, a laugh caught offscreen in a video that wasn’t about him. But nothing real. Nothing close.
The last time, his hair was dark, long, unruly. That version of him—messy, soft—feels far away now.
You didn’t mean to see him tonight. You only came because you missed Mandy and Martin, missed the comfort of the familiar. You hadn’t expected this kind of ache. Because when Martin walks in with someone trailing quietly behind him, you barely glance up. Not until your body knows before your brain does. Not until your heart stumbles.
Hamzah.
Martin says something forgettable and disappears down the hall, calling for Mandy—leaving the door swinging shut behind him. And leaving you with him.
The room hushes. Like it knows.
Your gaze lifts. Slowly. So does his. He stops mid-step. Freezes.
A flicker—shock, softness, something careful—passes through his eyes. He’s holding a beanie in one hand. His hair is bleached, messy, cropped but growing out. Dark roots coil through blond like shadows threading light. It suits him. The glasses low on his nose make him look older. Softer.
He looks different.
Perfect.
You stay curled on the couch, still as breath.
He swallows—obvious, slow—like he’s grounding himself. Like he didn’t expect this moment either.
Laughter muffles from the other room. Distant. Far away enough to feel like another world.
And then, he says your name.
Plain. Gentle. Like he’s been rehearsing it. Like maybe he missed saying it.
Then he moves. Quiet, sure. Crosses the room and lowers himself onto the coffee table in front of you—so close, your knees crash. No room. No hesitation. And still, he stays. So do you.
The silence between you isn’t awkward. Instead, it’s heavy. Heavy with all the things neither of you said. But your eyes say them now.
Your chest tightens beneath the weight of his presence. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, beanie crumpled in one hand. You study him. The tension in his shoulders. The parting of his lips, like he wants to speak but doesn’t want to scare the moment away.
You wonder if he notices your knee touching his. You wonder why you want him to. You wonder why he hasn’t moved.
He smells the same. Clean laundry, warm skin, something faint and earthy that used to cling to the hoodies he left behind. The scent rises like muscle memory. You missed the way his presence consumed you.
“I’ve seen you,” you murmur, unsure why you’re saying it. “Just… online.”
He nods. Once. Slow. “But not really.”
“No,” you say. “Not really.” Your voice cracks a little. He hears it. Feels it. He doesn’t look away.
“You look different,” you say. Perfect, you want to add. But you bite your tongue.
He smiles—small, knowing. “Yeah...you too.”
“Bad?” you ask, a soft scoff. Your subtle attempt at lightening the mood, at fighting the heavy tension.
But his smile twitches into something more real. “Perfect.”
The word settles between you like a hush. Like something sacred. And suddenly the air shifts. Your lungs are full and empty at once.
He fidgets—tapping one finger against his leg. Your knees still touch, you can feel his fingers ever so lightly. Still, he doesn’t move.
He’s trying not to overstep. You can feel it in every inch of him. But the room is pulsing with this tension.
So you speak.
“It’s nice,” you whisper. He tilts his head, waiting.
“I don’t wonder about your indifference.”
His lips part. A beat. Then something steadier moves in—something confident, gentle. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t.”
“Not with you.”
His eyes linger. Heavy, soft. Something burns in them that he won’t say. But he doesn’t need to.
“It’s weird,” he says after a beat. “Seeing you again. I didn’t know how much I missed this… just you.”
You can only nod—words feel too fragile. Even though your mind is practically overflowing with all the things you can say.
“I waited for your text,” he adds. This time, he doesn’t look away.
You inhale—sharp. He watches it happen. Watches like it matters.
“I waited for you,” he says. Emphasis quiet but certain.
It hits you. Not like fireworks, not some grand crescendo— But like a gentle hand pressed to your chest.
He felt it. All of it. Every almost. Every ache.
And now, suddenly, the months between you don’t matter. Because he’s looking at you like this. Like you were something. Like you still are.
His finger brushes your knee. Featherlight. Intentional. You know it’s not an accident—he’s watching you too closely. That look. Yearning. Gentle. Unmistakable.
Like if you told him he could never touch you, he’d still come over—just to tell you you look lovely.
You don’t look away. You can’t.
Because something in the silence feels sacred.
Hamzah doesn’t move closer—not yet. He stays still for a breath too long. Like he’s deciding if this is real.
Then, carefully, his hand lifts.
Not confident. Not cocky. Just open, honest. His knuckles graze your cheek. So soft it almost startles you. Not from fear—but from how much it means.
You didn’t know he could be this gentle.
But with you, he is.
The difference between the version of him in his videos, with Martin, with the world— And the version of him here, now— It strikes something deep.
In private, in quiet—he’s softer. Vulnerable.
He treats you like porcelain. Not because you’re fragile. But because he chooses to be careful. Because he cares.
His fingers hover now at your jaw, not quite touching. Not quite pulling away. Just…offering.
Then he looks at you. Just a glance. But you understand.
You nod. Barely. Your eyes flick once to his lips, and that’s all it takes.
His mouth finds yours—not with urgency, not with hunger— But with care.
He kisses you like this is the moment he waited for. Not to win. Not to claim. But to feel. His hand steadies at your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin.
He tastes like breath and memory.
When he pulls back, it’s barely—just enough to rest his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Stillness breathing between you.
And when he kisses you again, it’s fuller. Warmer. But still so careful.
When he finally leans back, his hand drifts across your leg before settling at his side. Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say. So you don’t.
But his lips press together, fighting a smile. He loses. Just barely. And it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.
He kissed you—just to kiss you. Not to take you home, not to make you cry. It was simple. Sweetness.
It was good to know.
Then he rises, only to sit beside you. No reaching. No talking. Just being. And somehow, you feel that’s all he meant to do.
Because it was.
You let it settle in you like air. Not a beginning. Not an ending. Just this, a quiet knowing. A door opened without creaks.
You don’t even look at each other right away. You just sit there, side by side, your shoulder gently brushing his.
And then, a door creaks open.
Footsteps and laughter progressively near. It’s Mandy’s and Martin’s voice.
Even with them now here, the spell doesn’t shatter, exactly—it just folds itself gently away, tucked into the quiet between you as they enter the room.
Mandy beams at you, barefoot and laughing. “Sorry we took forever,” she says, nudging your knee. “Martin was talking about something—I’ll tell you in a sec.”
You nod, smiling—maybe a little too wide. You know it. But it’s still blooming. You might not stop smiling for days.
Mandy talks. But your eyes drift. Past her, toward the hallway.
Martin’s calling Hamzah now, saying something about filming something dumb before the light disappears. They’re already heading down the hallway.
Just before stepping into the other room, Hamzah glances back.
Only once.
A single look over his shoulder—at you, of course. No smile, no wink. Just a quiet tether.
And in that half-second, everything slows.
Mandy’s still talking beside you, but her voice blurs, distant. Because all you can feel is him. That look.
Like a promise without words. Like something sacred, held only between the two of you.
And then he’s gone. But not really.
a/n. i feel like i had the right idea but this could have been executed way better unfortunately.. o well!
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟA Dream With a YouTuber pt.2, written by yaskore
summary. The tension between you builds quietly, charged with glances, unspoken feelings, and one shared color. In the middle of a crowded boxing match, something shifts — not with words, but with the way he looks at you.
Maybe it was a quiet thank you for the other night—when he slid down next to you on the floor and sat there in silence as you ached in the loss of your old life.
Maybe it was for the way he didn’t pry or press, didn’t ask what was wrong or demand answers—he simply stayed beside you, unspoken and steady.
But you don’t think it through, not really. It’s just...you're at the coffee shop already.
You're standing there at the counter, holding your usual order, and before you can stop yourself, you’re asking for a second one. Once again, thinking of him here. Everywhere.
The same drink you always get.
The same one you always swear by.
Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s not enough.
You don’t even know if he likes coffee. You don't know if he likes anything you like.
But you carry it back anyway, both cups balanced in your hands, heart stumbling hard against your ribs.
You find him by the windows, talking to Martin, half-listening.
And before you can overthink it, before you can turn around and pretend you never meant to—you’re holding it out to him.
"Here," you say.
Your voice is too soft, too breathless.
You clear your throat. Try again.
"I, um… I brought you one. If you want."
You bite down on the words threatening to follow—some clumsy excuse, some explanation that might make it easier to bear—
because the truth is too simple, too loud:
you'd thought of him.
"It's my favorite." you add, smiling, trying to make it feel casual, even if it isn’t. It's just a coffee.
Hamzah glances at the cup like you’re offering him a live wire.
For a second—just a second—something flickers across his face. Something you can't quite name.
But then he’s smiling, easy, small, like it costs him nothing at all.
"Oh, wow… thanks," he exclaims, his voice warm, and there's a slight chuckle at the end, like he's not entirely sure why you’re doing this but appreciates it anyway.
You smile back—or at least you think you do—but it feels strange on your mouth...like you forgot how.
You watch him take a sip.
You watch him drink it like it’s nothing.
And you believe it. You believe it because you want to.
Because for once, maybe you did something right.
But you miss it.
He hates it.
God, he hates it.
It’s too sweet, too heavy, a thick syrup that clings to his tongue, nothing like the drink he’s used to.
But he keeps drinking it anyway.
Because you handed it to him.
Because you smiled when you did.
Because you thought of him.
Maybe he doesn't even understand why he can't just laugh it off and say no thanks, or make some stupid joke about it. He would if it were anyone else.
Maybe he doesn’t want to.
And when you're not looking, his fingers curl a little longer around the empty cup. Like he’s holding onto something more than just the coffee.
Later, Mandy asks if he liked it.
Stifling a grin, you smile softly as you nod and say, "I think so,"—because he finished it, because he thanked you, because he didn’t make a face or spit it out or hand it back.
You feel proud, happy to have returned the favor for the other night. Though you're still stuck wondering what it meant for him.
.・゜✭
That night, Martin kicks a cardboard box across the living room floor, sending it sliding right up to the edge of the couch where you and Mandy are sitting.
"Failed merch drop," he says proudly, like it’s some kind of accomplishment. "We were gonna sell these after the fight, but they got scrapped. So—" he spreads his arms wide, grinning, "y’all get the leftovers." he giggles forcefully.
You laugh under your breath, leaning forward with Mandy to peek inside.
The box is full.
Stacks of shirts, red and blue, messy and crumpled like they’ve been sitting there for weeks.
At first glance, it’s a 50/50 split—Martin in red, Hamzah in blue.
Both of them, fists raised, names splashed across the chest, full-body photos printed across the backs.
Ready for 'war'.
Mandy immediately dives for a red one. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Of course she grabs Martin’s shirt—her boyfriend’s name, her boyfriend’s colors.
You’re slower.
You sift through the pile without really thinking about it, hands brushing against Martin’s shirts more than once.
You could easily pick one.
You know him better. You’ve talked to him more, joked with him more, trusted him longer.
It would make sense.
It would be safe.
You sit back on your heels for a second, feeling all their eyes on you—Martin’s, Mandy’s—and one heavier than the rest.
Hamzah's.
You don’t look at him.
You don't have to.
Something in you reaches for the blue.
You pull it out, soft and worn like it’s been waiting for you to find it.
Hamzah Al-Emad stamped across the front.
His photo across the back—head down, gloves raised, something wild and stubborn burning in his eyes.
You don’t even think. You just... choose it.
You fold it over your arm casually, trying not to overthink it—because it's not a big deal, right?
Just a shirt.
Just merch.
But across the room, Hamzah’s heart stutters against his ribs.
Because it wasn’t just two shirts.
It wasn’t some forced choice.
There was a whole box.
A dozen chances to pick Martin.
A dozen ways this could’ve meant nothing at all.
But you chose him.
He watches you without meaning to, his pulse loud in his ears, that stubborn part of him picking apart every tiny detail—the way your fingers brushed past Martin’s name without stopping, the way you smiled a little when you saw his picture, the way you held it close, without even knowing you were doing it.
He knows it probably doesn’t mean anything.
Knows he shouldn’t think about it the way he is—over and over, replaying the moment like it’s something sacred, something real.
But he does.
Because maybe—maybe somewhere under all of it—you’re reaching for him too.
In tiny, quiet ways neither of you know how to say out loud yet.
You don't notice the way his hand tightens against his knee.
You don’t hear the breath he lets out slowly, trying to steady something trembling inside him.
You just tuck the shirt under your arm, teasing Martin about the "failed drop" like it’s the only thing that matters.
You miss the way Hamzah looks away after a moment, smiling to himself—small, secret, like he’s holding something precious and breakable between his teeth.
The thought of you —
wearing his name.
his colors.
his photo pressed against your back, like a mark no one else could see.
Maybe it didn’t mean anything to you.
Maybe it meant everything to him.
.・゜✭
It’s the next morning, and you didn’t expect to wake up feeling like this.
Not today, of all days.
You thought it would be easy—just a color. Everyone would be wearing red or blue, cheering for Martin or Hamzah. Cheering for both.
You told yourself you’d wear red. Maybe the tiniest touch of blue, just to be fair.
Or better yet, just match Mandy. Keep it simple. Safe.
That’s what you thought.
But you’re standing in front of your closet for way too long the morning of their fight, holding up the shirt Mandy tossed you last night—laughing, tipsy from excitement—while she modeled her own in the mirror.
A cropped tee.
Light pink on Mandy, baby blue on you.
The front says Team Martin and Team Hamzah—both names slashed out with X’s.
And underneath, in thick, bold lettering: Team Mandy.
At first glance, it’s stupid. Funny. Harmless.
Something dumb she made when they all joked about no one really paying attention to the actual fight.
But it doesn’t take long to notice.
Your X’s aren’t red like Mandy’s.
Yours are blue.
Hamzah’s color.
When Mandy offered to swap out the palette for yours, it felt innocent. She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known.
You just said sure.
Now, standing there, you wonder if you even hesitated.
If deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.
You tug the shirt over your head anyway.
And despite how good it hugs your body alone, you throw a black leather jacket over it. Incase you get too shy and want to zip it up.
You tell yourself it’s just matching Mandy.
It doesn’t mean anything.
You clip a tiny red bow into your hair—a safe little lie.
You dust the barest shimmer of blue across your eyelids, light enough it almost disappears.
You grip the steering wheel later and realize your nails, too, are painted blue, this time in his shade.
You were supposed to get red.
You don’t even remember changing your mind.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.
Maybe this is how he sees you.
But even then, your outfit is still...normal.
Still safe. Right?
But deep down, your heart is pounding, because you know which color clings closer to your skin.
You know who you’re thinking about.
.・゜✭
The crowd roars and shifts around you, waves of noise crashing against your skin.
Mandy clutches your wrist with excitement, bouncing on her toes, shouting whenever Martin’s name flashes across the screens.
You cheer too.
You swear you do.
But when you glance across the ring—when your eyes catch on Hamzah, gloves flashing blue under the lights, mouthguard the same color—
you swear you see it.
The way his gaze flicks across the crowd.
The way it finds you.
For a second, it feels like everything freezes.
Like maybe he's not looking at the crowd at all.
Maybe he's looking for you.
Maybe he finds you.
And maybe, just maybe, he sees the blue tint of your shirt.
The crossed-out names in his shade.
You tell yourself he can’t tell from here.
That maybe the soft baby blue looks white from far away.
That maybe it’s just a coincidence to him, too.
You hope.
And you hope not.
What you don’t know is this:
He sees it.
He sees all of it.
And the second he does, something sharp clenches inside him, harder than any punch he’s taken.
Because you never wear blue.
Not once, in all the time he’s known you.
Not even by accident.
Always neutrals, soft pinks, dusty reds—never his color.
Until now.
It can’t be a mistake. It isn’t nothing.
The realization hits him harder than any blow that night.
And it burns through him hotter than anything that happens in the ring.
When the bell rings and the fight starts, Hamzah moves differently.
Sharper. Faster. Lighter on his feet.
Like maybe he’s fighting for something more than the win.
And you watch as if you feel it too.
.・゜✭
The fight ends in a blur.
It’s Hamzah’s arm the ref raises—
Hamzah’s grin breaking wide across his face—and even then he looks at Martin reassuringly. A good friend.
It's Hamzah’s name the crowd screams, roaring loud enough to rattle the floor under your shoes.
You’re standing because everyone else is, and your jacket isn't zipped, but your hugging it so it hides your shirt, heart hammering.
You should be clapping harder, louder.
You should be smiling wider, shouting congratulations.
Instead, you just...stare.
Maybe he didn’t see.
Maybe he didn’t notice.
Mandy tugs your hand, pulling you through the surge of people toward the backstage corridors, chattering about dinner plans, about how good Martin looked, how proud she is anyway.
You nod when you should.
Smile when you have to.
But you barely feel your own hands.
You told yourself this morning that the tiny red bow tucked into your hair would be enough.
Loyalty.
To Martin.
To Mandy.
You told yourself the dark blue nails, the flicker of blue under your lashes, the pale shirt hidden under your jacket—
they didn’t mean anything.
You’re lingering by the side exit, trying to be invisible, when you feel it.
A stare.
Heavy. Focused.
You look up before you can stop yourself, and he’s there.
Hamzah.
Half-swallowed by the dark blue hoodie he threw over his sweaty bleached hair, gloves tugged halfway off, a flag still twisted around his shoulders.
His smile easy—until he sees you.
And then, he falters.
Like he’s been caught off guard.
Like you hit him in the chest without touching him.
It’s not a cocky look. It’s not smug or teasing. It’s vulnerable. It’s real.
Like he’s seeing every bit of blue you thought you buried—
and understanding why it’s there.
You could almost hear it, if you listened hard enough,
"I saw you."
"I see you."
The moment lasts a heartbeat. A blink. But it still ignites a fire in your chest. Your jacket was completely off by now, leaving you feeling exposed. You swallow.
Someone claps him hard on the back, calling his name, and just like that, the spell breaks.
He looks away.
You drop your eyes too.
The blue polish on your nails feels like it's burning against your skin.
Maybe from far away, he couldn’t tell.
Maybe it’s safer to believe that.
But you know now—sure and silent and shaking with it—you’re not imagining it anymore.
.・゜✭
The post-fight chaos spills out into the parking lot.
Fans shouting. Friends clapping each other on the back.
Music thumping from someone's car stereo, too loud and too bright under the cold white lights.
You hover by the curb, jacket pulled tight around you, pretending to text—pretending you’re waiting for Mandy, not him.
Because you’re not waiting for him.
You’re not.
And still, out of the corner of your eye, you spot him—pulling a hoodie over his head, the hem rumpled from the way he yanked it on, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms.
He’s alone, hands shoved into the front pocket, head down but his stride steady, cutting through the crowd like he knows exactly where he’s going.
You tell yourself to leave it alone.
To walk back inside.
To find Mandy and Martin.
But just as you turn—just as you slip your phone into your pocket—you hear your name.
Low. Firm. Certain.
You freeze, turn slowly but not awkwardly, and there he is. Closer now. Close enough to see the bruising blooming on his jaw. Close enough to see the way his gaze catches and holds on you.
He stops a few feet away, like he’s giving you space—but not like he’s planning to leave it that way.
Then his eyes flick down—catching the edge of your jacket, the glimpse of blue underneath.
A breath leaves him, soft but sure.
"You wore blue," he says, voice rough around the edges. It’s not a question. It’s not teasing.
Just... knowing.
You swallow the lump in your throat, breath catching at the sole fact that he noticed.
"You won," you say, voice soft, half a smile tugging at your mouth.
As if to say; That’s what matters, right?
As if to make it easier.
But he doesn’t smile back.
Instead, something flickers across his face. It's something almost stubborn, almost tender, and he steps in a fraction closer.
And then, slowly, he lifts a hand. You freeze, but you let him inch nearer.
His thumb brushes just below your brow bone, so soft it feels like a breath, and when he pulls back, there’s the faintest glimmer of blue shimmer dusted across his thumb.
Proof.
He stares at it for a second, then looks back at you.
Like he’s anchoring himself to the truth of it.
Like he’s grounding himself on the impossible fact that you did it on purpose.
And when he speaks again, the words are heavier, lower, almost breaking even. He nods at your words.
"You wore blue."
Like it’s the only thing that mattered.
Like it’s the only reason he made it through.
The only reason he won.
Before you can say anything—before you can even move—a door slams somewhere across the lot, a burst of laughter cracking the night wide open.
You both flinch, instinctively pulling back.
When you glance at him again, Hamzah’s already stepping away, head ducked slightly...but not before giving you one last look.
A look that says, I saw you. I see you.
And you're left standing there, the faint shimmer of blue still burning on your skin, wondering if he felt it too—the thing neither of you said out loud.
The thing you’re both still carrying home.
Or I'll just keep wearing his name on my shirt
Whatever I need just to hlep me cope
summary. knowing your guilty fantasy, Hamzah decides to bring out the mask on a night he can no longer take his deprivation of you. He's determined to have his way with you, fully and unapologetically, while fulfilling the desire you've been quietly dreaming of for so long.
warnings. 18+!!, smut, ghostface!hamzah, gentledom!hamzah, sub!reader, forbidden, mini plot, rough handling, sweaty, tiedwrists!reader, yearning, friends to lovers
wc. 3.2k
He knew you secretly loved when he got like this. The way your eyes lit up when he came home after a long day of recording with Martin, worn out and missing you...
The way he didn't even think when he finally caught a break—just walked through the door, shut it behind him, and tore your clothes off like he needed you to breathe... and you let him.
The fact that nothing had ever been said aloud only made it worse—or maybe better.
Glances carried the weight of everything unspoken. You found yourself wondering when he'd act again after the first time, how long the tension would keep thickening every time you shared a space. But you liked it.
You liked that he remembered the fantasies you once joked about, and that now, even a passing glance could promise he'd make them real.
It was forbidden, maddening, and somedays things felt too normal...until the moment you'd catch him holding himself back—his hands, his words, his stare. And God, you loved that just as much as it drove you insane.
He never talked about missing you with Martin, his best friend and your non-blood family. He didn't want to complicate the channel, their friendship, anything—so he kept it quiet, kept it buried.
But not tonight.
Wearing the Ghostface mask you brought home last Halloween as a joke, Hamzah tosses you face-first onto your bed, his hand firm on your back to keep you in place.
He swiftly swings a leg over you, straddling your hips with one knee on the bed while the other anchors him off the edge.
"Be good for me tonight, yeah?" His voice, slightly muffled behind the mask, carries a commanding edge, his breathing heavy and deliberate.
Grabbing a fistful of your hair, he twists it just enough to send a message, his groin pressing against your ass as he tugs your head back. He leans close, his breath seeping out the mask holes, warm against your skin. “I said, be good for me… yeah?” His tone is soft yet insistent, the kind that melts your resistance regardless.
“Mhm,” you hum, caught off guard in the best way by his demand, the words sticking in your throat. His grip tightens, pulling harder—a silent, unmistakable warning.
“I’ll be good,” you quickly add, giving him the answer you know he wants to hear. A slight struggle is in your voice from the position he has you in right now, but you wouldn't have it any other way.
He hums in satisfaction, his free hand sliding beneath your jaw to tilt your face toward him. You assume he lifted his mask at some point, because his lips find yours in a messy, unrestrained kiss.
After what seems like forcing himself out of the kiss, he shifts above you, the pressure of his hard-on still flush against your ass. The friction alone draws a whimper from your throat. These busy past few weeks and you're finally receiving what you've prayed for... just not in the way you expected—in fact, even better.
His voice, breathy and dangerous, brushes your ear. “You like me like this, don’t you? Tell me. I need to hear it.” There’s a faint crack in his tone—need bleeding through the dominance.
Teasing you is only doing twice the damage to himself for every second he's not deep in you already.
You hum in response, an “mhm" leaving your lips like a moan. You nod your head as your brows curve in pure desperation, loving how he talks to you in times like these, wanting him to continue handling you, to show you he has it in him too.
The truth is, no words could express the desperation you've held leading up to this night, especially not how it's growing second by agonizing second right now. But you comply. Of course you do.
"I do—I like you like this—I love you like this, please..." The words spill from you, ending in a desperate whine. You simply let your face fall back into the comforter.
You hear his grin, sharp and wicked, even behind the mask as he replies with a teasing, "Oh-hohh, is that right?" The mockery in his tone is playful, but there’s no mistaking the satisfaction beneath it, your confession being exactly what he craved to hear.
He hums, "Mmm—all day—all week I’ve been thinking about you. Needing you..." His words spill out breathless, and you can't help but notice how it feels like he’s never wanted you more.
Every low, hungry word he mutters hits just right—and God, you want more. As much as he’ll give.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling around it—gentle, yet possessive. "Every fucking day..." he breathes, voice so low you can’t tell if he’s speaking to you or himself.
His grip shifts to your hips, his fingers digging in with a quiet desperation. His presence is overwhelming—utterly consuming. The way his touch sinks deep into your skin leaves no doubt about the need he's trying to convey.
“You have no idea how good it feels to finally have you like this,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a hunger you so badly want to feed.
But after a moment, it dips, trembling with something raw. “Say you missed me too. Say it so I know I’m not losing my mind over you.” He breathes out, pure need in his tone, completely disregarding any dominance in that moment.
You and him never spoke about the new dynamic you unlocked that night; it left you both trapped in your own heads, wondering where you stood. Even after it happened again, the silence remained. But the way he asked you to tell him you missed him too—the need in his voice, the falter in his dominance—it drove you mad. It made you want him even more. Desperately.
Truthfully, every time he crossed your mind, your chest would twist painfully. Tonight. This week. The past two weeks. He’d come home late, barely a glance exchanged before he disappeared into a shower or the quiet murmur of a late-night video. You’d lie there alone, listening. Yearning. That had become your lullaby...until now.
Now, he was here—straddling you. Finally.
His words echo in your mind. 'Say it so I know I'm not losing my mind over you.'
“Yes—fuck, I missed you, Hamzah. So much. Please just—” You breathe out, words breaking off with a whimper as your face sinks deeper into the comforter. Your body was already surrendering.
You didn't want to be bratty tonight, you were too needy. You've waited too long, wondering if he'd ever even make a move again.
"Just—" you repeat, exhaling in defeat. Your breath stutters. Your body betrays you—desperate, shaking for him.
His hand moves to your head, firm and possessive, keeping you exactly where he wants you anytime you wriggle.
"Just what, huh?" His voice is sharp, laced with a teasing dominance with that lasting yearn behind it.
"Just fuck you?" he taunts, his tone dripping with amusement as his hands move to his belt. His words make your heart sink—part embarrassment—part desire...hearing them from his mouth only soaks you more.
The metallic clink of his belt being undone is almost too fast. "You wanna get fucked in this mask huh?" His voice is so quiet, it's barely above a whisper—in fact, you're not sure he's spoken any louder than this the entire time.
He grabs your arms, gently yet in control nonetheless, using his belt to tie around your wrists. "This time—" he tightens the belt behind your back as he finishes, "—You're not going no where, yeah?"
The sound of his zipper fills the air, and you feel him shift behind you, the intensity of his presence pressing down on you. His hands find the waistband of your pajama shorts, and in one swift motion, he tugs them off, the fabric sliding past your ankles as you instinctively wriggle on the bed. "Nowhere," he repeats quietly, hungry.
But you weren’t afraid—the only pain he’d ever give you would come from the desperation in his grip, too needy to control, enough to leave bruises. But nothing more.
His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, pulling them aside as his touch trails over your skin. When his fingers glide along your slit, the slickness he finds makes him chuckle. His teasing is already too much—and he’s only just begun.
"Look at you," he drags, "You've been needing me this bad, huh?" The way he says it—slow and attentive—flushes your cheeks.
Or maybe it was the truth behind it that embarrasses you.
His fingers curl gently—not enough to enter, but just enough to tease your folds. Your thighs tense, almost closing around his wrist.
"Yeah, already this wet—" he murmurs, using his other hand to re-part your legs, "you’re just gonna take it, aren’t you?" he growls, his words sinking deep into you. You wished he would instead.
And in that thought, two of his thick fingers press inside without warning, forcing a startled gasp from your lips. Seems as though he couldnt handle any more of his own teasing either.
The stretch is immediate, your body tightening around him. You can hear the grin in his voice once again.
"Yeah, you are," he murmurs, his fingers curling as he sets a deliberate, teasing pace. It didn’t take more than two seconds for the sound of your wetness with his rhythm to fill the room.
The sensation is quick to become overwhelming, leaving you helpless beneath him. "Missed me this much..." he mutters, obviously pleased.
You moan into the comforter, face buried deep, wrists straining against the belt. His fingers slam into you—hard, fast—forcing a gasp from your throat. But just as quickly, he slows, leaving you a mess of muffled curses and desperate, broken sounds.
"I wanna see your face when I give you it," he growls, breath shaky like he’s unraveling too. And in one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, settling over you with a commanding presence.
He kneels above your hips, black boxers clinging to him, pants hanging low. His tank top stretches over sweat-slicked shoulders, and the ghostface mask adds a haunting allure to his already intoxicating figure.
You bite your bottom lip, arms still pinned behind you, the strain making you squirm beneath him—restless, desperate. “Hamzah,” you whine, finally surrendering to the discomfort. “Hm?” he hums, almost amused.
“Off,” you manage, eyes locked on his shirt—your silent plea.
He pauses, gaze burning through the mask. Then, without a word, his hands move to the hem, peeling it off in one fluid motion. You wished it had been you. This is torture.
But the moment his bare skin is exposed—glistening with sweat—you’re on the verge of tearing up in frustration. The teasing has pushed you past your limit, and all that’s left is the desperate need clawing at you to be fulfilled.
He’s been teasing you to the brink, but the ache between you both is palpable. He wants you just as badly.
With one swift motion, he strips off his pants and climbs over you, boxers doing nothing to hide the hardness pressing into your core. You squirm, unable to touch, grinding up against him, desperate for friction. You just wanted him to give you all he could, god you couldn't take the teasing...it seemed like he barely could either.
The breath he lets out is shaky, unsteady. His hands clamp tighter around your hips as he grinds back, both of you fighting for more contact.
The action makes him let out a breathless, shakey moan behind the mask, his eyes locked on your hips as you move beneath him. He grips your hips tighter, the force of his hands making it clear that he’s losing control, thrusting his own hips against you, desperate for more contact, more sensation. He couldn't stop himself from stripping for another agonizing second.
He lets out a curse, a shuddering, breathless moan slipping from his lips, and in the next instant, he’s tugging his boxers down hurriedly, just enough for his thick, throbbing dick to spring free. You can barely take in the sight before he’s guiding himself between your lips, the head of his cock teasing at your slit.
His hands slide roughly up your hips, gripping you tightly as he presses forward, sliding up and down your folds with unrelenting urgency. The sensation of him against you is almost too much, his movements frantic, driven by the undeniable hunger he’s been holding back.
And when he pauses, tip nudging at your entrance, you assume he's looking at you for confirmation. “Can you lift the mask, just for a second?” You request breathlessly, gentle despite your aching desire. And albeit his need tonight to show dominance, he complies immediately.
Without hesitation, it slides up, perching on the top of his head, strands of sweat-damp hair falling through. He’s beautiful like this. You take the sight of him in—and then take all of him in as you sink down, folds wrapping around him.
You hold his gaze, needing to see him as he enters you. His head tips back, a moan escaping before he even finishes his thought. You're unable to compose yourself either. “Oh my g…” he breathes out, completely lost in the sensation.
When he looks down again, watching his body move against yours, his mouth hangs open, biting his bottom lip when your eyes meet. He tries to pace himself—but fails.
His rhythm grows relentless, and your head falls back into the comforter, sounds spilling from your lips like never before.
It’s never been like this—your relationship hadn’t even been sexual for long. The slow burn, the wondering, the tension… it was all leading to this.
He’s always made you feel something, even from a distance. But now? After weeks of craving him—uncertain if he craved you just as much—it’s clear.
His hands roam your waist like he’s starving, every thrust pulling you closer to the edge. Your eyebrows pinch together in pleasure, your orgasm already rising, hot and heavy and too soon.
And yet, never soon enough.
As if the feeling of you around him wasn’t already unraveling his mind, every time his eyes catch your face, he’s hit with a new wave of euphoria—deeper, more consuming than the last. He didn’t even know it could feel this good.
He didn’t know he could possibly enjoy looking at you more than he already did—but right now, you’re absolutely undoing him.
His mask had slipped back over his face at some point—recently, you think—but you can’t stand not seeing him like this. He’s beautiful when he’s overwhelmed, when the pleasure takes over, and you’re certain he’s never felt anything like this before. You had to see it. Just a glance at him on an average day could leave your heart and your body aching for hours… but this?
“H-Hamzah,” you manage, unable to manage quiet, your voice breaking around his name. The sound of it clearly undoes him—his pace faltering, only to return faster, rougher, needier.
A low growl escapes him at the way you say his name, like it snapped the last thread of his restraint. You’re all his now—he can see every flutter of your lashes, hear every moan and breathless stutter, feel every twitch of your body under him. And it’s not just pride swelling in his chest—it’s the thrill of knowing you want this just as much. That he’s not alone in this ache.
His fingers dig into your hips, deep and possessive, promising bruises by morning.
“F-fuck,” he groans, head tipping back, the sound of your voice echoing in his ears.
You moan in return, partly from pleasure, partly from frustration. You want to see his face. You need to. The mask—hot as it is—now feels like a wall. You try to scoot yourself away, run from it...but of course, he doesn’t let you get far. Still, he loves that you tried.
After pulling you back down onto him, burying himself even deeper, a moan escapes his throat before he speaks, “Where you going, princess? Huh?” he pants, voice low, but gentle. It's teasing, you're a little embarrassed at your failed efforts.
"Please," you shudder, barely keeping your voice down. Every word feels like it’s building toward a scream. The sting of his grip, the relentless pace—you love every second of it.
He’s starting to whimper now, more than groan, and the sound of him undone like that sends you over the edge. You try to keep yourself down so you can hear him better, but he makes it hard.
Your legs twitch uncontrollably, the tension in your core spiraling until your whole body shakes. You arch into him, gasping as his hands slip beneath you, holding you up, refusing to let you fall back against the mattress. You cry out his name—a slurred, shivery moan that fills the room. You’ve never been brought to a high like this… but even then he doesn't stop. Not even for a breath.
He undoes the belt binding your wrists, tossing it aside before settling on the bed beneath you, letting you take control. Your hands sting from how tight it had been, but you don’t care. You’re still shaking, still riding out the aftershocks, but you move—eager, aching—to finally feel him beneath you, to move for him.
He bucks up into you without restraint, arms braced behind him, his body trembling. You can only imagine the way he's looking at you right now...and that thought alone drives you mad. You reach forward, rip the mask from his face, and throw it across the room.
Your breath catches.
His face is soaked with sweat, eyes low and dazed with lust, lips puffy and parted. He looks beautiful. Ruined. Yours.
You start moving again, never breaking eye contact. He doesn’t look away either, and the intensity of it—his breath catching, his moans turning into curses—it’s everything.
Your hands explore his chest, tracing every muscle like they’re the last thing you’ll ever feel. You move up to his shoulders, down his arms, fingers curling tight around his biceps. God, his biceps… You dig your nails in as you ride him, the rhythm instinctive, hungry, wild.
It sends him spiraling. His breath quickens, no longer holding back the whimpers. “Shit—g-get off,” he tries, the words falling apart on his tongue. But his grip on your waist says otherwise—tight, desperate. He won’t let you go.
“Please—I'm gonna—f-fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, bucking hard into you.
You hesitate for half a second, but the moment you even think of slowing down, he yanks you back into place. “N-No don’t stop. Don’t stop, please.” he's practically begging.
And you don’t. Can’t. You’re already cumming again, body convulsing as you fall apart on top of him. But you don’t stop moving—determined to drag him there with you. The pain from his grip only sharpens the pleasure, and this orgasm feels endless.
And then he breaks.
His face twists, his brows knit, biceps flexing as he claws into your skin. The sounds he makes—guttural, high, desperate—undo you all over again. You cum again as he finishes, both of you unraveling at once.
You collapse against him, his chest rising and falling fast. You don’t move. Neither does he. Even minutes later, he’s still inside you, occasionally bucking his hips, keeping you there—his arms wrapped around your waist, head buried in your neck.
Every time he thrusts, even just a little, a soft sound escapes you. A breath. A moan. And every time, you feel him twitch inside you again.
Something in you knows—you won’t be able to just walk away from this and pretend it never happened this time.
His fingers slide into your hair, massaging your scalp—rough, possessive. He bites and nibbles at the skin of your shoulder your tank top can’t cover, his other hand roaming your back. Then, his fingers tangle into your hair and tug your head back. You gasp as he starts moving again, slow but deep, low growls immediately rolling from his lips.
Your mouth parts in a soundless moan, brows knitting in helpless pleasure. Despite everything, despite the three orgasms already behind you, you know this night isn’t over.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟA Dream With a YouTuber, written by yaskore
summary. You’ve just moved to get away from your old life and live with your long-distance best friend. While adjusting to this fresh start, you find yourself quietly falling for Hamzah, her boyfriend’s best friend. You’ve barely spoken to him in the month since you arrived, but something’s shifting. You start to wonder: is it just you feeling this—or is he, too?
entirely based off of 'A Dream With a BaseBall Player', Faye Webster
.・゜✭
You wake to the crisp shiver of morning, unsure for a second where you are. Not because the bedroom is unfamiliar—though it is—but because the dream still clings to you like dew.
It felt more like an experience.
Too vivid. Too close. Your heart still aches from it, like it carried over into waking life. But now there’s a hollowness beneath it. Longing.
As if he didn't already consume your days, now he's infected your nights.
A shaky breath forces its way out of you—from the intensity of a heart-drop. As much as you should be annoyed, you weren't. As far as you know, it was real.
Yep, you'll believe it. Just for a little longer.
You close your eyes, trying to fall back in. Trying to taste him again—his lips, his laughter—trying to memorize something that never really happened.
Until his real laughter echoes from outside your door. Your eyes snap open, your heart dropping and lifting just as quickly.
It’s another morning with him here.
Ever since moving to Toronto and crashing with Mandy and Martin, you’ve gotten used to waking to the sound of their YouTube antics echoing through the walls. But whenever Hamzah's around for it, it's different. Every laugh feels like a gift. Every visit, a small miracle.
You started putting curlers in every night. Setting alarms earlier than necessary. Learning how to look effortless, even if it takes effort. Just in case he sees you. Just in case he looks twice.
You get shy just thinking about the way you dabbed on a little makeup before stepping out of your room. God, you hope no one says anything.
Knowing Mandy, she wouldn't question you. She'd just look at you with a smile and let you know you're beautiful.
Ensuring you woke up glowing made you feel like a new woman. Everything about this chapter of your life did. It was... nice. Even if it meant committing to the whole routine every morning, even when Hamzah didn’t show up, just to keep suspicions at bay.
.・゜✭
From her spot on the couch, Mandy glances up from her book. “Oh, thank god you’re up.”
You give her a sleepy smile, resisting the urge to immediately look over at Hamzah. You fail, of course.
"Ooh, look who it is—" Martin drags, "we were just doing our intro but I guess we can stop it to tell you goodmorning," His voice has that slightly performative lilt—he’s recording. The way he smiles at you but then rolls his eyes as he looks back at the webcam proves it.
Hamzah looked your way as martin spoke, though it seemed like maybe he noticed you first.
"Yes of course—good morning," Hamzah adds to Martins words, the softest smile on his face, very faint. Just out of respect.
But after a moment too long you notice Martin giving Hamzah a playful shove, just in the moment it seemed like Hamzah was hesitating to say something. “Come on, man, banana summer is awaiting us.” He quips, dragging his words just to annoy him.
“Right,” Hamzah turns, clapping his hands, slipping fully into YouTuber mode. His voice rises with purpose.
You take a seat next to Mandy, watching.
You see Hamzah laughing with Martin, being larger than life for the camera. But you focus on the in-between moments too—how quieter he gets when the camera shuts off, the way he looks tired around the eyes as soon as it's time for him to leave.
Mandy leans toward you, her voice slipping you out of your thoughts. “Okay, now that you're up, we’re getting coffee. Well, we are everyday. Especially early on days like this.” She adds, playfully annoyed about the obnoxious behavior from the two.
You stifle a smile, pretending to agree—like you wouldn’t rather stay here all day and listen to him.
“Let’s go,” you sigh dramatically. “Please.”
Mandy grabs her keys a little too quickly. “Yeah, this could take a while,” she scoffs. But as the two of you head for the door, your steps feel heavier than they should. Somehow, his voice had become the thing anchoring you on the days he was around. And now, all you want is to stay close—just to be near him, even if it were in silence.
“Bye!” the boys shout, mid recording. “Be safe!” Hamzah calls right after, like it’s habit. Like it’s instinct.
And then the door closes behind you.
For some reason your heart aches, savoring the last words heard from him for as long as you can. Replaying the way he looked at you in your head. God, you hope Mandy only wants to pick up a drink and then come right back home.
.・゜✭
He lingers in your mind like a song you can’t stop humming.
Even in line at the café, eyes skimming the menu over people’s shoulders, you’re not really reading—you’re wondering what drink Hamzah would get. Would he go for something simple? A cold brew? Something sweet? You imagine ordering the same, just to see if he’d notice. Just to hear him say, “Good choice.” Maybe with that half-smile of his that always makes your stomach turn to air.
“Do you and the boys ever get drinks together in the mornings?” you ask casually, eyes still trained on the chalkboard menu, but your tone is too careful—like it’s not just curiosity but longing stitched between the words.
Mandy shrugs, finalizing her own order. “If they’re not filming, yeah. Otherwise, it’s usually just me and Martin.”
You nod slowly, biting your tongue before the next question slips out—What about Hamzah? What’s his usual? You don’t ask. You can’t.
Instead, you scan the menu like the answer’s written somewhere in caramel drizzle or chai foam. You pick what feels like him. Whatever that means. You don’t know him enough to know—but still, it’s what you choose.
You’re next in line.
Before you can even reach for your card, Mandy taps hers and says, “Got it,” like it’s nothing. You meet her gaze and smile. "You know I'm gonna pay you back for that." She scoffs, knowing you know that she wont accept it.
.・゜✭
By the time you’re back from what started as coffee but turned into brunch and a long stroll through the outdoor mall, the boys are still at the computer.
You wonder what they’re playing, but you force yourself not to linger on them.
They don’t glance your way either—too focused, locked into something that doesn’t seem interactive but has them taking turns reading. A story, maybe. Still, the second you're near him again, your heart doesn't stop its quiet flutter.
Mandy drops her bags at the edge of the couch, slides in beside them, and opens her iPad with purpose. You assume she’s got something to work on, so you quietly take the spot beside her, resting your head on her shoulder.
You zone out, but everything around you buzzes louder. You’re listening—maybe too hard. Not to their words exactly, but to their voices. Especially his.
Eventually, Martin heads to the kitchen, rummaging for a drink. You don’t turn your head, but somehow, even with Mandy beside you and Martin crashing through cabinets, it feels like only you and Hamzah are here. Like he feels it too. But that’s ridiculous—right?
Martin returns, drink in hand. “Dude, you’re still recording.”
Hamzah silently nods after a pause.
“I know.” his voice is soft, sure. It settles over you like a familiar hum.
By now, you’ve lifted your head, eyes fixed on the back of a book left by you. His voice, still drifting through the room, plays like background static. Comforting.
Eventually, the recording ends. The boys lean back with a shared sigh, swiveling to face the two of you. Martin looks at Mandy. Hamzah looks at you.
Mandy looks up, the room pausing for a breath.
There’s so much you could say—too much—and before you can choose just one, Martin breaks the silence. “So… are we all hungry, or is it just us?” He clasps his hands together with a dramatic cringe.
Hamzah shifts his gaze to Mandy.
You try to look at Martin.
Try.
But your focus steadies only when Hamzah glances back at you again—that scares you enough into Martin taking up your full view.
You misremember Hamzah asking if you were hungry—how you were feeling. You misremember answering with something playful, something that made him laugh in that way that makes your stomach flutter. You misremember the way he looked at you, eyes lingering just a second too long to be casual. A glance that said more than words ever could.
Except none of it happened.
Not out loud, at least.
It only lived in your head, somewhere between imagination and wishful memory.
You fill in the spaces between his words with everything you wish he’d say. Everything you wish you'd say.
And sometimes, in the quiet, it feels like he’s answering back.
A moment slips by before you even realize everyone’s agreed to eat. Before it hits you that you never actually said the words you thought you did. That the way he looked at you—just now, in your head—might’ve only existed there.
And now that the moment’s gone, lost in the shuffle of food ideas to get delivered, you're left sitting with the weight of everything unsaid.
.・゜✭
Mandy and Martin are arguing playfully in the living room over whose turn it is to pick the movie to have on in the background while eveyrone ate. You linger in the kitchen, pretending to look for something in the fridge that you’re not actually going to eat. Which was stupid because, you had food on the way.
Hamzah’s sitting at the counter, tapping something into his phone, a half-empty drink beside him.
You feel his eyes on you before you hear his voice. His gaze flashes back to his phone.
“Have you eaten at all today?” he asks casually, not looking up right away.
Your heart stutters.
Remembering brunch you and Mandy went to, you didn't order a thing. Glancing over your shoulder, a smile pulls at your lips like muscle memory. “Nope. I've lived off of caffeine and Mandys presence all day.”
He lets out a soft laugh—low, warm, the kind that makes you want to bottle it. “Dangerous combo.”
You stifle a giggle, shrugging as you close the fridge door, holding a drink. “You’d be surprised. Might be the secret to my happiness.”
When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Not the casual glance you’re used to. This one lingers, studies—like he just learned something new about you when he's been searching for so long.
You can’t help but hold your breath. It’s the kind of silence that’s heavy with something unspoken. Even then, you don't break eye contact.
But then Martin shouts his name from the other room, snapping the moment in half.
Hamzah blinks, nods at you once, and stands. “Let me know if you want me to get you something different. You didn't get much word in what food we ordered.”
He’s already gone before you can respond. You stare at his back as he moves toward Mandy and Martin, probably to help them pick a movie.
Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe it was nothing. But you’ll tuck it away, anyway—right beside the dream you had last night, and all the other maybes you’ve been living off of lately.
Your heart beats hard, as it frequently has been. You let out a shakey exhale. Somehow every interaction with him—no matter how subtle—was intense.
Your mind is focused on the dream you had, seeing his face so upclose to you was hard to keep your eyes off his lips, remembering what they were like in your dream.
The memory has lingered in your chest all morning, as you watched him sit just in front of you on his phone, casually.
That's still the closest you and I have been. That's kind of sad, don't you think? I think so.
How did I fall in love with someone I don't know?
.・゜✭
After dinner, everyone’s soft with fatigue—like the air’s thick with comfort and food. Plates are stacked. Someone’s laughing about something that no one will remember tomorrow. The conversation slows into fragments—until Mandy, legs curled beneath her on the couch beside you, asks, “So how’d filming go today?”
Martin, already halfway to the kitchen, shrugs with a grin. “Good. Smooth. A chill but fun sesh," He turns to hamzah and scrunches his nose with a smile before hitting him, "right bro?” At this hour, he’s still messing around, letting out a forced laugh just to catch Hamzah’s confused expression.
Hamzah mirrors his movement, following him with the half-empty serving bowl in hand. Martin turns to you, speaking up. “You should watch it unedited,” he says, nodding toward the laptop he usually edits on. “I know you’ve been wanting to try editing one of our videos for fun, so… go for it. Most definitely watch the failed shots.” He suggests in amusement. But before Hamzah's fully in the kitchen, he pauses—eyes flicking toward you.
“Or don’t,” he quickly adds—almost interrupting. He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, you’d probably want to edit something more interactive of ours, anyway. This one’s kinda slow.” He excuses.
You raise an eyebrow, but before you can press him, Martin calls over his shoulder, “What? Bro, it’s the perfect video for her to practice on.” He bends his knees, emphasizing 'perfect' with a fake distraught expression.
Hamzah shrugs, eyes already turned away. He doesn't say another word, though he seems like he wants to argue back.
Their voices blend with the clinking of dishes and running water, muffled just behind the living room wall.
Mandy watches him go, brows furrowed. “Okay, weird." She shuts her eyes and shakes her head before continuing. "But yeah, ignore him. You can mess around with it whenever. Probably tonight—before Martin randomly decides he wants to touch it.”
You nod, though your curiosity is tugging. What was that lol?
.・゜✭
Later that night, the house falls into that soft, muffled quiet that only happens when everyone’s finally asleep. The kind of quiet where even the walls seem to exhale.
You lie stiff on your back, staring at the ceiling of the room that was never really yours. It used to be his—Hamzah’s.
The room was barely decorated—just a space he used for late-night recording sessions when he didn’t feel like going home. But his charger’s still in the wall. There's even a cologne bottle, nearly empty, tucked on the shelf. You'd noticed all of it earlier when Mandy insisted you keep the room for the night, since Hamzah had been invited to stay over last minute and “wouldn’t mind the couch.” He didn’t fight it. Not in front of anyone, anyway.
But you do. You feel it. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your room. This isn’t your city.
And suddenly that sense of loss hits you. It's not from death, It's something harder to explain.
It’s the version of you that once belonged somewhere. The one that had a room back home that smelled like lavender and warm dust, the one who didn’t have to constantly re-earn her right to exist in a space. The one who hadn’t been pushed out, hadn’t had to rebuild herself in the shell of someone elses home.
You blink fast, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Then you quietly slide out from under the covers, slipping into the hallway. The floorboards creak beneath your feet like they’re tattling on you, but no one stirs. You sit down right beside your bedroom door, knees pulled to your chest, breath shallow. The air is cool and smells faintly of detergent and the spice of someone’s cologne.
The tile is cold against your bare thighs. You were only wearing a tank top with some pajama shorts, but you enjoyed the breeze.
You rest your forehead against your knees.
You don’t mean to cry. But it’s late, and you’re tired, and your heart is swollen with the ache of everything you left behind. Even happiness can be heavy when it’s earned through loss.
The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, slow and hesitant, like someone unsure if they’re allowed to interrupt.
Hamzah.
He freezes when he sees you. There’s a flicker in his face—concern, confusion, maybe even guilt. You quickly wipe your cheek with your hand, but you don’t move. And he doesn’t ask.
He exhales softly. Then, without a word, he sits down beside you.
Close, but not too close.
For a moment, he doesn’t even look at you. Just folds his arms on top of his knees, mirroring your posture. His presence feels warm and steady, like something anchoring you to the moment. He doesn’t say it, but you can tell—he doesn’t need to know the whole story to understand that you’re carrying something.
The silence between you stretches wide, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels... known. Like he’s having a conversation with you in your head, and maybe he’s answering back without speaking.
What you didn’t realize was that he’d been having the same silent conversations with you in his head all along—just like you had with him. That, you never noticed.
.・゜✭
Once you finally slip into your room, you force yourself to shake off that charged exchange and settle at the bed. You open their laptop.
The home is hushed. You pause, wondering. Has Hamzah already drifted off to sleep? Is he thinking of that moment too?
You curl up in the bed, covers on, screen light glowing against your face. You click through Martin’s unlisted playlists.
There it is.
Unlisted – “Unedited / failed shots lol”
You click, expecting bloopers. Maybe some half-formed skits, jokes that didn’t land.
The video loads.
At first, it’s just them—Hamzah and Martin laughing, trying to record the intro. Martin fumbles a line and Hamzah bursts out laughing.
You reach the part where you enter the room—it’s like reliving it all over again. The memory floods back, but now you’re seeing it from a new angle. Hamzah’s eyes follow you, and suddenly you’re not so sure you imagined it. You watch the moment on repeat, trying to catch the exact flicker in his expression, searching for proof that he really was about to say something. Even on video, it looks like he was.
But then…
Near the very end of the video—you see yourself.
You’re in the background. Sitting on the couch. Legs crossed. Your head’s resting on Mandy’s shoulder, her arm partially in frame. You're half-zoned out, hearing but not listening. Just existing. Just there.
The camera should’ve cut. But it doesn’t. Instead, the angle shifts.
Hamzah adjusts the camera. Zooms in.
Not on himself.
On you.
Your breath catches. You tell yourself he’s just catching a moment. You and Mandy laying together. That's reasonable.
But then you shift—pull away gently from her shoulder, reaching for the book that lay by you. And she’s no longer in frame.
Just you.
The camera even moves with you. This was no mistake.
It zooms in slightly more. Framing your face but enough to see the rest of you. Like someone capturing something they don’t want to forget.
Off-screen, you hear Martin’s voice. “Dude, you’re still recording.”
A pause. Then Hamzah’s voice, quiet and casual, but so sure in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“I know.”
The camera doesn’t move. It stays on you.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen.
Then—
Cut to black.
Your cursor hovers over the time stamp from which this started.
But you don’t click.
You just sit there, pulse thudding softly in your throat. That moment replays anyway, not on the screen—but in your head. Again. And again. And again.
Because it meant something. Because he saw you.
Because even though he never said it—never had to say it—he’d captured it.
˖ . ݁ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 . ݁₊ UNSPOKEN TRUTHS, written by yaskore
summary. the night had been filled with laughter and energy, but both you and Hamzah found solace in a quiet moment away. What began as a simple retreat from the group quickly transformed into a night you’ve both only ever dreamed of, unspoken.
warnings. 18+!!, smut, angsty?, secretive, possibly over-writing smh, friends to lovers, p in v, aftercare, yearning
wc. 3.4k
Everyone was over—Martin, Mandy, Claire, Chase, three others...
You and Hamzah had a tendency to get overstimulated easily. The high energy in the room had been fun while it lasted, but you both seemed to crave a moment of quiet away from it all.
You normally wanted to indulge in every second you could get with your friends all together like this, but right now you just needed a moment.
A nudge pulls you out of your thoughts. You blink, startled, turning your head.
"Hm?" you hum in question before realizing who it is.
"You tired?" Hamzah leans his elbow on the kitchen island, his body angled toward you as he now fills your view.
You hadn't spoken much tonight, so seeing his face sunk your heart. He'd been with Martin and Chase all night while you stuck with Claire and Mandy—or some variation of that. But even so, it hadn't felt lonely.
Most of the night, your conversations were silent-shared glances that somehow spoke louder than the chatter around you. It's as if everything around the two of you disappeared once you locked eyes.
Remembering his question you shake your head, fingers tapping idly on the cold surface of the island. "Not tired. Just overstimulated. Worn out." You don't turn to face him, instead you're looking ahead of you, watching everyone else converse and laugh—trying to find it in you to join them again.
Hamzah raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement, turning his head to watch the group as well.
You glance at him after a pause. “You too?"
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he gives you a look—one that says more than enough. You guys commonly got overwhelmed together in many similar situations. It always sort of helped. You just nod with an exhale.
"They'll be fine if we stay over here," he says with a small shrug, his response reassuring you.
You drop your gaze for a moment, hesitating. It's been the whole day since you've really talked to him, and the thought makes you a little shy.
Your lips part as if to say something, but the moment your eyes meet his, your words falter.
You take him in properly for the first time all day. He isn't wearing his usual beanie— it's the first time in a week you've seen his hair, which looks great, a little longer even.
His hoodie is off now, draped over his shoulder, leaving him in a tank top that clings to his frame, accentuating his shoulders.
But it's the lighting that captures your attention most. The way it contours his face, highlighting every line, every angle. He seems taller, closer than you realized, and the sight makes your pulse quicken.
"What?" he asks with a laugh, his smile big and a bit awkward as he tries to decipher your stare.
You blink, snapping out of your head. "I haven't seen you all day," you say casually, taking a sip from the lemon water you'd made.
He scoffs, almost snorting. "Yeah, you have." His eyebrows furrow as he looks at you like you're being ridiculous.
You side-eye him, unable to ignore the grin on his stupid face. "Not really," you drag, a smile fighting your lips to grow. You had to look away.
His stupid grin stupidly widens. "What? Miss me?"
The teasing lilt in his voice makes your head turn. You know that tone—the kind he did that could easily pass as playful and harmless to anyone, but you hear the undertone, the hint of something deeper. The way his tongue traces the inside of his cheek as he looks at you only confirms it.
"Yeah, actually." you admit with a shrug, sipping your water and meeting his gaze in a brave attempt at boldness.
He blinks, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second before settling into something softer. Then, he leans in slightly.
"Let's just slip away into another room," he innocently suggests, nodding toward the doorway leading to his. "They won't even notice we're gone."
If his tone weren’t so friendly, you might’ve thought he meant something more. But you two were known for slipping away when crowds overwhelmed you, so you tell yourself not to read into it. Even if you want to.
"Hm?" He hums after you take a minute to respond. "I meant that as a question," he quips, straightening and slapping the counter lightly as if to prompt you.
His playfulness makes you giggle, a toothy smile breaking out before you can stop it. "Yeah, fuck it. Let's go."
"Hell yeah," he scrunches his nose as he smiles wide. He walks around the island and heads straight for his door, and with a final look to the preoccupied group, you follow behind him. The door clicks softly behind you, muffling the laughter and chatter from the other room.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet feels almost too loud, the air suddenly heavy with awareness.
Hamzah moves first, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He leans backwards, shifting himself comfortably. Watching him, you hesitate by the door for a moment.
Finally walking over to sit next to him, you're careful to leave just enough space. He lounges easily while you perch on the edge like getting too comfortable might get you killed.
You’ve been in his room plenty of times—you have no clue why you're this tense. He seems to wonder the same.
"Better?" he asks, slightly cocking his head to face you as he lay.
You nod, but the wordless exchange lingers in the air.
There's a pull between you, one you're both acutely aware of.
He looks away, jaw tight like he's chewing on words he doesn't know how to spit out. This usually happened the moment you two were in a room alone.
"You okay?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper. It took a mental battle just to get the words out. Only then did you notice your heart pounding—so hard you were terrified he might hear it too.
But his lips quirk into a small, humorless smile as he finally looks at you. "Yeah," he threads his brows and nods,
"Just... needed to breathe."
You finally inhale, relieved. "Same," you reply, equally quiet. Afraid of any more awkward silence, you're quick to speak up again. "Feels like it's been forever since we-" you slightly trail off, overthinking what you wanted to express.
"Since we what?" he's quick to respond—almost interrupting, his tone light but the question loaded. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, a hint of hope for you to confess what he can't.
You falter under his gaze, the words slipping from your grasp. "I don't know. Just... since we talked like this. Just us." You look down.
He props himself up slightly, his head tilting as he studies you.
"Yeah, it has been busy," time passes before he adds on, "I missed that." he breathes.
His confession makes your heart drop, and though it's innocent, your breath catches all the same.
You try to speak, but your words stumble—caught between asking, "You did?" and simply agreeing with, "Yeah." Frustrated, you sigh and give up, earning a soft snort from him beside you.
Pressing your lips together in embarrassment, you shake your head and glance away, almost laughing at your own awkwardness.
"Yes, I did," he says, his voice tinged with amusement.
"Of course." he adds, quieter. But before he lets you process it he speaks up again. "And I'm glad you agree."
Somehow, he effortlessly untangles your jumbled words, leaving you exhaling with a softened expression.
And as you feel your lips begin to curl into a smile, the faintest brush of his fingertip against your elbow pulls your attention back to him. Your eyes meet, the air shifting between you—turning the tension into something warmer, more intimate.
After holding eye contact for a moment too long, you blurt out the first thought that comes to mind, desperate to shatter the silence cutting sharply between you.
"It's nice to see your hair again," you murmur, your gaze lingering on his face, taking in every detail, every curl.
The world beyond his door—your friends in the other room—fades into nothing. Right now, it's only him.
"Yeah?" he asks softly, his voice tentative yet playful.
You nod, your teeth lightly grazing your bottom lip as your hand rises to his face. You lightly graze his cheekbone with your knuckles, then slip into his hair, fingers softly threading through the curls. He swallows hard at the contact, his eyes now fixed intently on you.
"It's nice to see your face again," he murmurs, his voice barely rising above a whisper, his eyes fixed on your lips. He means seeing you this close again. After weeks of busy chaos, this is as if it's the first time in ages.
And not another word is exchanged as the two of you become utterly consumed by each other's presence. His gaze mirrors yours, lingering on your lips, always returning to them, as if tethered to an unspoken promise.
He looks at you with a hunger so raw it makes your chest tighten—a gaze that says he could never touch you and still wouldn't trade the moment for anything, yet also burns with an undeniable desire to feel you.
Barely realizing it, you're both leaning closer, drawn together instinctively. The space between you vanishes inch by inch.
You stop just shy of his lips, his eyes fluttering closed in surrender, ready to meet you, to give himself fully to you in this moment.
You pause long enough to let the image of his vulnerable, yearning expression sear into your memory. The fire inside you roars, and without hesitation, you close the final distance.
Barely a second passes when your lips meet before his large hands slide to the back of your neck, gripping firmly. The pressure tightens subtly as your kiss deepens, urgency building between you.
Your lips part, urging him closer, but he pulls back just enough to catch his breath before crashing back into you, harder, faster. His tongue meets yours for the first time, colliding like crashing waves.
He was hungry. And he was yearning.
It made you hungry.
The way his arm makes its way around your torso, the way his fingers are digging into you with a possessive need.
Every sensation blurs into a singular focus; him.
Consuming him. Feeling him.
A soft moan escapes you as his desperation intensifies, urging you to act without thought. You quickly hook a leg around his waist, pulling him closer by his shirt, and straddling him. His grip tightens, almost bruising. You find yourself wishing it would.
Feeling his arm slide down to the small of your back, hesitating just shy of your ass, you knew this wasn't going to end here.
With a soft hum, you sink fully into his lap, drawing a deep groan from his throat as his lips stayed locked with yours.
His arousal was unmistakable, pressing through the baggy sweats he'd changed into once everyone got settled in the house. The thin fabric did little to conceal him, leaving you fully aware of what was beneath. And if not for your own pants, you might feel everything.
But that didn't matter. Not when he was already tugging them off you.
As he did, your hands slipped under his shirt, inching it up just enough to reveal his chest and stomach, your gaze roaming greedily over all of him, especially his arms.
You lifted yourself off him for a moment, just long enough for your pants to slide to the floor. Then, shifting back onto him, the barrier between you both nearly gone, you leaned in close, locking eyes with him. Your hands moved deliberately to the waistband of his sweats, loosening it as you let the tension linger. Sloowwly. Your gaze doesn't leave his. He's staring at you with a need that could slice right through you.
You didn't start to ease his sweats down until your lips found his again. His urgency, however, betrayed your measured pace. His tongue was quick to explore yours, his hands roaming every inch of your body as though he couldn't get enough. He was basically—no—he was growling into the kiss, breathing as if he never had the chance to before.
But you don't take his sweats off entirely, you stop just below the waistband of his boxers—just enough for his bulge to become even more pronounced. But you don't spare it a glance; you're too engrossed in Hamzah's lips, the taste of him, the way he kisses you with a hunger that makes it impossible to think of anything else.
The needy noises he makes—the way his breath hitches and his kisses grow messier—ignite something desperate in you. It only continues to grow the more you think it impossible.
Without hesitation, your fingers find the waistband of his boxers, glididng a finger just under it teasingly.
Finally sliding them down, his length springs free, brushing against you in a way that only increases the pool in your panties.
Hamzah's brows knit together as he glances down at himself, his lips parting slightly after he swallows hard. His gaze quickly shifts back to you, his teeth catching his bottom lip. It’s as if seeing himself made him shy, noticing how quickly he got hard from you. It reminds you of how wet he’s made you with nothing but shared glances all night. Now, you feel a little shy yourself.
You grind slowly against his thigh, teasing, feeling him twitch beneath you. The inside of your thigh brushes against him, making his breath hitch and his hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements. He can’t handle the pace you’ve set.
His head falls back as he struggles to handle the intensity of your teasing, but just as quickly, he lifts his gaze, eyes locking onto the way your hips move against him.
He didn't need to say much—just a breathless plea of your name—and you know exactly what he's begging for.
The heartbeat in your panties only intensifies after hearing your name on his pleading tongue, in his pleading tone. And you know he felt it because he fails to hold back a whimper.
You reach down, positioning him against you as you waste no time to lower yourself onto him, inch by tantalizing inch.
His head falls back, a strained groan escaping his lips as his grip on your hips becomes almost bruising. The stretch is grand, sending a shiver up your spine as you take him in fully.
"God, you feel so good," Hamzah's quick to breathe, his voice hoarse and trembling. His hands start to move again, sliding up your back and then back down to your thighs, urging you to move.
You oblige, hearing his voice in this situation intoxicating. Setting a slow rhythm at first, you savor the way his body reacts to yours.
His lips find your neck, sucking and biting gently, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as his hips begin to meet yours, thrusting upward in perfect sync.
"Faster," he murmurs his plea against your skin, kissing your shoulder, his voice dripping with need. You can't deny him.
The sound he makes is primal, and his hands slide down to your thighs, gripping hard as his hips snap up to meet yours with a rhythm that's no longer controlled—if it ever once was—but desperate, needier. Utterly consuming.
The world beyond the door feels distant, the chatter and laughter of the group outside blending with the thrum of music. They're too preoccupied with their own fun to notice anything, much less that you and Hamzah are missing. The beat of the music muffles every sound, leaving the two of you wrapped in a cocoon of intimacy, completely undisturbed.
It's almost thrilling, knowing how close they are, yet how oblivious. Their carefree voices filter faintly through the walls, but none of it reaches you fully—your world has narrowed to the heat of Hamzah's touch, the way he moves beneath you, and the intoxicating way he says your name.
His hands tighten on your hips, drawing a strained groan from him as your movements grow more fervent. The realization that no one outside has a clue only adds to the tension, the forbidden nature of it all fueling the fire between you.
“They’re too busy to care,” Hamzah murmurs against your lips, his breath shallow, as if reading your thoughts. “Just fuck me…” His voice is a breathless plea, low and rough. The needy tone sends your heart spiraling, addictively dropping into your stomach.
His grip on your hips is relentless, almost possessive, as if letting go would mean losing the only thing grounding him. His need for you is written in every strained groan, every whispered plea that escapes his lips.
"Please," he rasps, his voice breaking as he buries his face in your neck. The way he clings to you, his hands trembling slightly as they slide up your back, says everything his words can't. He's utterly consumed by you, unable to stop himself from chasing every ounce of pleasure you give him.
You meet his gaze, and the intensity there nearly undoes you. His eyes are dark, glassy with need, his brows furrowed as his mouth hangs open.
"I'm gonna--" he trails off in a moan, his tone edged with desperation, hips bucking up into you with an urgency that sends your head spinning. His eyebrows thread the closer he gets, and he looks a mess. Ruined. Yours.
You can't form coherent words, only managing a breathless, eager "mhm" as you nod urgently, silently begging him to let go inside you, to give you everything.
Your scattered curses and desperate repetitive whispers of "yes" drive him wild, each one stoking the fire of his pleasure and need. His control slips entirely, a strained, breathless "fuck" dragging from his lips.
You lean down, urgently capturing his lips, swallowing the broken moan that spills from him. His moans are ragged and breathless, kissing you with a hunger he can’t suppress, barely giving himself a half second to breathe between each kiss, making him that much more noisier.
When he finally falls over the edge, it's with a raw, guttural plea of your name. His hands clutch you tightly, his entire body tensing beneath you before he shudders with release. It seems like it lasts him forever.
The intensity of his need pulls you with him, pleasure crashing through you in waves as your nails dig into his broad shoulders, holding him as tightly as he holds you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves, your foreheads pressed together as you try to catch your breath, the tension still crackling faintly between you. The sounds of the world outside slowly filter back in—music, laughter—but in this moment, it's still just the two of you.
Here and there, He thrusts slowly in the wetness of you and himself, slowly, carefully. Yet each time, he can't stay quiet. Each time, his eyes remain fixed on your face, studying every fleeting expression, as though committing every moment of your pleasure to memory.
When he finally pulls away, the shared exhale is heavy, but it feels less like relief and more like surrender. Your breathing is ragged, chests rising and falling in tandem as you collapse gently onto him.
No words are spoken. You simply rest your head on his chest, hearing his breaths slow down with each minute that passes as you stare at nothing, lost now—only in your feelings.
After a while, his hand comes to rest on your head, hesitant at first, before his fingers thread gently through your hair.
His touch is soft, almost reverent.
No words are spoken, but who needs it?
Who needs it when everything you've felt for eachother since the beginning is telling itself in this moment?
In the way his fingers glide through your hair, in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, refusing to fully calm. In the way he tilts his chin to rest against the crown of your head, and the ghost of his lips presses there in a kiss so quiet he hopes you don't notice.
This wasn't just sex. It never could be.
a/n. i havent wrote in a minute, sorry if it isnt very good arghh. i need to get out my writing slump cus tumblr is fun to post on hehha, also this is an edited repost from lowkey a long time ago so hi guyss, I'mma try to work on multiple things at once if yall show love !
