#but is was always something much deeper too

[joelsrose]

Father of the Groom

warnings - smut (as always lmao) virgin reader, cheating, spanking, unprotected sex, family dynamics, creampie ..(??!)

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

You reached for another glass of champagne, your fingers trembling just enough to make the bubbles shimmer against the rim. The suite was quiet now, too quiet, after the flurry of brushes and curling irons, after the hum of music and the soft laughter of your stylist and makeup artist who had only just packed up and left. The air still held the faint scent of hair spray and roses, mixed with the deeper perfume clinging to your skin — warm, floral, soft like summer.

Your hair had been curled into delicate waves, the top pinned back with a cluster of tiny pearls that glimmered every time you moved. Your makeup was bridal perfection — a gentle glow across your cheeks, soft pink lips, lashes long and curled like whispers. You looked like a dream. You felt… like a trembling one. Nerves tangled tightly in your belly, fluttering like ribbons caught in wind. You were getting married today. Today.

The weight of it settled behind your ribs. Excitement, yes — that warm, hopeful kind — but threaded through with something sharper, more restless. The kind of nerves that made your hands fidget, that made you question if you’d eaten too much, if you should’ve worn a different shade of blush, if the weight in your chest was love or fear or�� something else entirely.

You were just about to raise the flute to your lips when a knock echoed at the door — soft, deliberate.

Your heart gave a little stutter.

“Luke, I swear,” you muttered under your breath with a nervous smile, setting the glass down, “you know you’re not supposed to see me until the ceremony…”

You padded toward the door in nothing but your white silk robe — the one you’d saved for today, smooth as water and tied loosely at your waist. You pulled it tighter on instinct, fingers curling around the fabric as you turned the handle and opened the door—

—and there he was.

Joel.

Mr. Miller.

Your fiancé’s father.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

Joel Miller stood in the doorway like he’d stepped out of another world and into this one just to see you — tall and broad in his dark suit, the tailored jacket pulling across his shoulders in a way that made your breath hitch for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His tie was a muted navy, slightly loosened at the collar like he hadn’t bothered to finish getting ready yet, and in the neat fold of his jacket pocket sat a single white rose — likely chosen to match your bouquet, the detail not missed by you. His hair had been swept back, soft curls glinting silver under the room’s warm light. He looked handsome — devastatingly so — in that older, quiet kind of way that made you want to look at him just a second too long.

“Joel,” you smiled gently, surprised, your fingers tightening slightly on the robe’s sash as you leaned your shoulder to the doorframe, “I thought you were Luke.”

His brow ticked up, but the smile he gave you was warm, touched with something that felt just a little too fond. “Well… look at you, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, eyes scanning you with a reverence that made your skin burn beneath the silk. He leaned in and kissed both of your cheeks — the roughness of his stubble grazing your skin, the warmth of his hands settling lightly on your arms. “You look like a damn dream.”

A quiet breath left you as you backed up slightly to let him in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, turning toward the side table where the champagne and spirits were arranged, the glasses catching soft golden light. “Would you like a drink? There’s whiskey.”

He chuckled — low, gravelly, like it lived deep in his chest. “You know me well.”

You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped to your legs, how they lingered on the smooth line of your thigh revealed by the shift of your robe as you reached forward, silk sliding up just enough to test the limits of modesty. You didn’t catch the subtle way his jaw shifted or how his thumb dragged once over his palm before reaching for the glass you passed him.

“How’s your morning been?” he asked, voice smooth, conversational, but his gaze wandered — over the room, yes, but always returning to you.

You motioned for him to sit, and when he did, he chose the armchair closest to you — close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You sat down again, smoothing the robe over your legs as you sipped the last of your champagne, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves in your chest that had nothing to do with wedding-day jitters.

“It’s been busy,” you admitted softly, your voice lighter now. “Hair and makeup only just left. Luke and I are getting photos done soon… in—” you glanced at your phone, “less than an hour, actually.”

Joel nodded slowly, the motion almost absentminded, though his eyes hadn’t left you once — eyes that held something too heavy to be casual, too soft to be paternal. There was reverence in them, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something deep and unspoken, as if he was trying to memorize every angle of you in that moment — the slope of your cheekbone catching the morning light, the gentle way your bottom lip stayed tucked beneath your teeth when you were nervous, the way you kept fidgeting with the edge of your silk robe like you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands now that he was sitting so close.

“You nervous?” he asked at last, his voice quieter than before — lower, almost thoughtful, like it wasn’t just a question but something weightier, an offering.

You smiled softly, almost bashful, eyes dropping to your lap where your fingers twisted the belt of your robe into a little knot. “A little.”

When you looked up again, his gaze was still locked on yours — unwavering, steady, and laced with something warm enough to make your skin prickle.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice slow and syrupy, rich with something comforting and southern and familiar. “If anything, my damn son oughta be nervous. He’ll get a whoopin’ if he ain’t takin’ care of you proper.”

That made you laugh — the kind of laugh Joel always pulled out of you with so little effort, the kind that spilled out like a secret, the kind that reminded you of every dinner at their family home, of the way he always made sure your wine glass was full, how he always offered you the best slice of roast first, the way he always called you “sweetheart” like it meant something more. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday brunches — Joel was the kind of man who made you feel seen, held, steady in a world that sometimes spun too fast.

And now, as your laughter died down to a gentle smile, he was watching you again — like you were something fragile and golden and borrowed just for a moment. His hand moved slowly, resting gently on your knee, warm and solid where your skin peeked from beneath the silk. His palm was broad, roughened from years of work, but the way he touched you was soft, reverent, fingers still against your skin like he didn’t dare move.

You kept your eyes trained on his, breath catching faintly, though it wasn’t fear that fluttered in your chest. He smelled good — a mix of something woodsy and clean, a little cologne maybe, but mostly Joel — that distinct, masculine scent that always lingered when he hugged you goodbye.

He smiled a little, eyes soft, almost nostalgic. “You remind me of Tess on our wedding day,” he said quietly, and you felt that compliment bloom somewhere deep in your belly, warm and sharp. “She had this look in her eyes — somethin’ soft. Somethin’ like you got now. Though I don’t think she ever wore a robe like that 'round me before the vows.”

The last part slipped out lower, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and you blushed instantly, lowering your eyes with a shy smile, your fingers tightening just slightly around the edge of your robe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Joel smiled again, tilting his head just a little, and then leaned forward, the hand on your knee giving the gentlest squeeze. “Now come on,” he said, voice teasing but kind, “stand up and give me a twirl. I wanna see my future daughter-in-law in all her glory.”

You let out a little giggle — partly from the champagne dancing in your bloodstream, partly from the way his voice held that proud affection, but mostly from the way he was looking at you. Like you were beautiful. Like he knew you were.

You gave a playful little twirl, champagne dancing in your veins and nerves making your limbs feel feather-light. The hem of your silk robe fluttered around your thighs, and you struck a mock pose at the end, one hand on your hip, the other lifting just enough of the fabric to wink at the lace garter snug around your upper thigh — delicate ivory and barely-there sheer, the one your maid of honor had slipped to you that morning with a wink and a giggle.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, the sound rough and warm and unmistakably male, like it was caught in the back of his throat. He leaned forward slightly in the armchair, elbow resting on one knee, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass of whiskey. But it wasn’t the drink he was looking at.

Your movements had swayed just enough for him to catch a flash of lace — and his eyes tracked it like they had a mind of their own.

“Hold up,” Joel said suddenly, his voice casual but the glint in his eyes not quite matching the lazy ease in his tone. He leaned forward in the chair just slightly, resting his glass on the side table as his gaze settled somewhere lower — somewhere that made heat crawl beneath your skin. “C’mere for a sec, sweetheart.”

You blinked, your breath catching as you stepped toward him with a small, hesitant smile, eyes soft with concern. “What’s wrong?” you asked, your brows furrowed as your mind spun — Did I drop something? Do I have something on my face? Did my lipstick smudge already?

But Joel didn’t answer you right away. Instead, he reached out with one hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers warm as they brushed against the outside of your thigh — the place where the hem of your robe had shifted just enough during your little twirl to reveal a sliver of ivory lace. His touch was gentle, almost absentminded, but his movements were precise. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“This,” he murmured, dragging his finger beneath the silk as he shifted the fabric slightly to the side, revealing more of the garter cinched high on your thigh — delicate and bridal and not meant to be seen by him. “Thought I saw somethin’. Damn near missed it.”

He was smiling — that sweet, fatherly smile he always gave you — but there was something else there too, something in the way his eyes lingered, in the way his thumb brushed the edge of the lace like he was admiring it for more than just tradition’s sake.

You froze, a flush blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening beneath the satin as you struggled to find words. How were you supposed to explain to your future father-in-law that you were wearing a garter? That it was supposed to be seen by someone else — his son, no less. That it was part of some ancient wedding tradition meant to feel cheeky, fun, maybe even a little flirtatious, but now felt scandalous, intimate, exposed in front of the man who should’ve looked away the second he noticed.

Your voice caught in your throat, lodged somewhere between your chest and your lips, and all you could manage was a breathy, flustered, “It’s…” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as you reached absently for the belt of your robe, needing something to do with your hands, anything to ground you beneath the weight of his gaze. “Tradition, apparently,” you mumbled. “My maid of honour gave it to me this morning.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away. His fingers — the same ones that had just ghosted over the soft skin of your thigh — trailed off with an infuriating slowness, leaving behind a trail of heat like a brand. He let go of the silk as if he hadn’t just touched something sacred, as if his hand hadn’t rested somewhere it most certainly should not have been — like the act itself hadn’t tilted the axis of the room just a fraction. Like it wasn’t so unbearably wrong you felt dizzy with it.

He leaned back in the armchair, the movement languid and unhurried, like he was stretching into the moment instead of trying to escape it. One arm draped along the back of the seat, the other resting on his thigh, fingers idly brushing his whiskey glass. His gaze moved slowly — dragging unapologetically from your legs, up the length of your body, pausing at the dip of your waist where the robe clung, the soft curve of your chest, the flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat — before finally, finally settling on your face again.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and low, that Southern drawl folding over you like velvet, smooth but weighted, “it’s a real pretty little thing.”

He paused, his smile curling at the edge with something far too knowing, too intimate.

“Just like you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked, eyes wide, the blush rising higher on your cheeks as you stood frozen in place, unsure what to say, unsure what could be said. You felt suddenly very young, very exposed — like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s world, standing in a silk robe that felt too thin, with lace too intimate, in front of a man who should have looked away by now. A man who should have been like a father. A man who wasn’t.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly, your gaze darting away in a poor attempt to gather composure. But you could still feel his eyes on you — the weight of them. Gentle. Heavy. Wanting.

You sat down again, your legs folding delicately beneath you, hyperaware now of the space between you — or rather, the lack of it. His knee brushed yours when you shifted slightly, and the silk of your robe clung a little too close to your skin, made you feel a little too seen. Your skin still tingled where his hand had rested moments before.

“What are the boys doing?” you asked, your voice soft, trying to ease the thrum in your chest by returning to something normal — something safe — but even as you said it, your voice betrayed you, just a little too airy, a little too unsure.

Joel chuckled, low and warm, that rich gravel sound that lived somewhere deep in his chest. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass with idle ease. “Luke and the boys?” he said, eyes still fixed on you like you were more interesting than anything happening elsewhere. “They’re just gettin’ ready in the suite down the hall. Arguin’ over whose tie’s crooked, takin’ shots behind your mama’s back.”

You smiled, shoulders relaxing a touch, but then — then Joel shifted his wrist as he brought the glass to his lips, and just as his arm brushed yours, he fumbled.

It was subtle. Believable. Performed so naturally you would’ve sworn it was real.

The glass tilted — just enough — and a slow, honeyed trickle of whiskey spilled over the rim, slipping down the side of the tumbler and landing squarely on your thigh.

Your gasp was soft, surprised, as the warm liquid soaked into the silk, darkening it in a bloom that made the fabric cling scandalously to your skin. It rolled down your leg in a slow, sinful line.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, deep and throaty, setting the glass aside instantly. His hand followed the spill without hesitation, brushing the fabric with the back of his knuckles, trying — pretending — to help. “Damn, m’sorry, sweetheart. Wasn’t lookin’. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice thin, fluttering from your lips like it had to push through the tightness in your chest. Your breath hitched as Joel’s fingers lingered, just for a second too long, his knuckles grazing the edge of your thigh as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “It’s just—just the robe.”

He pulled back, but not far, reaching behind him for the box of tissues on the table with a low chuckle, his voice roughened by something that felt deeper than amusement. “Sorry, darlin’,” he muttered as he shook his head, pulling a few tissues loose. “Old man like me can’t do nothin’ right with these damn hands anymore. Slippery glass, nerves shot, eyesight probably goin’.”

You laughed softly, unsure whether it was the champagne or the way your heart felt like it had climbed into your throat. “You’re not old,” you murmured, looking down at your lap to avoid his gaze.

Joel didn’t respond to that — not directly. Instead, he leaned forward again, pressing the tissue to your thigh with a gentleness that made the breath stall in your lungs. His hand was warm, firm but careful, like he was scared he might hurt you, or maybe scared of something entirely different.

He dabbed at the silk uselessly, the fabric already soaked through, transparent now and clinging like a second skin.

“Damn,” he muttered again, more to himself this time as his eyes followed the trail of amber staining the pale ivory. “I’m makin’ it worse, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer, your mouth dry, because he wasn’t really asking.

Joel looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity, and then back down at the fabric. “This ain’t gonna come clean like this,” he said after a moment, holding the tissue up like proof. “You’ll catch a chill sittin’ in it all wet like that.”

You hesitated, blinking. “It’s fine, really—”

“Nah,” he said gently, his voice taking on that soft but insistent tone, the one that always made people listen. “You’re gonna wrinkle that beautiful dress if this soaks through. Here—” his fingers moved to the sash at your waist before you even realized, pausing just long enough for your eyes to go wide.

“May I?” he asked, and the way he said it — quiet, kind, not pushy but so utterly deliberate — made your stomach twist with something sharp and hot, something that curled behind your ribs and settled low, where your thoughts shouldn’t be wandering.

“I—” you exhaled a shaky breath, a breathy, nervous laugh tumbling out of you. “I’m not sure—”

Joel’s smile was warm, sweet even, but his hands were already ready — positioned at your waist like he was just waiting for permission he already knew you’d give. “We gotta get you cleaned up, baby,” he said gently, glancing at the watch on his wrist like this was all just time-sensitive logistics and not a private, forbidden unraveling. “You got what… twenty minutes till the photographer shows up? Tess, Lord, she dropped every damn thing on her dress back on our day. Nerves’ll do that to ya. But this?” His hand brushed the stained silk. “This’s before the ceremony. Can’t have your wedding robe lookin’ like this in the photos, sugar. People’ll talk.”

He chuckled, soft and low, like he’d just said something harmless, like this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. And your voice — so small and unsure and trembling in a way you couldn’t seem to stop — came out as little more than a breath: “Okay.”

Before you even realized what was happening, his fingers worked the sash loose, slow and careful like he was handling something breakable. The robe slid off your shoulders with the softest whisper of silk and warmth, pooling at your waist before slipping down your hips entirely. Joel caught it in one hand like it was something sacred, something fragile that deserved care — but his eyes…

His eyes didn’t stay on the robe.

He pretended to examine the stained fabric, muttering something under his breath about the fibers and how whiskey sets, holding it like he was doing you a favor — but his gaze lifted a second later, and when it did, it hit you like heat.

Because now you were standing in front of him in nothing but your wedding-day lingerie.

Lace and satin hugged your body, delicate and white and unforgiving, sheer in places where it shouldn’t have been, the garter still snug on your thigh, the tops of your stockings barely visible beneath the hem of the lace. You felt bare. Exposed. Like you’d been unwrapped and laid open just for him.

And Joel — your fiancé’s father, the man who’d kissed your cheek over birthday cake, who’d fixed the broken lock on your apartment door, who’d always called you sweetheart like it was your name — looked up at you then.

His eyes trailed up the length of your legs, slowly, reverently, over your hips, your stomach, the soft line of your chest rising and falling far too quickly.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

And in that still, humming silence — where the only sound was the soft rustle of lace against skin and the distant echo of footsteps in some far-off hallway that no longer felt real — you realized with a throb in your chest that Joel had never looked at you like this before.

But he wasn’t stopping.

Not this time.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, reverently, so intensely it made your skin feel too tight, like you were glowing from the inside out, flushed and trembling in nothing but that thin veil of bridal lace that barely counted as clothing. His mouth parted, just slightly, like the words were trying to catch up with the way his thoughts had already unraveled.

“Well,” he drawled at last, voice low and breathless with disbelief, a wry edge of admiration curling around every syllable, “hell, darlin’... I didn’t even know they made underwear like that.”

You gasped — soft, startled — and instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, trying to shield yourself with trembling hands, but there was barely anything to cover. The silk and lace clung to you like a whisper, translucent in places it shouldn’t be, tight across curves he was now seeing for the very first time, and the heat in his eyes made your knees threaten to give out.

Joel dropped the robe without looking, the silk puddling soundlessly at his feet, forgotten, like it was meaningless compared to the vision standing before him. His voice dipped deeper, reverent but laced with something unholy, something so filthy it made your pulse stutter.

“Shit, honey…” he whispered, gaze flicking down again, breath catching as he took you in from head to toe, “…this lace don’t even cover your pussy, does it?”

You froze, stunned, lips parted in a silent gasp, your body prickling with heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how the words hit you — low and wicked, like something molten pooling behind your ribs.

He shook his head slowly, as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing, as though the sight of you — flushed and trembling and wrapped in lace that did nothing to hide the soft, sacred shape of your body — was more than his tired, aging heart could bear. His voice, when it came, was hushed and aching, like it had to claw its way up from somewhere deep in his chest. “You look like heaven on earth,” he murmured, almost broken by it, like saying the words out loud wounded him in some unspeakable way. “Like somethin’ God himself made just to fuck with me.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Your arms were still crossed tightly over your chest, but your hands had slackened, your fingers curled uselessly against your skin as if even they had surrendered to the weight of his gaze. Your lips were parted in shock, your mouth dry, and your heart was pounding so hard you swore he could see it in the way your collarbone trembled beneath the thin thread of satin. You didn’t know if you should run — throw on the robe, end this before it went any further — or reach for him, admit what your body had already betrayed.

Joel stood then, slowly, without a word, and took the few steps toward you with the calm, deliberate steadiness of a man who had made up his mind.

You didn’t move when he reached you.

Didn’t protest when his rough, warm hands slid gently over your wrists, guiding your arms down and away from your chest, until they hung limply at your sides and you were bare before him in a way you had never been before.

His gaze dropped immediately, and there was nothing coy about it now, nothing shy or hesitant in the way his eyes devoured the sight of you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw your chest, and his voice, when it came, was low and ragged and thick with hunger.

“Jesus, baby…” he muttered, his voice strained and reverent like he was confessing a sin, “I can see your fuckin’ nipples through that lace.”

The way he said it — not vulgar, not joking, but stunned, ruined, like it was a miracle he didn’t deserve to witness — sent a ripple of heat straight through your spine. You felt like you were on fire, like your skin was glowing beneath his gaze, like you were something holy being blasphemed.

“Joel,” you warned, or tried to, though your voice cracked under the weight of your own trembling.

Your brows furrowed, your breath shallow, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because his eyes were still fixed on your breasts, on the way the sheer lace hugged the swell of them, your nipples peaked and visible through the delicate floral embroidery, the faint rise and fall of your chest growing sharper with each second his gaze remained. And Joel — your future father-in-law, the man who’d always carried himself with the kind of unshakable dignity only age could bring — just looked.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say sorry.

He just kept looking at you like he’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in his life — like the sight of you, soft and trembling in white lace that barely clung to your skin, had cracked something open in him so deep and buried he no longer remembered how to pretend it wasn’t there.

And then, in a voice so calm and so casual it could’ve been mistaken for small talk, he murmured, “Now you can’t blame an old man for admirin’, can you?”

The way he said it — low, warm, with the faintest flicker of amusement curling in his chest — made your stomach flip. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like you were the one being silly for acting like he hadn’t just devoured you with his eyes.

His hand rose, slow and unhurried, and settled against your hip — broad and warm, his thumb brushing bare skin where the lace ended. The contact was electric, your breath catching in your throat as you gasped softly, your eyes snapping up to his.

“You wear this for him?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, gaze trailing from your mouth to your breasts again like he couldn’t help himself. “This pretty little set?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think. Not with his hand on you, not with his voice all low and close like that, like a secret being whispered in a confessional.

“Bet he can’t even fuck ya right,” Joel muttered, more to himself than to you, like the words had slipped out from somewhere dark and unchecked.

“Joel,” you said, eyes wide, voice trembling, every part of your body pulsing with heat and something dangerously close to arousal.

But he didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you harder, darker, like he wanted to pull every secret from your lips one by one.

“Am I right?” he asked, his thumb pressing slightly into your hip, his voice rough now, frayed around the edges. “Answer me.”

“He’s—” you stuttered, struggling to find breath, to find balance. “We—”

Joel leaned closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, close enough that your body instinctively tilted toward his like gravity itself wanted to betray you.

“What?” he asked again, quieter this time, more intimate. “Tell me, baby.”

You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering, unable to meet his gaze. “We’re waiting,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “I… I’m waiting for marriage.”

Joel stilled completely, his hand still on your hip, the silence stretching like a rubber band between you, pulled taut with something unspeakable.

“Is that right?” he said, his voice rasping out of him now — not mocking, not surprised, but so deep and low it made your thighs press together without thought.

And then, with a smirk so slow and sinful it felt like a hand dragging down your spine, he murmured—

“Wearin’ nothin’ but that little lace set… nipples hard and pussy barely covered… waitin’ for marriage?” He laughed under his breath, eyes glinting with heat as his thumb stroked over your hipbone again. “Sugar, you don’t look like you’re waitin’ for anything at all.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat before you could push them out, your body so tense it ached. “It’s true,” you whispered finally, barely able to look at him, your eyes darting toward the door, the hallway, the window — anywhere but the furnace of his gaze — “Joel… you should go. You have to leave.”

The reality of it struck you all at once — how easily someone could walk in, a bridesmaid, your mother, Luke, God forbid — how they’d see you like this, half-naked in white lace with your robe discarded, flushed and trembling in front of a man who wasn’t your groom but your fiancé’s father — and yet your feet didn’t move, your body didn’t pull away, your hands still resting lightly against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“Ain’t no one been in here?” Joel asked as the pad of his finger tapped once against the thin lace stretched over your cunt — then again, firmer this time — and your knees nearly gave out, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your entire body shuddered, the contact so sharp, so intimate, so forbidden you couldn’t breathe.

Your arms flew up, instinctive, desperate for balance, and gripped his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the fabric as your forehead dropped forward against his chest, your body swaying against his like it was trying to find safety in the very place it should’ve run from.

“No,” you said shakily, head turning slightly against him, your voice catching somewhere between shame and pleading. “I’m—Joel, I’m—no one’s.”

He stilled.

Everything in him seemed to go quiet, like your words had struck something sacred.

“Christ,” he breathed, low and reverent, his hand still cupping you through the lace, fingers twitching against the heat of you, “you mean to tell me…”

You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, could hear the raw edge of restraint unraveling in his voice.

“And you’re gonna let Luke be the first?”

You flinched, eyes fluttering shut as guilt and desire tangled painfully in your chest. “He’s my fiancé,” you said softly, almost defensively, even though you couldn’t lift your head from Joel’s chest, even though your body was pressing closer to his with each heartbeat. “We’re… we’re getting married.”

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, his fingers dragging gently over the soaked lace between your legs, not quite touching, just tracing, feeling, memorizing.

His voice came softer now, but no less devastating.

“And still… he ain’t the one you’re tremblin’ for, is he?”

“I—” you tried to speak, to form a protest, a thought, anything — but your words were swallowed before they ever had the chance to live, devoured by the press of Joel’s mouth crashing down onto yours.

Warm, demanding, his lips slanted over yours with the kind of hunger that had clearly been simmering just beneath the surface, patient and quiet until now. His tongue swept into your mouth before you could process the heat of it, before you could decide whether to stop him, and his hands — large, calloused, far too steady — came to cradle either side of your face as though this were something sacred, something earned.

You gasped into him, the kiss knocking the breath from your lungs, your palms pressed flat against his chest at first as though you might push him away, but the moment was already slipping too far beyond your control. You were drowning in the taste of him, in the scent of whiskey and cologne and Joel, in the feel of his body against yours — broad, solid, unwavering — and before you could stop yourself, your lips parted further beneath his, soft and needy, a quiet sound escaping your throat as your hands curled into the front of his shirt and you kissed him back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, a deep, wrecked sound that came from somewhere low in his gut, and when he pulled back just an inch, just long enough to drag in a breath, his eyes were black with something feral.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice rough with triumph, like he’d just uncovered a truth he’d been aching to confirm. “Little virgin with a mouth like sin… wearin’ lace for your weddin’, but kissin’ me like you’re starvin’ for it.”

His hands dropped then, feverish and impatient, fumbling with the buckle of his belt as you stood frozen, breathless, dazed beneath him, your lips still tingling, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to escape your body.

“A virgin,” he rasped, eyes dragging down the length of you like a man unwrapping a forbidden gift, “but still a fuckin’ whore for me.”

You whimpered — barely audible — but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Because every inch of your body was betraying you, soaked and trembling and swaying toward him like gravity itself had changed direction.

Joel moved fast, years of control finally unraveling as he gripped your waist and guided you backwards, turning you effortlessly, and before you could register what was happening, you felt the soft brush of velvet behind your knees.

You bent instinctively, breath catching in your throat, and he pressed you down onto the couch — the same pale satin loveseat where your robe had been draped just minutes before — your spine arching as your knees folded beneath you, your chest bracing against the cushions.

Everything moved too quickly and yet not quick enough, your thoughts spinning, your skin burning, the cool air kissing your bare thighs as your position shifted, hips raised, your lace-covered ass now exposed, tilted up toward him like an offering.

You heard the clink of his belt dropping open.

And Joel — standing behind you now, belt unfastened — stared down at you with an expression so dark, so wrecked with lust and disbelief, you could feel the weight of it without even turning around. His breath came heavier now, the air between you thick and humid with something that felt like sin and smelled like cologne and sex, and when he finally spoke, it was little more than a gravel-coated whisper, ruined and reverent.

“Look at that fuckin’ view…”

The words made your spine arch involuntarily, heat crawling up your neck and pooling between your thighs, the lace of your panties so damp it clung to you like a second skin. You turned your head, looking back over your shoulder, your voice small and trembling, barely able to make its way past the knot forming in your throat.

“Joel… what are you doing?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just stepped forward, one hand settling heavy and possessive on the curve of your ass, his voice low and casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gonna fuck you, sweetie.”

Your mouth fell open, a breath escaping so sharp it felt like a wound.

“Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking from the inside out, but you didn’t move — didn’t pull away, didn’t protest, didn’t stop him — and that alone told him everything he needed to know.

His palm came down fast.

The crack echoed softly against the suite walls, sharp and sudden, your body jolting from the contact as you yelped in surprise, eyes fluttering shut from the sting that bloomed across your skin.

Joel’s hand returned immediately, smoothing over the flesh he’d just struck, warm and steady, grounding you through the burn.

“Gotta be quiet, angel,” he murmured, his voice rich and amused, thick with the kind of heat that made your toes curl. “Don’t wanna spook the wedding planner. She’ll come knockin’ if she hears you squealin’ like that.”

And then, with a patience so unholy it made your head spin, he lifted his hand again — and brought it down once more.

The second smack was firmer, more confident, and this time, he watched with a hunger so intense it bordered on reverence as a soft red bloom appeared across the curve of your ass, glowing beneath the sheer lace.

He exhaled like a man in prayer.

“Fuck…” he whispered, dragging his thumb along the edge of the mark, watching the skin warm and swell beneath his touch. “Look how pretty you blush for me.”

You whimpered, your cheek pressed against the cushion, fingers curling into the fabric as your body burned with shame and need, trembling under his hands, soaked through and aching for more.

“Should be sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself now, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do, like it hurt him in all the wrong, delicious ways. “It’s your first time, ain’t it? Should be slow. Should be gentle…”

He paused above you, the solid weight of his chest hovering just shy of your back, his breath warm and steady against your ear as he whispered like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t happening in the bridal suite moments before your wedding. “…But you bent over so easy for me, angel,” he murmured, the heat of his words seeping into your skin like smoke, “didn’t even need to be asked — now I’m thinkin’ maybe you don’t want it sweet.”

You whimpered his name, the sound spilling from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with the need clawing its way through your chest. “Please, Joel,” you whispered, voice raw and soaked in shame and longing.

His lips brushed your ear, low and indulgent. “Please what, baby?”

You hesitated only for a breath, the humiliation of the words curling in your throat, but it was overtaken by need, by the aching, throbbing emptiness that only he could fill. “I want you to fuck me,” you said finally, your voice cracking under the weight of it, tears slipping down your cheeks now, mascara probably smeared, dignity long gone, “please, I—I need it so bad.”

Your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up, fingers reaching between your thighs to drag the drenched lace of your panties to the side, desperate to give him access, to offer yourself up in the most obscene, pleading way.

But Joel moved faster.

He stepped in, growling something low in his throat, and pushed your hand away like you were doing it all wrong. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the soaked panties and yanked them down with deliberate slowness, dragging the sticky fabric over your thighs, your knees, until it slipped free completely and left your bare pussy exposed, glistening and trembling beneath his gaze.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice gravel-edged with hunger and reverence, “not to the side, baby — I wanna see all of it. Want nothin’ in the way of this sweet little pussy. S’too fuckin’ pretty to be hidden.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he folded the panties once, then again, and without ceremony — like it was the most casual act in the world — he shoved them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Fuck,” he breathed, stepping back to take in the sight of you, bent over for him, lace bra hugging your chest, your ass bare and soft, and your pussy so slick it shone in the low light of the room. “She’s leakin’, baby. Soakin’ the fuckin’ air.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, your cheeks burning, your lip trembling, and when your eyes met his, you saw something wild and dark, something feral that had been buried under years of restraint and was finally, violently free.

Joel’s eyes dropped again to your cunt — pink, swollen, dripping — and he let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he was seeing something too good for this world. “Look at that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along the curve of your ass, just shy of where you needed him most. “She’s just beggin’ to be filled, ain’t she? Never been touched, never been fucked, and already actin’ like she knows who she belongs to.”

His hand moved then, slow and reverent, fingers grazing your folds with barely-there pressure, teasing the slick mess between your legs. “You hear that?” he murmured, almost in awe as your body answered him with a wet, needy sound. “She’s talkin’ to me, baby. Cryin’ for it. She wants me bad — this pussy knows who she wants first.”

His fingers pressed deeper between your thighs now, soaked and shameless, and the way he touched you wasn’t rushed or careless, but slow and possessive — like he’d already decided that this part of you belonged to him, no matter who was waiting outside with a ring. He leaned in again, his mouth grazing the side of your jaw as he murmured low against your skin, every syllable thick with heat and power, “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever taste you?”

Your lips parted, breath trembling, and it took you a moment to respond, because even now, as you knelt there in nothing but lace and sin, your body already given over, the shame still clung to your voice like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Yes,” you whispered finally, eyes fluttering closed, “he has.”

Joel’s hum was deep and thoughtful, his hand never stopping its slow rhythm as he circled your entrance with one thick finger, teasing you without mercy. He didn’t sound jealous, but rather contemplative — like he was trying to figure out how to rewrite every memory your body had ever known. And then, after another breathless pause, his voice dropped even lower, almost gentle now, as he asked, “And you ever suck him off, baby? Ever get that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around his cock?”

Your cheeks burned, throat tightening, and you nodded once, eyes already glassy, tears hot beneath your lashes. “Yes,” you squeaked out, barely audible.

Joel exhaled slowly, like the sound of your voice had settled deep in his chest. And when he spoke again, it was with a reverence that made your stomach flip. “Then I reckon this tight little cunt’s still untouched,” he said, fingers spreading you open now, deliberately exposing the soft, slick heat he hadn’t even begun to take. “You’re gonna be tight, angel. Might hurt a little when I stretch you open.”

You shook your head hard, hips pushing back against his hand without even meaning to, your voice breaking apart on a moan. “I don’t care,” you gasped, the words dissolving into desperation, “please, Joel… I need it, I need you.”

The moment you said it — the moment that last piece of resistance crumbled — he moved like something primal had been set loose in him. His belt hit the floor with a low clink, and then you heard it — the sound of fabric shifting, his breath catching, the soft curse under his breath — and you turned your head, just barely, to see it.

Joel’s cock — thick, flushed, the tip already leaking — was heavy in his hand, larger than anything you'd ever taken, long and wide and veined in a way that made your knees shake. He looked down at you, still kneeling, still trembling, and the expression on his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen on him before — not protective, not amused, not even hungry — but possessive, like the sight of you below him, spread and waiting, had finally answered something inside him that had been restless for years.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out — honest and stunned and burning hot. “You’re… you’re so much bigger than him.”

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression faltering for a moment like your soft little confession had caught him off-guard, and then his mouth curved into something dark and triumphant, a grin that held no humor, only heat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but curling with something almost cruel. “That right, angel? My shy little girl just saw my cock and realized she’s been settlin’ for less all this time?”

Your face flushed deeper, but you nodded, thighs pressing together with need, your body already aching for the stretch.

Joel’s hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, dragging the thick head through your folds, collecting your wetness and coating himself in it like it was something sacred. He let out a low groan, deep and reverent, as he whispered against your spine, “You’re about to learn what it means to be filled proper, baby — gonna ruin you so good, you won’t remember how he ever made you feel, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

With one hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding himself with a precision that bordered on reverence, and the other braced firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft swell of your flesh, Joel positioned himself behind you like a man about to sin so deeply he didn’t expect to walk away clean. He dragged the thick, leaking head through your folds one last time, gathering the wetness that clung to your skin like honey, before lining himself up at your entrance, pressing forward with a slow, relentless roll of his hips that knocked the breath straight from your lungs.

The moment his cock breached you — that first, unbearable stretch of thick muscle forcing you open for the first time — your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound tore free of your throat, a strangled cry that buried itself in the pillow beneath your face as your fingers clawed at the cushions like you were trying to anchor yourself to something, anything.

Joel groaned above you, loud and ragged, like your cunt had knocked the air straight out of his chest, his breath hitching as he sank deeper into you, inch by devastating inch, until the full weight of his cock was buried inside your trembling body. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice ruined and low, “that’s my good girl, takin’ it like she was fuckin’ made for it — Jesus Christ, this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

Your thighs trembled, your toes curling, your eyes filling again with tears as you sobbed into the pillow, the fullness so sharp it hurt, a stretch so wide and foreign it felt like your body couldn’t possibly take it — and yet, the heat, the pressure, the weight of him made your entire body burn with something dangerously close to bliss.

He gave you barely a second, just enough to gasp for breath, before his hips drew back and slammed forward again, not with violence, but with intent — each thrust deep and punishing, like he’d waited long enough and now he needed all of you, needed to fuck you through the pain and into something filthy and perfect and his.

You screamed again, voice shaking, body arching up to meet him as he fucked into you, deep and fast and so much.

“Fuck,” you cried, the sound punched out of you, every word breaking on a moan as your body fought to keep up with the brutal stretch.

Joel leaned over you then, one arm bracing beside your head, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your ear as he growled, “That good, angel? You cryin’ on my cock ‘cause it feels that fuckin’ good?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you nodded helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, your makeup a ruined mess, your pussy stretched around the thickest cock you’d ever felt in your life — and Joel, old enough to know better, too far gone to care, only fucked you harder.

Joel was relentless now, driving into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, each thrust impossibly deep, thick, and brutal, the sound of his hips slapping against your soaked flesh echoing through the bridal suite like a hymn made of sin. You were sobbing by then, not from pain but from the overwhelming stretch, the brutal pleasure that had overtaken your body like wildfire, every nerve lit up, every breath punched out of you, your throat raw from crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

And then, without warning, he pulled you back — hard — one strong arm wrapping around your waist to wrench you upright until your back collided with his chest, your spine arched against the heat of him, your ass pressed flush to his groin, his cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering cunt.

He was still fully dressed — the open front of his suit brushing your bare skin, the crisp fabric harsh against your softness — and the contrast only made it filthier, more obscene, like you were some trembling little bride mounted by a man who hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket before ruining you.

His hand slid up, slow and steady, until it wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding — possessive and firm, a collar of ownership as he leaned down to growl in your ear, his voice thick with the sound of his own unraveling.

“Gonna cream all over this virgin fuckin’ pussy, baby,” he groaned, his cock throbbing inside you, twitching against your walls with every brutal thrust. “Gonna fill you up so deep, you’ll be walkin’ down that aisle with my cum drippin’ outta you.”

The new angle was dizzying — every stroke hitting something deeper, rougher, worse, dragging cries from your throat that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your legs trembled violently, muscles going slack as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, white-hot and blinding.

“I—I think I’m gonna—Joel—” you gasped, voice choked, your head falling back against his shoulder as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into you harder now, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your toes curl. “Come on, baby, give it to me — wanna feel this sweet little cunt clench when she lets go — fuckin’ knew you’d come all over my cock.”

And you did — with a scream so loud it barely sounded human, your pussy clamping down around him in waves, your entire body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, soaking him in heat and slick and something filthy and pure all at once.

Joel cursed behind you, a deep, raw sound of something breaking loose inside him, and his rhythm faltered as his hands gripped you tight, dragging you down hard on his cock one final time.

“Fuck—Jesus, I’m gonna—shit—” he growled, voice splintering as he shoved himself impossibly deeper, grinding his hips against you as his cock pulsed violently inside your pussy.

And then he came — hot and thick and overwhelming — spilling deep inside you in heavy, pulsing waves, each thrust slower now but just as deep, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck as he held you still, as if your trembling body could take any more. His hand remained wrapped around your throat, not squeezing now but resting there like a vow, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the place he’d claimed. Your insides fluttered around him, spasming weakly as his cock throbbed within you, every thick drop of his cum flooding your aching cunt, the sensation so warm, so full, so all-consuming, it felt like your body wasn’t your own anymore — like it belonged to him now, marked and filled and known.

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

The heat curled through your chest like smoke, leaving you dizzy and dazed, your limbs too heavy to move as the wet, messy slickness dripped slowly from between your thighs.

Joel panted behind you, his mouth still close to your ear, his free hand still groping greedily at your breasts like he wasn’t finished, like he needed every last inch of you under his palms even after emptying himself inside you. And then, without warning, his mouth descended to your neck, kissing along your pulse point, soft and slow, then dragging lower — your shoulder, the curve of your back, the lace strap clinging to your flushed skin — every kiss a brand, every press of his lips a silent admission.

“Fucking perfect for me,” he rasped, the words spoken so quietly it felt like a confession, not meant for anyone but your skin.

Your legs gave out the moment he loosened his hold, and you collapsed onto the couch in a daze, your breathing shallow, mascara smudged, hair clinging to the sweat on your face, the inside of your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks. Joel stood, finally withdrawing from your soaked body with a low groan, his cock wet with your slick and his cum, and for a long, quiet second, he just looked down at you — completely undone, flushed and leaking, back arched against the velvet couch cushions like a vision he’d spend the rest of his life remembering.

He tucked himself back into his slacks with slow, practiced movements, the suit wrinkled now, his shirt untucked and his belt hanging loosely from the loops, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about his appearance. He was thinking about you — about what he’d just done — about the way your body still shook for him.

Then he bent down, breath still uneven, and slid one arm beneath your back, the other beneath your knees, pulling you gently until your hips were right at the edge of the couch and your legs were dangling over the side, parted just slightly from how loose and ruined you were. His large hands cradled your thighs as he looked between them, his expression dark and reverent, and he used both thumbs to part your folds, exposing your swollen, slick cunt — raw, red, flushed from the stretch — and the thick, creamy mess of his cum already beginning to spill from you.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice cracking with awe and filth in equal measure, “look at that... she’s still full of me, baby. Still fuckin’ leakin’.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile.

He just stared.

Joel leaned in again, no longer rough or wild, but slow, calm, tender, and pressed his mouth to yours with a softness so at odds with the filth he’d just whispered into your ear that it made your stomach turn with something dizzying. You whimpered into the kiss before you could stop yourself, lips parting beneath his without hesitation, and your fingers reached up to find the soft waves of his curls, threading through them like you needed him closer — like you needed him inside you again.

But just as his tongue swept into your mouth and your thighs shifted instinctively to pull him back between them, there was a knock on the door.

Sharp. Semi-urgent. A voice just outside that made your entire body lock up.

You gasped, eyes going wide, body tensing under his hands, panic flashing across your face as you turned to him in alarm, your mouth already open with a breathless, what do we do?

But Joel — calm, unbothered, still warm from the high of fucking you — only smiled, kissed your cheek once more, and moved like a man who had nothing to hide. He reached down, smoothing your sweat-slicked hair away from your face with one broad palm, and then reached for the discarded robe on the arm of the couch, holding it out with practiced ease.

“Put this on, baby,” he murmured, his voice so quiet and so casual that you almost forgot to be afraid. “C’mon now, just like that.”

Your hands trembled as you slipped the robe over your shoulders, the silk clinging to your still-damp skin, the warmth of his cum still sticky between your thighs, seeping down slowly as you stood there dazed and wide-eyed, heart hammering as Joel calmly walked to the door.

He opened it with a quiet click.

You couldn’t see much — just his body blocking most of the entrance — but you could hear the voice that followed, light and affectionate.

“Hey, honey,” Joel said, his tone so casual it made your head spin, “I was just checkin’ on her.”

And then Tess walked in.

Your future mother-in-law.

She entered the room smiling, holding a small clutch and wearing heels that clicked softly against the tile. But her smile faltered the moment she saw your face — the smudged makeup, the dampness still clinging to your flushed cheeks, the robe wrapped haphazardly over your trembling frame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, brows knitting together as she crossed the room, her voice full of concern, “your makeup’s a mess… what happened?”

You froze. You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak. Could only look at Joel.

He let out a soft sigh, the kind that sounded burdened and weary, and stepped beside you like he’d been coaching you through a meltdown. His voice was soft, warm, careful — the voice of a father figure handling a delicate girl on the verge of collapse.

“Poor thing started cryin’ while we were talkin’,” he said gently, his hand brushing your shoulder like he’d been comforting you this whole time. “Think the day’s just gotten to her a bit. I was tryin’ to calm her down, but it’s all hittin’ her at once.”

Tess was already moving toward you, one hand reaching to grab a tissue, the other pulling her compact from her clutch.

“Oh, Joel,” she said with a little laugh, smacking his arm as she passed, “you always get her so emotional. You really gotta stop with all your big speeches before the ceremony, honestly.”

She was smiling, teasing, already wiping gently under your eyes, fussing with your hair, smoothing the fabric of the robe over your bare shoulders — and she didn’t suspect a thing.

But you could still feel Joel’s hand ghosting against your back.

Still feel the ache deep inside you.

Still feel the slow, hot trickle of his cum leaking from your pussy and onto the inside of your thigh.

And when he caught your gaze from across the room — his expression unreadable, calm, smug, and maybe even a little proud — you realized something awful.

You were still his.

And he wasn’t done.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

maybe i am deranged and disgusting but i am free xx hope yall enjoyed

[leriexoxo]

Wrong Movie Ticket

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: smut, bestfriends to lovers, cinema porn, fingering, semi public inappropriate acts, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, riding, choking, confessions.

Word count: 6.5k

Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless retro movie night with your best friend Chan. Then the film started… and it was porn. Now you’re stuck in a dark adult cinema, horny, flustered, and sitting way too close to the man you’ve never seen that way—until now. What follows? Stolen touches, filthy tension, crossed lines, and the slowest and fastest descent into “we probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Too bad neither of you wants to stop.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t think twice about asking Chan.

It was a throwaway message — a random, impulsive moment while scrolling your phone. The kind of thing only your best friend would say yes to without making it weird.

Got two free tickets to a retro film screening lol. Come with me?? Apparently it’s a surprise title.

You didn’t expect him to reply three seconds later with,

Say less. I’m already choosing snacks in my head.

And now here you were.

Shoulder to shoulder in a darkened theater that smelled like old velvet and warm popcorn, curled up in plush, oversized recliners that felt suspiciously luxurious for an indie cinema. You’d joked about it when you walked in — called it “bougie-arthouse-meets-grandma’s-living-room.”

Chan had laughed, soft and bright, and dropped his head to your shoulder for a second.

“You and your weird luck,” he’d said. “Only you would win tickets to a mystery movie night in a place that looks like it doubles as a jazz bar for ghosts.”

And you’d smiled. You always smiled when he touched you.

Now, the lights dimmed fully, and the film began with a crackle of film grain and a vintage soundtrack humming over the speakers.

At first, everything felt normal.

Old cars. Sepia tones. Awkward, exaggerated acting from a woman in a silk slip and a man with a mustache too big for his face. You sipped your drink. Chan occasionally leaned in to whisper dumb commentary in your ear, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Then the silk slip hit the floor.

You blinked.

Onscreen, the woman dropped to her knees.

“…Wait,” you said under your breath.

Chan leaned forward slightly. “Is she…?”

She was. Very much.

The theater stayed silent, but you could feel it now — the strange atmosphere. The intentionality of the recliners. The lack of teenagers. The fact that everyone was sitting in pairs. Close. Intimate.

You glanced at Chan.

He was frowning a little, eyes still fixed forward.

And then she moaned.

Loudly. Lewdly. Wet and raw.

Chan inhaled sharply, then turned to you — eyes wide with disbelief.

“Is this—?”

“Porn,” you whispered. “I think it’s porn.”

You both stared forward again.

The camera cut to the man’s face — all clenched jaw and labored breathing as she took him deeper into her throat.

You sat frozen, drink in your hand, heart suddenly thudding like you were caught watching something you shouldn’t.

Chan cleared his throat. Shifted in his seat.

“We should… we could leave,” he said, but his voice was strained.

You couldn’t look at him. “Mhm. Could.”

But you didn’t move. Neither did he and the screen only got filthier.

There was something hypnotic about it — not the porn itself, but the setting. The heavy quiet of the room. The creak of recliners. The small, breathy gasps from one or two corners of the theater where other pairs sat just a little too close.

Chan shifted again beside you, and this time you felt it — his thigh brushing yours.

He wasn’t pulling away. Neither were you. And your chest was rising faster now. You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not with the screen soaked in moans and movement and sweat, and the awareness of him sitting right there, warm and silent and way too close.

You didn’t look at him.

But you wondered If he was feeling it too. You didn’t dare move.

Not because you were afraid — but because you weren’t sure what might happen if you did.

The screen lit up with flesh. Grainy but real. A woman on her back now, legs spread wide, breathless under a man twice her size. He fucked her slow and deep, long strokes that made her back arch off the mattress.

The audio was soft but obscene.

You swallowed hard.

You hadn’t meant to watch porn with your best friend. Hadn’t meant to sit this close, thighs touching, breaths syncing like your bodies had somehow started responding to the same rhythm pulsing through the room.

The theater was still mostly quiet, but… not entirely.

There were sounds. Small, barely-there ones. A stifled moan from the far right corner. A squeak of leather from behind you. Someone shifting in a way that didn’t sound like they were just trying to get comfortable.

Your skin prickled.

And beside you, Chan exhaled. A little shaky.

You finally turned your head toward him. He looked… tense. Eyes fixed on the screen, jaw tight, one hand braced on his thigh like he was deliberately keeping it there.

You whispered, “Chan…”

He blinked, tore his gaze from the screen, and looked at you.

His eyes were darker now.

His lips parted, breath shallow.

“I didn’t…” he said softly. “I didn’t think it would actually be—”

“I know,” you breathed. “Me neither.”

A beat passed. Neither of you looked away.

The sounds from the movie grew louder — wet, rhythmic, raw. Her moans echoing, punctuated by filthy dialogue that made your stomach flip.

Chan’s eyes dropped to your lips for just a second.

Just long enough to make your breath catch.

And when they lifted again — slowly — his tongue darted across his bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked. Quiet. Gentle.

You nodded before you even thought about it.

But he didn’t look convinced.

Your knees were still touching. Bare skin brushing denim. The air between you was thick enough to chew.

You tried to shift your attention back to the screen — to pretend none of this was happening.

But all you could think about was the way Chan was not moving away.

The way your skin still tingled from that single look.

The way your body had started to thrum in time with the soundtrack.

You heard her moan again — a long, high cry that made your thighs clench instinctively.

Chan noticed. You knew he noticed.

His fingers twitched against his own leg. And then he let out a quiet, almost silent laugh — like he couldn’t believe what was happening either.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

You bit your lip. “Mhm.”

And then — softer — he added, “You’re warm.”

You turned to look at him fully now. “What?”

His eyes were on your bare thigh, where it pressed against his. His hand hovered just above it.

“You’re warm,” he said again, like it meant something else. Like he wasn’t just talking about skin temperature.

You held his gaze. And for the first time all night, something shifted. Your pulse spiked but he didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But his hand stayed there. Hovering. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his palm. Like he was waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed.

Your breath hitched.

And Chan’s jaw clenched again — like holding back was costing him something.

“I should…” he started.

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because neither of you really knew how this was supposed to go anymore.

You tried to shake it off.

The porn, the glances, the way Chan looked at your thighs like they were saying something. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That best friends had weird moments sometimes — and maybe you’d laugh about it tomorrow over coffee.

But then you went to dinner.

Just a casual spot near the theater. Dimly lit bar-slash-restaurant, exposed brick, candlelight on the tables. The kind of place where your friend group could cram into a long booth and pass menus around like nothing was vibrating under the surface.

Chan slid in next to you without a word.

You were hyper-aware of it. Of his shoulder against yours, the brush of his denim jacket sleeve. His thigh pressing against yours again like he needed it. Like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system earlier.

Your friend across the table said something — you didn’t catch it.

You laughed anyway. Too loud. Too bright.

Chan didn’t say much at first. He drank his beer, leaned in for the occasional snarky comment in your ear, but you could feel it — the way his hand stayed in his lap, twitching sometimes like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

And then.

You reached for a napkin. Your legs shifted. And his hand landed on your knee.

Accidentally — at first.

At least, you thought it was accidental. But he didn’t move it.

You froze.

Looked down.

He was staring straight ahead, nodding at something one of your friends was saying — like nothing was happening.

Like his fingers weren’t slowly brushing the bare skin just above your knee, under the hem of your denim skirt.

You inhaled sharply.

He heard it. You knew he did, because his fingers paused, then curled just a little.

Your stomach dropped.

You flicked your eyes sideways at him.

Chan was still looking at the others. Still pretending. But his hand was now fully on your thigh — warm, heavy, steady — and slowly sliding higher.

Your breath caught.

He was doing it on purpose. And you… You weren’t stopping him.

He leaned in then, head tilted toward yours like he was about to whisper another joke — but his voice was low this time. Quiet enough that only you could hear it over the ambient music and clinking glasses.

“You’re not moving,” he murmured. “You’re letting me do this.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“You’re the one touching me,” you shot back, voice tight.

His thumb brushed higher.

Your skin tingled.

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible now. “And you’re letting me.”

Your legs shifted under the table, parting just a little — not on purpose, not really — but it didn’t matter. Because his fingers slipped right into that space. Hot and deliberate.

You felt the pad of his middle finger slide up the inside of your thigh.

Slow and Dangerous.

And you snapped your knees together instinctively — not in rejection, but because it was too much.

He stopped. Froze.

You looked at him but he was already looking at you. Eyes blown wide, jaw tight. Like he wasn’t sure who he was right now. Neither were you.

Your voice came out a whisper. “Chan…”

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he said.

Silence stretched between you.

The others were still talking. Laughing. Existing in some parallel universe where you weren’t seconds from being fingered under a dinner table.

But you weren’t in that universe.

You were here. You were wet.

And Chan’s fingers were moving again.

You should have told him to stop.

There were too many people. Too many eyes. Your friends were right there — sharing food, sipping drinks, cracking jokes across the table like this was just another Thursday night.

And under the table? Chan’s hand was under your skirt.

Fully.

You didn’t know how it had happened so quickly — or maybe you did. Maybe it was always going to happen, after what the movie did to the both of you. After the way your thighs touched and neither of you pulled back.

But this? This was insane.

His fingertips brushed the edge of your underwear, and you inhaled sharply — too sharply — so you faked a cough and reached for your water.

Chan’s body shifted subtly beside you. You felt his breath near your ear as he leaned in to pretend he was saying something casual.

“Still not stopping me,” he murmured.

You clenched your thighs again, but this time it was too late. His fingers had already slipped past the edge of your panties.

Your hips twitched. And his knuckles pressed against your core.

You were soaked.

Like your body had been waiting for this since the cinema. Like it had been aching for him in the most humiliating, undeniable way.

Chan froze.

And then — low enough that no one else could possibly hear — he let out the smallest, most desperate sound.

“Fuck…”

You looked at him, panicked — your voice a whisper. “Chan, we’re in public.”

“I know,” he breathed, barely glancing at you. His hand didn’t move. “Tell me to stop and i will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

And that was all he needed. His middle finger slipped inside you in one slow, hot push.

Your thighs tensed. Your mouth fell open.

You grabbed your drink like it was the only thing tethering you to reality — fingers white-knuckling the glass as you tried to keep your face normal, blank, anything but wrecked.

Above the table, someone asked you a question. Something about dessert. A menu. It didn’t matter. You didn’t hear it.

Because Chan curled his finger inside you.

Your hand shot to your lap, gripping your thigh to keep yourself from squirming. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anyone. You just nodded blindly and mumbled something noncommittal, hoping it passed.

Chan didn’t let up.

His finger moved in and out slowly, and your entire body flushed with heat. He had the audacity to smirk — just the tiniest bit — eyes still fixed on his drink like he wasn’t currently fingering his best friend under the table while people laughed and talked around them.

“This is so fucking wrong,” you hissed under your breath.

“I know,” he said. Another finger joined the first. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

You tried to breathe through your nose. Stay quiet. Act normal. But every subtle movement of his hand made your legs twitch, your core clench, your heartbeat crash against your ribs.

You glanced at him again.

He looked flushed now too. Like he was seconds from losing his mind, but still holding it together because it was you. Because this wasn’t just lust, it was something older, deeper — something that had been crawling under both your skins for months.

“Chan,” you whispered, like a warning.

“Say the word,” he said, voice tight. “Say stop. I will. But you don’t want me to.”

And you hated how right he was. Because instead of pulling away, you shifted forward an inch — just enough that his fingers sank deeper inside you.

Chan sucked in a breath. And you both went still.

A sharp laugh cracked from across the table, drawing attention — and you had to force a smile, nod along, pretend you weren’t sitting there with your best friend’s fingers knuckle-deep inside your body, massaging a spot that made your eyes blur.

Your thighs trembled and Chan leaned in, lips brushing your ear like a secret.

“You’re gonna cum,” he whispered. “Right here, aren’t you?”

You shuddered. Your breath hitched.

And he smiled — not cocky, not cruel. Just in awe. Like he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked with your cheeks flushed and your teeth digging into your lip to keep a moan from slipping out.

You felt your orgasm build — fast, frantic, terrifying.

You grabbed his wrist under the table.

He stilled instantly. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “Not enough.”

And that was it.

His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm nudging your clit just enough to send you over the edge in a quiet, trembling crash of heat and pleasure. You came with your teeth pressed into your fist, staring hard at a candle on the table like it could anchor you, keep you grounded while your body shattered in silence.

And when it was over, you sat back—Breathless. Shaking.

His fingers slipped out of you slowly, carefully — like he respected what he’d just done to you, even if it made no sense at all.

Your eyes met his and the panic set in.

What the fuck are we doing?

But you were still wet. Still aching.

And you knew — without a doubt — you weren’t done.

You bolted from the table the second your legs worked again.

Something about needing the bathroom. A brush of your hand on your friend’s shoulder as you excused yourself, voice a little too high-pitched, smile a little too tight.

You didn’t look at Chan.

Couldn’t.

Your body was still pulsing from what he’d just done to you — in public, surrounded by friends, like it was the most natural thing in the world to slide his fingers into his best friend and make her come in silence while everyone else debated dessert.

Your heart thundered.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

The bathroom door swung open and you staggered inside, gripping the sink, trying to catch your breath. Your panties were still wet, your thighs sticky, your reflection in the mirror pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed and wrecked.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to yourself.

And then the door opened behind you. Your stomach dropped.

“Chan, don’t—”

But it was too late.

He stepped in, locked the door behind him, and turned to face you — eyes dark, breathing shallow, like he’d sprinted the whole way.

“I had to,” he said. “I couldn’t just let you leave like that.”

You backed up a step. “We’re in the bathroom.”

“No one saw me come in.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” His voice cracked on the edge of something— desperation, maybe. “Because I just made you cum under the fucking table and you didn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t!” you hissed, voice sharp and low.

He flinched. Just slightly.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

“It was too much,” you added. “You— that— fuck, Chan.”

He moved toward you. Slow. Careful. But you didn’t step back.

“You liked it,” he said softly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You liked it,” he repeated. “Your body loved it. You soaked through my fingers.”

Your lips parted.

He stopped right in front of you now, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up.

“You didn’t even know you were grinding against my hand until I curled my fingers and you almost choked on your drink.”

“Chan—”

“You’re still wet, aren’t you?” he asked, voice wrecked. “Still aching.”

You stared at him. And you didn’t deny it. A beat of silence passed.

Then: “I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening to us.”

His hand rose — not to touch you, but to rest against the wall behind your head. Caging you in. Close enough that his breath hit your lips.

“I do,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

He leaned in just a little more. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked in that theater. The way you breathed. The way your thighs trembled.”

You swallowed hard.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he said, forehead nearly touching yours now. “You’re my best friend.”

“Then stop,” you said. It sounded like a challenge.

He looked at you.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

Your silence was answer enough.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Hungry. Like every second you’d known each other had been leading here, and he was done pretending. His hands gripped your waist, and before you could catch your breath, he had you backed against the stall door, mouth trailing fire down your neck.

“I need to taste you properly,” he whispered against your throat. “But I can’t wait.”

You whimpered as his hands slid under your skirt again, rougher this time — no hesitation. He shoved your panties down with practiced fingers, lifted your leg over his waist and slide two fingers back inside you like they belonged there.

You moaned — couldn’t help it.

His free hand clamped over your mouth immediately.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll get us caught.”

His eyes burned into yours — wild, wrecked, possessive.

And he fucked you with his fingers like he meant it. Like he needed to make you feel it. Wrist twisting just right, fingers rubbing the spot that made your eyes roll back, and all you could do was cling to his shoulders and take it.

You came harder this time.

Biting into his palm. Hips jerking against his hand.

And even after your legs gave out and your body sagged against the door, he didn’t pull away. He held you there. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing you in.

“I’m not sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head, eyes still glazed. “Me neither.”

—

Neither of you said anything on the way back.

You walked side by side, hands in your pockets, your face still flushed from the bathroom, heart still pounding in your throat.

The streets were quieter now, warm with the scent of summer and distant traffic, and the occasional brush of Chan’s arm sent shivers crawling down your spine.

You couldn’t look at him.

Because if you did…

You might ask for something neither of you could ever come back from.

Your thighs still ached. Your underwear still clung damp to your skin. And between your legs — Jesus. It was like your body had been switched on and couldn’t shut off.

You were still feeling his fingers inside you.

And he kept glancing sideways. Like he wanted to say something. But didn’t know how.

You finally reached his building. The stoop was dim and familiar — how many nights had you sat there together, late-night snacks and dumb conversations and sleepy yawns on each other’s shoulders? You could still see the ghost of those moments hovering in the air, but they were dissolving fast.

Chan turned to you at the door.

Hands in his pockets.

Voice rough.

“Do you wanna—” He swallowed. “Come in?”

Your heart stuttered.

You should’ve said no.

But instead you nodded.

His apartment smelled like his cologne and roses.

You stood in the middle of his living room, heart hammering. Your skin felt too tight, your legs still shaky. And Chan — god, Chan — locked the door behind you, then leaned back against it like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Until he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And you felt your breath catch.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. Your thighs, your mouth, the way you looked at me when I touched you. I’ve never seen anything that turned me on more in my life.”

Your throat went dry.

He pushed off the door and stepped closer.

“I want to fuck you so bad I’m shaking.”

Your lips parted.

“Chan—”

“I want to pin you down,” he continued, voice wrecked. “I want to have your wrists in one hand, your neck in the other, and just ruin you.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

He reached for you then — slow, giving you time to pull away — but you didn’t.

He brushed your hair back. Tilted your chin up.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he said. “How many nights I’ve had to jerk off in silence after hugging you goodbye.”

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I think about you when I fuck my fist. I imagine you beneath me, half-undressed, legs open, begging.”

You gasped — one hand flying to cover your mouth.

But he wasn’t done.

“I want to pin you to the bed,” he whispered. “Hold you down while you squirm. Make you cry my name while I fuck you like you owe me something.”

Your legs buckled.

He caught you instantly.

“You like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, stunned.

“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not done.”

He backed you toward the bedroom, eyes locked to yours.

“And after that?” he said. “I’m gonna cum all over you. Your stomach. Your face. Wherever I want.”

You whimpered.

“I’m gonna fuck you in your clothes, with your skirt bunched around your waist and your panties pushed aside, because I can’t wait to take them off.”

He licked his lips.

“And you’re gonna take it, baby girl.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Breathless. Speechless.

So fucking turned on.

And then, softly you said:

“Show me.”

—

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And it was like your body knew.

Your heart was a live wire. Your breath shallow. You took two slow steps into Chan’s room — familiar walls, familiar scent — but it didn’t feel like home tonight.

It felt like danger. It felt like him.

Chan followed behind, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch until you couldn’t take it anymore.

You turned around to face him.

He looked wrecked already — hair tousled, chest heaving, hands flexing open and shut at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab you and ruin you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and reached for the hem of your skirt.

He caught your wrists before you could tug it up.

“Let me,” he said.

And that voice — god, that voice — low and dark and possessive, made your knees tremble.

He walked toward you, slow like a wolf circling prey. You expected him to strip you, to yank your clothes off with that filthy desperation he’d whispered about.

But he didn’t.

He kissed you.

Soft, at first and then not.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs with practiced heat. And when he pulled your skirt up — when he saw your ruined panties again — he let out a sound so deep it rattled in your chest.

“Still wet for me,” he said.

You couldn’t speak.

“You came twice and you’re still soaked.”

He dipped his head — not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to your throat. You tilted your head back with a gasp as he sucked at your pulse, teeth grazing, mouth open and hot.

“I’m gonna fuck you just like this,” he growled. “Skirt up. Panties in the way. Legs spread for me.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Chan—”

“Shh.”

He kissed your inner thigh, lips dragging dangerously close to your center, but not touching. Not yet.

“You have no idea how many times I thought about this,” he said against your skin. “How many nights I imagined tasting you.”

And then his fingers hooked your underwear and tore them down.

You gasped.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and blown.

And then — finally — his mouth closed over your core.

Your knees buckled.

You moaned his name, loud and desperate, and he growled into you, arms locking around your thighs as he dragged you closer. His tongue was everywhere — licking, curling, sucking your clit in a rhythm that was absolutely obscene.

You lost time.

Lost sense.

You gripped his hair and ground against his face, your body taking what it needed because he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let you breathe, and when his fingers slipped inside you, you came so hard your vision blacked out for a second.

“Fuck— fuck—” you sobbed, hips jerking.

He rode it out. Held you through it. Slowed down only when you begged him to.

And then he stood.

Still fully clothed.

Hard as a rock behind his jeans.

You couldn’t think. Could barely stand.

“Take it off,” you breathed, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

But he was already on it — pulling it over his head, tossing it aside, eyes locked to yours.

And fuck.

He was beautiful. He had always been.

His body was all sharp muscle and light skin and hunger, abs flexing as he worked his jeans open, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when he stepped out of them — hard, flushed, huge — you choked on your own gasp.

He grinned.

“Scared?”

You shook your head.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You moaned.

He pushed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

Then shoved you onto it.

Climbed on top of you, hands bracketing your head, knees parting your thighs.

“Hands up,” he said.

You obeyed instantly, arms stretched above you on the pillow.

He leaned down, kissed your lips like they were sacred.

“Keep them there.”

You nodded.

He lined himself up — and hovered for just a second.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered. “If I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

And he thrust in.

Hard.

You arched up with a cry, nails digging into the sheets as he filled you to the hilt. He groaned above you, head falling to your shoulder, arms shaking with restraint.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he breathed.

He gave you a moment.

And then he started to move.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room, and your gasps turned to cries, your hands fisting the sheets as he pounded into you like a mad man. Like he needed it. His fingers tangled with yours above your head, pinning you in place as his hips slammed into you again and again and again—

“Fuck—! Chan—”

“You’re mine,” he growled. “You’re so fucking mine.”

Your fourth orgasm tore through you like fire, and Chan groaned when he felt you clench around him, hips stuttering as he chased his own end.

And when he pulled out last-second and came all over your stomach, hot and messy and shaking, you felt like your soul had left your body.

You both collapsed.

Silence.

Only breath and heat and the soft whisper of, “Holy shit.”

You turned your head to look at him.

He looked at you. And he smiled.

—

It was the sun that woke you.

Bright and slow, bleeding through the gap in the curtains and painting gold across the bed. You stirred, eyes still closed, your body humming with a dull ache — sore thighs, tender hips, a deep throb between your legs that made your breath catch.

And then you felt it.

Warm skin at your back.

A chest rising and falling slowly behind you.

An arm, heavy and wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed possessively just under your ribs. His scent still clung to your skin — sweat and something darker, heady, him.

And that’s when the memories crashed in.

The bathroom.

The restaurant.

The bed.

The way he’d pinned your hands above your head and fucked you like he meant to wreck you.

Your cheeks burned instantly, eyes flying open.

Holy shit.

You slept with your best friend.

You slept with Chan.

And not just slept. You let him possess you— He had you on his face. His fingers, his mouth, his everything, and then he’d whispered things that should’ve made you run for the door but instead made you soaked.

You swallowed thickly.

And then the arm around your waist pulled you closer.

You yelped.

Chan groaned softly behind you, voice gravelled from sleep.

“Mm… what time is it?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what to say.

He blinked his eyes open, peeking over your shoulder. “You okay?”

You turned to face him — slowly, hesitantly.

He looked wrecked. Hair a mess, voice hoarse, lips kiss-bruised and sleep-swollen.

Your stomach flipped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Sore.”

He grinned — and you hated that your thighs clenched at the sight of it.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

“Chan—”

He slid his hand down to your hip, voice low.

“Because I can fix it.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

He quirked a brow. “Like what?”

“Like I’m still the same girl you— you—”

“Fucked six ways from Sunday?” he offered, smug.

Your face burned.

But then he leaned in, nuzzled his nose against yours.

And whispered: “You’re not.”

You blinked. “I’m not?”

He shook his head.

“You’re completely mine now remember?”

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain melted.

“Chan…”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Last night… that wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t just me losing my mind. That was me finally doing what I’ve wanted for months.”

You stared at him. He was serious.

“I thought this would ruin everything,” you whispered.

He tilted his head.

“And now?”

You took a breath.

And admitted it: “I don’t want to stop.”

He grinned. “I never was gonna let you.”

He pulled you into him, kissed you — slow, lazy, warm — and you melted right into his arms.

The morning didn’t feel awkward.

It didn’t feel scary.

It felt like the beginning of something new.

And then—

“I meant what I said last night, by the way,” Chan murmured against your mouth.

You blinked. “What part?”

“The part where I pin you down and fuck you like you stole from me.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You already did—”

“And the part where I cum all over your face.”

“CHRISTOPHER—”

“Just letting you know what’s on the schedule.”

You slapped his chest, flustered beyond belief.

He just laughed.

And kissed you again.

“Cum on my face, huh?”

Your voice came out soft. Dangerous.

Chan blinked. His grin froze on his lips. “…Uh-oh.”

You rolled onto him. Just like that. Bare skin on bare skin, straddling his hips while he stared up at you with those huge, still-sleepy eyes.

But sleep was over.

You rutted your hips once, slowly, deliberately—feeling the way his cock stirred between your thighs—and he made a sound.

“Y’know,” you said, sweet and sharp, “you’re not the only one with fantasies.”

His hands gripped your hips instantly. “Oh?”

“Mmhmm.” You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You’re not the only one who thinks about pinning someone down.”

He hissed.

“And I know you like control, but imagine this—” you rolled your hips again, voice turning breathy, “—imagine me riding you so hard you beg me to let you cum.”

He groaned.

“Imagine I keep going… and don’t let you. Just to see how long you last.”

“Fuck—”

“And I’ve thought about your mouth too. Not just eating me out—though, Christ—” you shuddered, “—I still don’t think i can walk right, thanks for that—”

He smirked proudly.

“But I’ve thought about your whimpers too. What you sound like when I suck you so slow you start losing your mind.”

You kissed down his chest, dragging your nails across his abs, feeling him tense and twitch beneath you.

“I wanna leave marks,” you whispered. “Wanna make you look wrecked for me.”

Chan was flushed now. Practically trembling under you.

“Baby girl,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled.

And slid down between his legs.

“I haven’t even started.”

He wasn’t ready, but you took your time.

You teased him with your mouth first — slow licks up his shaft, tongue circling the tip, only enough suction to drive him insane. You had your hands braced on his thighs, nails biting into skin just enough to own him.

“Jesus—” he gasped, head thrown back. “You’re—fuck, that’s good—”

You moaned around him and watched his hips twitch up, his hand flying to your hair like instinct, fingers tightening in warning.

“Babe— I swear—if you keep going like this, I’m gonna—”

You pulled off right before he came.

And smirked.

“Oh, we’re doing this now?” he asked, breathless.

“Damn right we are,” you said, climbing back on top of him. “I’m getting mine now.”

You lined him up, braced yourself—

And sank down in one slow, maddening slide.

Chan’s eyes rolled back.

You didn’t even move for a full ten seconds. Just sat there, gripping his chest, clenching around him until he was panting.

And then you rode him. Like a woman possessed.

You weren’t slow. You were relentless. Skin slapping, sweat slicking your bodies together, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as you bounced with wild, desperate rhythm.

“Fuck—fuck— you’re insane,” he groaned.

“Say you love it,” you panted.

“I fucking love it—!”

You leaned down and bit his shoulder.

And that was it.

He flipped you over without warning, slammed back into you hard enough to rattle the headboard, and locked your wrists above your head like he had something to prove.

You moaned his name so loud it echoed.

He looked down at you — hair in his eyes, lips parted, body dripping sweat — and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t talk.”

“Try me.”

So he did.

You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he made you scream. The sun climbed higher outside and you never even noticed.

He had you on your back.

Then on your stomach.

Then on your side with one leg thrown over his hips while he pounded into you, growling your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.

And when you came again — thighs shaking, back arched, eyes fluttering — he pulled out and came all over your chest, jaw tight and groaning like it destroyed him.

You lay there for a second.

“Holy… fuck,” you breathed.

Chan flopped beside you.

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Then:

“…I want pancakes,” you whispered.

Chan turned his head, eyes still blown wide. “How the fuck are you thinking about pancakes right now?”

You smiled lazily.

“I burn calories fast.”

He groaned into the pillow.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled onto your side and kissed his cheek.

“But what a way to go.”

—

You were wearing nothing but Chan’s shirt and a pair of socks.

And it was doing things to him.

He stood at the stove, shirtless, trying to focus on flipping pancakes while you leaned over the counter, hair messy, skin glowing, humming some made-up song about how much you deserved “carbs and cuddles after all that cardio.”

“You’re just using me for my protein,” he muttered, hiding a grin.

You stretched dramatically, popping a strawberry into your mouth. “Technically, you used me for your protein.”

Chan nearly burned the pancake.

You laughed when he choked on air, stepping over to whack his back. “Careful, old man. I still need you alive for round– wait, how many rounds now?”

He turned his head, gave you a look that could scorch.

“Keep talking like that and we’re not making it to breakfast.”

You kissed his shoulder. “Then hurry up. I’m starving.”

He flipped the last pancake with a little more urgency.

A few minutes later, the two of you were at his mini kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface, your plate stacked high like a kid at a sleepover.

“You know,” you said through a mouthful of syrupy goodness, “this is dangerously close to looking like a real relationship.”

Chan froze.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You paused.

Fork halfway to your mouth.

“…No.”

He watched you carefully. “Because I was kinda hoping it was.”

You squinted. “Hoping it was bad?”

“No—” he laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “No, I mean—I was hoping it was a relationship. Or that it could be.”

Your heart thudded.

Hard.

“Chan…”

He looked nervous for the first time since he’d had you straddling him in bed the night before.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he said. “Not to pretending. Not to brushing this off. That’s not what last night was for me.”

You set your fork down gently.

“It wasn’t for me either.”

The tension cracked open—just a little—and he reached across the table, linking your fingers together.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I think I have too.”

“And I know we were reckless and a little feral and probably woke my neighbors up—”

“They applauded, Chan.”

He laughed.

You smiled.

But then—his eyes softened.

And his voice turned sincere. “Can I take you out?”

Your brows lifted. “You always do”

He smirked. “Like, properly. Date you. Buy you dinner. Try to behave myself.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, pretending to think. “And if you fail miserably?”

“Then I’ll behave badly… respectfully.”

You grinned.

“Okay,” you said. “I’m in.”

He looked so genuinely happy you felt it in your bones.

You finished breakfast in a daze of syrup and laughter, tangled limbs and coffee stolen from each other’s mugs. And when he pulled you back onto the couch, wrapped around you like he couldn’t get close enough, you let him.

Because somehow, this—this—felt more dangerous than anything that happened last night.

Not because it was wild. But because it was real.

And you both knew? You were in trouble.

The best kind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: GUYS!!! WE HIT 1K FOLLOWERS!!!! 🤩 wowwwww, thank you so much for always reading and indulging my delulu 😭❤️ i love you guyssssss! I think i will be doing a new series since Angry Boys did well, but ill make a poll to know what direction to go next and until then, please leave nice comments, likes and a reblog if you enjoyed this!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000

[lolab4t]

safe together - fluff, angst

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolt!gn!reader summary: you’re benched with a broken ankle, stuck in the tower while the rest of the team is out on a mission. the only one left behind with you is bob. what starts as awkward company and bob acting like your nurse slowly turns into something deeper, safe, and comforting. word count: 5.8k warning(s): light thunderbolts* spoilers, angst, fluff, brief nightmare , implied trauma, mentions of the void and past trauma related to him, injury (broken ankle), mutual pining, emotional vulnerability, awkwardness, reader likes to read (lol) a/n: finally wrote for my sweet boy! yelena fic is prob coming next... i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please feel free to like, comment, or reblog! <3 also, requests are open!

chihiro - billie eilish

you hated it. sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket, leg propped up on a pillow. you felt guilty for feeling so comfy. you felt lazy. like you were wasting time.

you had broken your ankle, and found yourself in a boot, unable to walk. so of course, you were forced to sit out of a mission.

bob, who was used to staying back, was clearly excited to have some company for once. he didn't admit to it, but it was obvious. the tower always felt so cold and lonely to him when the team was gone. he always tried to distract himself with books and chores, but none of it compared to having you there with him.

now, he seemed to be glued to your side, staying near you on the couch. still shy, still quiet, still careful not to hover too obviously. he didn’t say much, only asked how your pain was doing or what you needed. every now and then he'd glance over at you, like he was checking to make sure you were still okay. he was acting a little like your nurse. it was sweet.

"do you, uh… need some water or anything?" he looked at you for only a second, before directing his gaze back to the tv. his voice was quiet and hesitant.

you looked up for your book and smiled. "no, i'm fine. thank you though, bobby."

bobby.

he originally hated the nickname when walker called him that. but when you started using it… he grew to love it. maybe he just didn't like walker.

he didn’t respond, and just gave a tiny nod, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

you adjusted your blanket again and looked back down at the book in your lap. it was your favorite, one you'd read a million times. but this time, you found yourself rereading the same lines over in your head… your thoughts kept wandering. to your ankle. to the mission the others were on. and to him. quiet, careful, sweet bob, sitting beside you like your own personal shadow.

he watched you like you were something fragile. something important. it made you feel… safe. which was ironic, considering the darkness that everyone knew was hidden inside him.

the void.

he sat there, still as ever, arms folded loosely in his lap. he glanced over at the book that seemed to be stealing all of your attention.

his voice was quiet again, cracking a little at the end. “what book, uhm— what book are you reading?”

you looked up and closed it gently, turning it to show him the cover. “it’s my favorite.”

he blinked, leaning in a little. “really?”

you nodded, watching the way he scanned the cover. he seemed interested in it. he was interested in it because you liked it.

"do you wanna borrow it?" you asked, not sure if he would want to.

his eyes lifted from the cover to your face, surprised.

"are you sure? i don't want to take it if you're reading it…" he rubbed the back of his neck shyly.

"i've read it a dozen times. take it. i think you'd like it." you smiled as he finally accepted it, holding it in his lap like it was something precious.

you don’t remember much after that. you must’ve dozed off, giving into the sense of comfort and safety you were feeling.

what you do remember is the nightmare you had. it was painful, full of the memories and wounds that had been reopened when you went into the void about a year before.

when you blinked awake, you were sitting up, sweating and panicked. the room was dimmer now. it had likely only been a few hours.

and bob was still there. he was already leaning forward, not crowding you, just close enough that you could see the worry in his face.

"you okay?" he asked gently, scanning your face for any answers.

you swallowed hard, finally catching your breath. you wanted to say yes. you wanted to pretend it was nothing.

“nightmare?” he asked before you could speak, "i get those too."

you nodded slowly. “yeah. probably the painkillers.” you let out a half-hearted chuckle.

he hesitated for a second, then reached out, lightly brushing your hand where it lay on your lap.

“can i…?”

you didn’t know what exactly he was offering but you nodded anyway. he carefully took your hand in both of his. his palms were warm. steady.

"sometimes just knowing you're not alone can help." he smiled softly.

for a moment, comfortable silence stretched between you. then he gave a small, awkward laugh, pulling away slightly.

“sorry. i’m... probably making this worse, huh?”

you shook your head, managing a tired smile. “no, it’s… nice. thanks, bobby.”

he looked down at your hands, squeezing gently. “nightmares suck.”

“yeah,” you whispered, “but having you here is making it a little less… bad.” you giggled quietly.

he glanced up, eyes soft. “i’m glad i could help.”

you took a deep breath, letting the tension ease out of your shoulders. your eye caught sight of the book, sitting behind him on the couch.

“so,” you gestured to it, trying to lighten the mood, “have you started reading it?"

he looked surprised, then grinned sheepishly, letting go of your hands to grab it. “i, uh, already finished it." he held it out to you.

you blinked in shock, taking it, "finished it?" you opened the book, flipping through the pages.

bob had left pieces of post-its on almost every page, full of handwritten notes. you stared at them in a stunned silence for a second, then let out a soft laugh. “you annotated it?” you asked, shocked... but touched.

he looked flustered, cheeks turning just a little pink. “i—yeah. sorry, i should’ve asked first. i just… i kept thinking about how you loved it so much, and i wanted to understand why… i wanted to remember what stood out. i’ll take them out if—”

“no,” you interrupted, clutching the book a little closer. “don’t. i think i love it even more now.”

he blinked, clearly surprised by your reaction. then smiled, just barely.

for the first time in a while, you both felt comfortable and safe. with each other.

thanks so much for reading <3 as always, requests are open

[rinsnumber1fan]

itoshi rin headcanons.

warning: nsfw + fluff + randomest things ever + EXTREMELY CANON.

☆ rin itoshi is FUCKING STUPID you assume. Because he doesn't think about anything other than soccer. If you talk about something that's going on in the world, he'll be like "Huh? Really? Cool." + if you tell him to do something like "could you pass me that bag?" He'd bring you a fucking plastic bag and hand it over to you. And no that's not the bag you asked for.

☆ rin itoshis love languages are probably Acts of service + Quality time. He thinks doing things for you = I love you which is why he says "I love you" way too rarely.

☆ he doesn't care where it is, what it is but he's always competing. Especially in a relationship. You buy him a mediocre cologne? He'll buy you expensive jewelery. You buy him a crappy show piece? He buys you the most expensive show piece he can find. He's always competitive.

☆ he hates MATH. And he sucks at it too. He never gave it too much consideration either because "only soccer is important." Doesn't even know basic algebra 💔💔

☆ he gets jealous like normal men but he doesn't show it too much. He thinks he's lost if he shows it. But he can't stop himself from placing a hand on your shoulder or around your waist when a man gets too close to you.

☆ acts like he doesn't care but he really cares the most. He loves you even though he barely says it.

☆ random: he zones out way too often.

NSFW ALERT:

☆ When I said he liked challenges I meant he liked winning them. So obviously, he loves being in control of your situation. He loves to have this power play thing where you are definitely the submissive one.

☆ he isn't very vocal, doesn't say much when he's in the moment with you because he's too mind blown by how you feel. So he'd murmur once or twice about "yeah? You're doing so well for me.. made for me, weren't you?" He'd say or "that's a good girl."

☆ absolutely LOVES getting you dumb or cock-drunk. He breaths in the expressions you make and the things you say. He wants to hold you harder, kiss you harder and push deeper.

☆ his kinks? Corruption kink + Power play. Where he's always in control. And if you're a virgin? Yeah he's gonna destroy you. He loves it when you're a little bit innocent like, "oh!! What do you use that for?" Even if it really is a bit innocent, he just loves having to explain things to you, to know that you don't know much and that he wants to show you when (if youre an innocent gyal) you asked him "uhh so do they take their clothes off when they do the... thing..?" And absolutely loves being in control. He loves to take in that control and destroy you. Slowly and slowly one by one with your mouth to your jaw to your throat and down to your legs, destroyed.

☆ i think overstiumlation too. He enjoys seeing people grovel when he wins against them, so what if he likes seeing you beg for mercy and to come when he wins the little game of power play? He likes being in control of how much you orgasm and if you even get to - worry not, you will come in the end.

[bananastarlo]

I see you

childhood friend yandere x shy reader

You two are in the same daycare. He is the complete opposite of you — a loud, confident boy who charms both the adults and the other kids with the big grin he always enters the room with.

You, on the other hand, didn’t stick out too much. Always a bit more hesitant and shy around new people.

One of the things on the agenda today was a field trip.

Having arrived at the destination, the caretakers gave you instructions:

“Okay, little stars. Today is a wonderful day to play a game, don’t you agree?“

The others cheered in agreement.

“We hid clues that you’ll be able to find in this area! So get in pairs, if possible with someone new!“

As the childcare worker claps in her hands, the children scatter around, most of them sticking with their usual friend groups.

However, you stayed back. Nobody came up to you, and you were too anxious to approach the others, fidgeting with the sleeves of your shirt while focusing on the ground with your head low.

The caretaker took notice of your little form and exchanged worried glances with the other adults, slowly drawing near and crouching down to your level.

“Hey, have you found a partner yet?“

You shook your head no.

Reaching out her hand, she kindly offered to find a partner for you.

Yet, before you could take her hand, he appears in front of you — scraped knees, a backwards cap and messy hair — flashing you a boyish grin.

“Come on, let’s go together!“ he chirped, eyes glistening with fondness while yours lit up with happiness.

He took your hand and led you to where his friends were. They couldn’t understand why he refused their offer to pair up, until you showed up, shielded by his body.

As you both were hunting for clues, you felt yourself growing more and more relaxed in his presence.

He always protected you from slimy bugs and held your hand so that you wouldn’t get lost without him.

“You’re now my best friend.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, because he wouldn’t accept you saying no.

And you smiled.

“I like that.”

And the smile you gave him was so genuine, he felt his own heart beating a little more than usual.

You spent the rest of your childhood years sticking to him like glue. You admired him and his presence.

One day, when you were older, you spent time at his house. It was basically yours as well, with how much time you spent there.

Lying next to each other, you faced away from him while he stared at your back, too scared to move.

At times, he could be quiet. He could be soft. But only you were allowed to see this side of him. Only you deserved it.

As he listened to your slow, rhythmic breathing, you turned around.

You weren’t expecting him to be so close — your noses almost touched.

And your stomach flipped at the sight of his half-opened eyes that now widened as much as your own.

He saw it — your pupils, dilated.

His heart began hammering against his ribcage, and he pressed his face into the mattress.

“What?“ you murmured softly.

“N-nothing! You just threw me off guard.”

His response made you chuckle. It was cute to see him without his usual confident tone.

As older teenagers, you both started to see each other differently.

Behind his golden-boy personality and sheepishly handsome face, there was something deeper, a protectiveness directed at you.

He saw you as a woman now. And you, well—

You planned a movie night. Just the two of you.

You’d both been so busy lately, you started to miss his annoying voice and the way he always made you feel right.

As the movie played, you became bored and decided to mess with him a little, just enough to get a reaction.

“Heeey,” you utter, laying your leg on his.

He grinned, showing the dimples you adored so much on him.

But as you started to snuggle up even more and chose to playfully ruffle his messy hair, he became serious.

His hand gently gripped your wrist halfway, and your smile dropped.

“Do you not realize what you’re doing to me? That’s not fair,” his voice croaked — low, with a dangerous hint.

You became nervous and replied, laughing the awkwardness off.

“What do you mean? I’m just playing with you.”

He sighed, propping himself up on top of you, which knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“I’m not the little boy anymore who took these things as innocent gestures. Please acknowledge me as a man. And if you were to do that with every man while being so oblivious… I would rather keep you locked up. Do you understand?”

You couldn’t deny the way that made you feel — more than it should.

[lazysoulwriter]

wrong time, right man. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ Content Warning: light angst, miscommunication, emotional vulnerability, anxious!Pedro, sweet comfort at the end, mentions of fame & paparazzi.

----

Pedro always watched you perform from the wings, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, heart full as he mouthed the words to your songs like a teenage groupie.

He loved your voice. The way your energy shifted when you were on stage. The control you had over the crowd — like they’d follow you anywhere, cry when you cried, scream when you raised a hand.

You were his. And still, he watched you like a man who couldn’t believe his luck.

But tonight was different.

Because halfway through your set, you launched into a song he didn’t recognize.

No intro. No announcement. Just a slow piano melody and your voice — raw, quiet, shaking a little.

“I gave you everything I had / And you still didn’t stay…”

Pedro blinked, heart hitching in his chest.

He looked at your manager beside him, who avoided eye contact, lips pressed in a line.

The lyrics cut deeper with every word.

“All I asked was for you to choose me / Just once / Just loud enough for the world to know…”

Pedro’s brows furrowed. He stepped closer to the edge of the stage, jaw clenched.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. Right?

Had he?

By the time the concert ended, Pedro’s heart was in his throat.

He waited in your dressing room, bouncing his leg, chewing his thumb, every possible scenario running through his mind.

Was she unhappy? Was I too quiet about us? Did I miss something?

When you walked in, hair damp with sweat, makeup smudged, he stood up immediately.

“Hi,” you smiled, breathless. “Did you like the show?”

Pedro didn’t answer at first. Just looked at you — glowing, perfect, completely unaware of the storm in his chest.

“You sang a new one,” he said carefully.

You blinked. “Oh. Yeah. It’s been sitting in the vault for a while. Wrote it before we got together.”

Before.

Pedro exhaled like he’d been underwater.

You noticed the tension in his shoulders then, the furrow between his brows. “Wait… you thought it was about you?”

He shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “You were really emotional. I thought maybe I… I don’t know, missed something.”

Your heart cracked.

“Oh, baby.” You crossed the room quickly, cupping his face in your hands. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He looked at you, eyes still unsure. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. That song is about someone who didn’t want me. You, Pedro Pascal, never shut up about how much you love me.”

His cheeks flushed, eyes softening. “I was freaking out.”

You laughed gently, pressing your forehead to his. “You sweet, anxious man.”

“I just—I never wanna be the reason you write something like that again.”

“You won’t be,” you whispered, kissing him. “But if you ever are… I’ll tell you before I debut it at an arena show.”

He groaned. “Please do.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. �� lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[snottyped]

Hiii i binge read everything you wrote (and my godd) so i wanted to ask if i could request an orcxfem!reader where hes a gym owner sort of a grouch and she is new at the gym he helps her train and they eventually end up nsfw just bern in my head for a long time and you just write so well

anyway goodnight🫶🫶

spot me, big guy

orc x female reader nsfw

You never thought your fitness journey would involve getting railed over a weight bench by an orc.

But here you are—face down on cool leather, his rough hands spreading your ass while he hisses something filthy about “pretty little humans who don’t know what they’re doing until someone makes them.”

You should’ve known.

The moment you walked into his gym, he’d had eyes on you. Huge. Towering. Veins running down his forearms like thick cables. Tusked and always scowling. He barely spoke unless it was to correct your form.

“Back straighter.”

“You’re not breathing right.”

“Don’t look at the mirror, look at your damn body.”

At first you thought he hated you. Then came the way he hovered. Watched. Touched—just a brush of fingers on your waist, a firm press on your spine during planks. You caught him once, watching you stretch, jaw tight, nostrils flared.

Tonight you stayed late. Pushed harder. Wanted to impress him. Wanted to see what he’d do if you asked—

“…can you help me with my hip thrusts?”

His eyes darkened.

Now?

You’re dripping on his bench.

He groans behind you, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds, already soaked and trembling. You’ve never taken anything this big—he knows it, you know it—and it only makes him rougher.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice low and rumbling. “Shaking already and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your fingers clutch the bench. “Please—”

He grins.

“Yeah, now you say please.”

He presses in. Just the tip. Your body tenses, gasping as your walls stretch slow, too slow—but he won’t rush. Not yet. He wants you to feel every inch.

“You want it deeper?”

“Y-Yeah—”

“Then you take it, sweetheart.”

And he slams in.

You scream. Choke. See stars.

He’s thick, massive, pushing so deep your toes curl on instinct. You can feel the shape of him, that impossible stretch, your cunt clenching tight and wet around the sheer size of him.

“Good girl,” he mutters, fucking in short, shallow thrusts. “Takin’ it so fuckin’ good. You train hard for me, huh?”

You whimper, head swimming, barely able to speak. His hands hold your waist like you’re nothing—just something to be used. But the way his thumbs stroke over your skin? That’s not just fucking. That’s want.

“Don’t need any of those soft boys in the front,” he pants. “You need this. You need me. Gonna fill you up so good, baby, you won’t even think about another cock again.”

You moan—pathetically. Loudly.

He fucks you deeper. Your ass slaps against his hips, the sound obscene, echoing in the empty gym. His balls slap against your soaked thighs, heavy and hot.

“You want it, don’t you? You want my cum?”

“Yes! Of—course!”

Your voice is high, helpless. He leans over you, mouth at your ear, breath like fire against your skin.

“You’ll take it. Every fuckin’ drop. Gonna put a baby in you right here—bend you over this bench and breed you like it’s what you were made for.”

Your pussy clenches—its clamping on him

He groans, pace faltering, then slams in to the hilt—so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach.

“You feel that? That’s where you take me,” he growls. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

You break. Orgasm crashing over you like a wave—shaking, crying out, eyes rolled back as he holds you down and fucks through it.

“That’s it. Milk my cock. That’s what you wanted, huh?”

You nod, dizzy, drooling, begging for more without words.

Then he groans—loud, deep, feral. His hips jerk once, twice—and then you feel it.

Hot. Endless. Flooding.

Your eyes go wide as he fills you, cock twitching inside your clenching walls, so much cum you can feel it leaking out around the base of him before he even pulls back.

“Gonna have to keep you after hours more often,” he mutters, voice smug and sweet as he watches his seed drip from between your thighs.

“Can’t have my best girl leaking like that in public.”

[sturnslutz]

fully introducing.. stalker!chris and bimbo!reader

you really fucking hated chris. his smug looks. his annoying laugh. his contagious ass smile. you didn’t even know why you both started hating each other, all you ever really remembered was that it started back all the way in highschool when you and matt first started hooking up.

matt’s and your history went on for a bit, until you both mutually called it off, and remained close friends.

you became a regular at the sturniolo house- and everyone knew you as matt’s friend. then eventually nick’s, but never chris’s. he always called you ‘dumb’ and that you 'lacked' common sense, but honestly you couldn’t control it. it was just how you were.

his brothers berated him for it, something you always appreciated them for. when they moved out of boston and to la after highschool, you kinda just forgot about them. well, you kinda forget everything, but the boys just vanished.

one day, when matt texted you out of nowhere talking about how him and nick missed you so much, it honestly made you question for a minute who the fuck they were. when you remembered, you immediately texted back, inviting them back to boston to come meet up with them.

you stalked their instagrams for a bit, and they’ve been doing really well. 7+ mil subscribers on youtube, 3+ mil on insta, and you were happy for them. you couldn’t help but linger on chris’s profile just a tad bit longer than matt and nick’s.

he looked good. too good for your liking. you reminded yourself about the last thing he said to you- in private- before they left.

“you’re a fucking dumb bimbo bitch.”

obviously he was 18, but it still hurt.

honestly you hadn’t changed since the last time you saw them. you knew you were a bimbo, and you weren’t too “proud” of it, but you weren’t ashamed. it was just how you were. the one thing that didn’t correlate was how emotionally smart you were.

you were never school smart, but you somehow knew how someone felt when they couldn’t say it out loud, and you knew how to communicate in some weird way. you learned that chris wasn’t all the way there, and you couldn’t really tell why.

adhd, sure. but it was something else- something deeper. darker, even. and you just couldn’t wrap your mind around it, no matter how hard you tried.

when the boys walked into the cafe, your breath hitched. they all looked really fucking good. grown, mature, and just downright fucking sexy.

small talk went by, and you said hi to each of them, even chris. but his eyes were more directed somewhere else. you too, had also grown if it wasn’t obvious.

matt and nick had to be excused for a minute for something you didn’t quite catch- and it left you and chris.

“you look different.” he said blankly. your eyes moved from your fresh new set of nails, the diamonds just hitting your eyes in the right way.

“you do too, chris.” you said smiling a bit, honestly just trying to break the awkwardness. “you’re still lookin’ like a bimbo, seems to say you’re still actin’ like one too.”

“i am not.” you say a bit more high-pitched then you would like, and he raises his eyebrows. “right.” you lowered your eyes at him. “are you never gonna stop being a fucking asshole.”

“are you never gonna stop being annoying, candy?”

“says the guy who can’t stop looking at my fucking tits since you came in here.” he shrugged. “not ashamed of it.” “whore.” “slut.”

you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest, and looking to your left- suddenly becoming a lot more interested in the pretty paintings against the walls.

he scoffed, laughing a bit. “proved my point.” you looked back at him, and followed his eyes. “stop looking at my tits, chris.” he rolled his eyes, picking up his phone and not even responding back.

matt and nick eventually came back, and started up the conversation again, but told you they had to go see their parents for a bit. “we’re gonna be in boston for like 3 more weeks, so if you ever wanna come down to the house, you’re more than welcome to, candy.” matt said, happily.

“thanks, matt!” you smiled wide as you looked at all three of them. chris sighed, moving in his seat uncomfortably. you couldn’t tell what was really going on, and why he was acting so weird.

matt and nick said their goodbye’s, hugging you in the process. they left, leaving chris to say goodbye.

“i didn’t say you looked bad when i said you looked different. you look hotter than you did in highschool.” and with that- he left, leaving you standing in the middle of the cafe, confused, in your all-too pink outfit.

a/n- im so fucking excited for this au omg yall arent even ready and i promise yall i will not be abandoning this

divider by : @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[1-800-styles]

have you ever tried this one?

john walker x Bucky barnes x fem!reader

a/n: instead of searching for a fic. i figured i would just write it myself. thanks for @marveln4tural for the inspo ;)

warnings! contains sexual content, this is written for users 18+! established love triangle situation going on. lets just say they explore paris 💅

Post-Mission — Safehouse, Just Outside Madripoor

Rain lashes the windows. The team’s back from the mission, bruised, scraped, wired. It’s late. Everyone’s either asleep or pretending to be.

But not you. And definitely not them.

You’re in the kitchen of the safehouse, pacing in an oversized T-shirt and combat shorts, arms crossed, adrenaline refusing to die down. The door creaks behind you. John walks in first—wet hair pushed back, shirt clinging to his chest, a bandage sloppily taped to his side.

“You should sleep,” you murmur without looking at him.

“I should do a lot of things,” he says. “But none of them feel as good as this.”

You turn. He’s already close. You can see the pulse in his neck. but before either of you can speak, Bucky enters.

Quiet. Still. Soaked from the rain, towel around his neck, jaw locked tight. But his eyes—God, his eyes—are already on you. And he looks at John like he might throw him through a wall. per usual.

“I figured I’d find you both here,” Bucky mutters, his voice low, unreadable. his eyes dart to john “You always follow her around like a lost puppy?”

John rolls his eyes. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not jealous,” Bucky says, stepping forward, locking eyes with you. “I’m just tired of pretending like this doesn’t matter.”

You swallow hard.

John doesn’t back down. He stands on your other side now, arms brushing yours. “So what? You wanna fight again, Barnes?”

“No,” his jaw ticks. “Not unless she tells me to.”

Their voices. Their bodies. Too close. Too charged. It’s all too much.

Your back hits the counter. Their eyes are on you. Waiting. two super soldiers practically cornered you. you feel like your standing between do high school boys pathetically asserting their dominance.

You finally say it—quietly, but it drops like a bomb.

“I don’t want you to fight.”

there’s a Beat.

“I just… don’t want to choose tonight.”

Something shifts. the months of absolute loathing between john and bucky shift. a mutual agreement shared through one exchange.

John steps forward, hand ghosting the edge of your thigh. “You don’t have to.”

Bucky’s fingers lift your chin. “Let us show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

Your breath catches.

The air is thick with heat, unsaid things crackling like electricity.

“You tell us to stop,” he whispers, “and we will.”

But you don’t.

Not even close.

Rain still taps the windows. Thunder rolls in the distance like a warning shot. You’re caught between two walking weapons—both of them breathing heavy, both of them looking at you like they’ve waited too long for this.

John’s hand is hot, rough on your thigh now. Not just grazing. Holding.

Bucky’s mouth hasn’t left your ear. You feel the whisper more than you hear it.

“We’ll be good. Only what you want.”

And you want. God, you want.

Because for months, they’ve been circling you like wolves—sniping at each other, showing off during missions, catching your wrist when you fall, brushing too close in sparring, watching you like they want to consume you whole.

You’ve pushed it down. Over and over. Because they’re soldiers. Because you’re teammates. Because this isn’t supposed to happen.

But tonight? The rain, the adrenaline, the silence of the house, the way they look at you like you’re the only thing tethering them to anything human—

You’re done pretending.

You twist in place, grabbing John’s jaw and pulling him down, crashing into his mouth. He makes a low sound—half a growl, half a groan—as his hands find your waist, greedy, practiced. His body is heat and strength and that smirk that always gets him in trouble.

But before it gets deeper, another hand—cool, metal—slides to the side of your neck, gently tilting your face away.

Bucky.

He doesn’t say a word. Just kisses you slow—like he’s tasting something he never thought he’d get. His lips drag down your jaw, linger at your throat.

John’s breath hitches. “Jesus, Buck—”

But Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

His voice is low, dark, still wrecked from the mission.

he looks at john “so you gonna keep talking, or are we finally on the same page?”

John lets out a sharp breath, his hands flexing where they rest on your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself—trying not to lose control completely.

But it’s happening. It’s already happening.

Because you’re here. Letting them. Wanting them.

And that look in your eyes? That soft defiance mixed with surrender—it undoes them both.

John’s mouth is back on your shoulder, his voice rasping against your skin.

“You really wanna do this?”

You nod once but it’s not enough for him. He wants to hear it. Needs to.

“Say it.”

You lift your gaze—stormlight flickering outside the window, shadows painting the room in a low blue haze.

“I want both of you.”

It’s not a confession. It’s a dare. And it breaks the last thread holding them back.

John’s hands are on your waist again, firm, possessive—pulling you back against him as Bucky steps in closer from the front. You’re sandwiched between them now, chests rising and falling, heat radiating in every direction.

They don’t touch each other. They don’t need to.

But you feel the unspoken truce hanging in the air like gunpowder.

Bucky dips his head again, lips brushing your jaw, then trailing down the curve of your throat. “You’re shaking.”

“Not from fear,” you whisper, breath hitching as John’s hand starts to trail lower.

And Bucky—he just smirks.

“Good.”

Everything is intentional. Measured. Heavy with meaning.

Bucky slips the edge of your shirt off one shoulder like it’s sacred. John kneels first, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing the exact moment you fall apart.

You laugh once—low, breathless, giddy. “You two always compete like this?”

John grins against your skin, teeth grazing.

“Only when it counts.”

And Bucky? Bucky doesn’t even smile.

He just tilts your chin again and says. “We’re not competing anymore.”

Bucky leans in to taste you again—not rough, but slow enough for his tongue to slip into your mouth. Your body lets out an exhale, hating to admit to yourself how weak you are in this very moment.

John slowly continues, his mouth leaving kisses up your thighs, his hot breath trailing closer and closer to your core.

Your back arches slightly, caught in the unbearable space between Bucky’s mouth and John’s teasing touch. Bucky kisses you like he knows every secret you’ve ever tried to hide—gentle but devastating, as if he’s taking his time memorizing the taste of your surrender. His hand slides to your jaw, grounding you in him, thumb stroking softly along your cheek.

John exhales a soft laugh against your skin, low and hungry, the vibration sending a shock straight through your spine. “You gonna beg for it, sweetheart?” he murmurs, lips brushing just where you’re aching for him. But he doesn’t give in yet. No—he just watches your thighs tremble, his fingers digging in ever so slightly, keeping them parted.

Bucky pulls back for just a second, lips swollen, eyes dark. “Don’t tease her, Walker.”

John grins. “She likes it.”

And you do. God, you do. Even as your breath comes in uneven pulls and your pride tries to claw its way out—you’re helpless. Wrapped in their voices, their mouths, their hands.

Then John’s tongue finally meets you upset thigh he pulls your shorts along with your panties, his tongue meeting your core. your body jolts. Bucky catches the gasp in another kiss, swallowing it down like he needs it to survive.

You’re shaking now—your body barely your own, your mind foggy with the pressure of their attention. John’s mouth works in slow, devastating circles around your clit, and it’s not enough—not nearly enough—but the way he holds your hips down says you’ll take what he gives you.

Bucky kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t get enough of you either.

“Doing so good,” he whispers, voice frayed with restraint, watching you fall apart under John’s mouth. His hand slides down your sternum, slow and deliberate, fingertips dragging just enough to make your skin buzz.

“Look at her,” John groans, voice gravel and fire. “She’s perfect like this.”

He’s watching you now—every little reaction, every breath that breaks too quickly, every twitch of your thighs.

Bucky leans in, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is barely audible. “Tell us what you want.”

And you try. You really do. But all that comes out is a desperate whimper, a hand reaching blindly for more. Any part of them. Both of them.

you sputter to get any words out of your mouth “i want you to fuck me”

They share a glance over your body, something dangerous and unspoken passing between them.

And suddenly it hits you—you’re not in control anymore.

they are.

John’s grip tightens just enough to make you gasp, holding you open like something fragile and meant to be worshipped. His mouth moves with more intent now, drawing you closer to the edge with slow, devastating patience. Bucky watches the way your body trembles, how you arch into every sensation like you’re chasing something just out of reach.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, brushing his knuckles over your ribs, then lower. “Just like that. Let go, sweetheart.”

You feel him everywhere—his words, his hands, his heat. Your fingers curl into his shoulder, the only thing anchoring you while John keeps pulling you under, over and over again.

John groans against you, low and wrecked. “She’s losing it. Fuck, Buck, she’s gonna—”

“Let her,” Bucky says, a quiet command, his lips brushing your temple. “Let her fall apart.”

And you do. You break in their hands, your body shaking with the force of it, pulse racing as the world tilts sideways and goes white-hot.

as you let out a guttural groan you feel your legs bucking down losing balance, Bucky holds himself onto you. John using his tongue like his a starved man.

By the time you come back to yourself, Bucky is holding you close, grounding you with soft touches, while John presses kisses to your inner thigh like he’s still not ready to let go of the taste of you.

You’re not sure who speaks first—maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s Bucky murmuring your name like a prayer—but suddenly they’re both hovering above you, faces flushed, eyes hungry and impossibly tender.

“Still with us?” John asks, brushing your hair off your face.

You nod, breathless. “Barely.”

Bucky smiles, just a little. “Good. Because we’re not done yet.”

You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts you with ease, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing. His eyes stay locked on yours, even as he lowers you onto the cushions, and for a moment he just stares—like he can’t believe you’re real.

John’s following close behind, his lips still glistening, eyes dark. “She looks dangerous,” he says, voice low.

“She is,” Bucky murmurs, breath catching as your hands slide down his chest.

You rise to your knees between them, one hand on each of them now—gripping, guiding, claiming. “My turn,” you say softly, but there’s steel behind it. A warning. A promise.

Bucky groans as your mouth brushes his jaw, your teeth scraping just enough to make him shift under you. You trail kisses down his neck, slow and possessive, your fingers undoing his belt with practiced ease.

John chuckles behind you. “Fuck, I love this side of you.”

You glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Good. You’re next.”

You ease Bucky’s pants down just enough, watching the way his breath hitches when your hand wraps around him. You stroke him slow, deliberate, feeling every inch harden under your touch before you lean in, letting your tongue trail along the underside of him, lips teasing until he groans deep in his chest.

Then you take him into your mouth—inch by inch—your eyes locked on his the entire time.

Bucky’s head drops back, jaw clenched, hands fisting the couch cushions like it’s the only thing anchoring him. You take your time—watching, learning what makes him twitch, what draws those beautiful broken sounds from his throat.

John can’t sit still. He’s watching like a man starved, hand running down his own stomach, biting back a curse when your eyes flick to him with that wicked little grin.

“You’re gonna kill us,” Bucky mutters, voice wrecked.

You hum around him in response, the vibration making him curse under his breath as he tries—and fails—not to buck into your mouth.

You keep going, letting your hand twist at the base as your tongue swirls around the tip, tasting every inch of him until he’s panting above you, his thighs trembling.

And when you finally switch—turning to John with a look that makes his cock twitch before you even touch him—Bucky’s still catching his breath, chest heaving, pupils blown.

John doesn’t play it cool. Not even close. He practically falls into you, rough hands guiding your face up to his as he kisses you like he needs it to stay alive. His belt is already undone, pants halfway down when you push him back against the couch, sinking to your knees between his legs.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “That’s the plan.”

You wrap your lips around him without hesitation, taking him deep enough to make his hips jerk. He grits his teeth, one hand buried in your hair while the other grips the back of the couch, holding on like he’s afraid he might fall apart if he lets go.

You work him over with your mouth, your hand stroking what you can’t reach, letting him feel every inch of you—every flick of your tongue, every soft gasp and wet sound echoing through the room.

The room is heat and breath and sweat and sound—your name on their lips, their bodies writhing under your hands. You don’t stop. Not until they’re both wrecked, undone, ruined by your touch.

You’re barely catching your breath and wiping your mouth when John pulls you to your hands and knees on the couch—his grip strong, steady, guiding. Behind you, he settles in close, one hand on your lower back, the other pulling your top over your head and dragging slowly over your hip.

Then Bucky steps in front of you.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that completely contradicts the heat in his eyes. “Think you can take us both?”

You answer him with a look that makes his knees buckle—and then with your mouth, wrapping your lips around him without hesitation.

John groans from behind. “She’s already dripping,” he mutters, fingers digging into your hips. “Fuck.”

You hum around Bucky, the vibration making him hiss as you take him deeper, one hand wrapped around the base of him, the other braced against the couch. He cups your jaw gently, his thumb sweeping across your cheek, guiding your pace while his eyes stay locked on yours.

Then John pushes in.

The stretch makes your elbows buckle, your whole body arching, and Bucky groans as he watches the way your eyes flutter, your lips parting around him. He doesn’t thrust—not yet. He just lets you hold him in your mouth, breathing hard as John begins to move behind you, each roll of his hips pushing you forward slightly, deeper around Bucky.

“Just like that,” Bucky whispers, voice frayed. “Taking both of us like you were made for it.”

John lets out a ragged curse. “Look at her. Fucking perfect.”

You’re sandwiched between them, overwhelmed in the best way—John’s hands anchoring your hips, Bucky’s fingers threaded in your hair, both of them moving in sync like they’ve done this before, like they know exactly how to break you apart and keep you together all at once.

Bucky’s voice is hoarse now, every word punched out between moans. “You’re so good, baby. So fucking good for us.”

John growls from behind, picking up his pace. “Ours.”

And you—helpless, powerful, dizzy with the rhythm of them. You moan around Bucky, your body arching into every touch, every movement, caught between them in the most intoxicating way. You’re not sure which way is up anymore. You only know the heat, the weight of their bodies, the tension growing by the second.

“You feel how good you make us?” John growls, voice rough and unsteady. “You drive us crazy, baby.”

Bucky cups your cheek, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, his voice softer now—wrecked. “Can’t get enough of you.”

You can barely breathe, caught between their bodies, their voices—low, raw, praising. Every nerve in you is alight, every movement sending shivers through your spine. Bucky’s hand rests against your jaw, thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek as you pull back just enough to gasp for air.

“You’re a goddamn vision,” he mutters, awe bleeding through every word.

Behind you, John’s rhythm falters for half a beat—like even he can’t handle how good this feels, how utterly wrecked you look between them. His hand slips around your waist, holding you flush to him, like he needs to feel every inch of you, to keep you grounded while you shake.

“Can feel you falling apart,” he groans against the back of your neck. “Don’t hold back.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Your fingers grip Bucky’s thighs, nails digging in, desperate to anchor yourself as the tension inside you coils tighter, higher. Every breath is a whimper, every sound a plea. And they hear it all—feel it all.

Then it hits.

The wave crashes through you—body trembling, vision blurred, a sound breaking from your throat that doesn’t even feel like your own. Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair. John curses under his breath, losing himself to the feeling of you unraveling around him.

They don’t stop until they’ve wrung every last tremor from you, until you’re left limp and breathless, trembling in their arms.

Bucky’s the first to move, reaching out to catch you as John slowly pulls you back into his chest. “Got you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’ve got you.”

a/n: holy shit i did not expect to write this much. enjoy you dirty little animals 💅

-

tags: @river-reads-things

[sixxels]

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.

he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.

you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.

somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.

after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.

you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.

but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

~

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows.

he knows.

~

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

~

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

he flicks the roach away and leans back again, hood falling down to rest at the nape of his neck. you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like—cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re hot.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he was proud of him.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i missed your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week. tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then—

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“cool,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late afternoon

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh you're stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums. low. not buying it.

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting. he’s circling. you don’t see it?” you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too. “how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.”your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the street. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long. needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks — slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, baby… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. ���not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is — he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 masterlist !!

[bower-quinn]

Where you are is home

Steve x Reader - Fluff, friends to lovers, modern!au Steve is your best friend, but what if... purely hypothetically... you feel more?

The sun over Hawkins hadn’t set yet, but golden light was already creeping through the leaves of the old trees behind the trailer park. You were sitting on the hood of Steve’s BMW – the one he somehow still drove, even though you regularly laughed about how it was basically a moving joke by now.

“Do you think your car will die on its own someday, or do I have to take care of that?” “Disrespectful,” Steve said, chewing on a straw and giving you a mock-offended glare. “This is a classic.” “Classically rusty.” He gave you a playful punch on the arm, and you let out an exaggerated sound, just to grin right after. “You’re such a baby,” he mumbled, leaning back against the windshield and closing his eyes. The wind blew a strand of hair into his face, but he didn’t move it.

That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t have to say anything. You could be outside somewhere, between trees and chirping crickets, and just… be. You’d been best friends for two years – ever since you’d slipped him chips under the bench during a boring school play. He hadn’t really left your side since. The rumors that you were his latest fling had faded quickly. Like a boring song no one hums anymore. Over time, your friendship had only grown deeper.

He’d taken you on late-night drives, helped you forget your idiot ex (“I almost punched him.” “Come on, Steve, you would've broken your hand!” “But with dignity!”), and you’d helped him write his college applications (“I’m not a college guy.” “You’re just lazy!” “Exactly my point!”) And every time the world felt like too much, one of you was always there. Always.

“Remember when you fell asleep in the kitchen ‘cause you tried to make spaghetti at 3am?” “That was a tactical power nap,” Steve mumbled. “I was waiting for the water to boil.” You laughed – rough and honest. Steve looked at you briefly – just for a moment – but something in his eyes lingered.

“What would I be without you,” he murmured. You felt a lump in your throat. “Probably dead. Or still a terrible cook. A terrible cook with awful taste in music.” “I have fantastic taste in music.” “Steve, your playlist is just Foreigner. Nothing else.” “Romantically speaking, that’s a stroke of genius.” “Romantically speaking, it sucks.”

More laughter. More closeness. And when his head leaned on your shoulder, there was no thunderclap. No explosion. Just a warm, quiet feeling: You loved him. Like a best friend. But also… more.

A few days later, you were sitting with Steve on the roof of his garage. An old wooden ladder, a picnic blanket, two cans of Coke, and a rusty Bluetooth speaker. Your little, crooked paradise.

“Is it sad that this is the highlight of my weekend?” he asked. “No,” you said. “I’m here too.” He grinned – that half-serious grin that hurt if you looked at it too long. “You know you’re irreplaceable, right?” “Obviously,” you replied. “Were you about to confess your undying love?” “God forbid.” A pillow hit your arm. “Robin would’ve declared her eternal love by now. She’s more romantic. And smarter!” “Hey! I successfully built an IKEA cabinet today.” “Steve… I was there. You put the same screw in the wrong place. Twice. Twice, Steve.” “Artistic interpretation!”

Laughter. Deep breaths. Silence.

“You know…,” he suddenly began, “sometimes I feel like I’m missing something. I haven’t dated anyone in over a year. I just want to hang out with you.” You looked at him. “Would you rather go back to dating Cynthia?” “The one who called Chewbacca ‘the roaring bear’? I don’t think so.” You laughed loudly – one of your favorite memories. You’d never forget Steve’s face.

“You need a girlfriend who knows the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars.” “Yeah,” he said softly, leaning closer. “I think I like this. With you. You get me. You know me.” You placed your hand on his. Nothing big. Just… exactly right. His eyes wandered to your face and stayed there.

“You’ve got something,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Eyelash. Make a wish,” he murmured. “I did.” “What was it?” “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” His gaze flickered. “What if I wished for the same thing?”

There it was. A moment. One second. Two. Three. And it passed. Neither of you made the first move. But still, something had changed. The spark that had only lived inside you was suddenly outside, too. Every touch felt like lightning, and you could see it in his eyes – he felt it too.

Those big puppy eyes. So open. So honest. So vulnerable. And still, weeks passed. Weeks full of longing.

One night at his place. The world outside was quiet, but something inside both of you was boiling – something that had stayed silent too long. Steve looked at you – and in his eyes were the words he couldn’t hold in much longer. He’d never been good at hiding anything.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “What do you mean?” “This... almost. This constant almost. Almost kissing. Almost saying how much I want you.” He stepped closer. “I can’t sleep. I only think about you.”

Your heart was racing. “I think about you too,” you whispered.

Then he pulled you into him – not gently. Not carefully. But like someone who’s been in love forever. His mouth found yours, hot and urgent, his hands on your back, under your shirt, pulling, searching – like he had to make sure you were real.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not just now. Every day.” Your fingers ran down his chest, your breath hot on his neck. His grip tightened. He looked at you, half speechless, half overwhelmed.

“You’re everything I want.” When his lips met yours again, there was no more doubt. Only desire – built up over weeks. Months of glances that had never dared to speak. Now, they were screaming. In every touch. Every move. Every trace of skin on skin.

You didn’t fall on each other. You fell into something that had always been there – and finally had the space to catch fire.

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: alpha Sukuna x omega you | warnings: rough worshipping, claiming, heating, knotting, possessive love

summary; when Sukuna starts taking you he doesn’t stop

ೃ⁀➷ Ruin, Worship, Repeat

Sukuna didn’t ask if you were ready. He knew. The moment your scent turned, his entire world narrowed to one thing; you. That first ripple of your heat, that syrupy and sweet scent curling around him like a leash. His cock already strained obscenely, his instincts crashing like a tide. He appeared in the doorway with a low growl in his chest, red eyes glowing.

“My little Omega’s burning for me already?” he rasped hungrily.

You whimpered where you knelt on the nest, clutching the sheets like they might save you.

“Please, Sukuna… feels too much, need you-”

He was on you in an instant. His hands, all four of them, gripped your thighs, your hips, your wrists, dragging you down onto his lap like he was molding you there. His scent poured over you like smoke. The dark spice, destruction, a razor-edged comfort only you ever got to inhale this deep.

“You don’t need to beg,” he said, lips brushing your throat. “You were made for this. For me.”

He licked a slow stripe up your neck, tasting the sweat and desperation. His knot throbbed already, thick and pulsing against your soaked pussy.

“I should keep you like this,” he growled. “Tied to my knot, too full to think. Let everyone see how sweet you smell with me inside you.”

You were crying by the time he pushed in. Pushed in slowly just for the torment and the fun, then snapping his hips when you gasped for more.

“That’s it,” he hissed, eyes locked on yours. “Look at me while I fuck you. You’re mine, Omega.”

You nodded frantically, but that wasn’t enough. He pressed your back to the floor of the nest, all four arms holding you down. He fucked deeper, harder into you until your moans broke into sobs. You clung to him, nails raking his skin, teeth catching on his shoulder as he groaned.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say who owns this pretty little cunt.”

“You, Sukuna, you.”

He snarled with approval. “That’s right. This body? Mine. That scent? Mine. That tight, greedy pussy? Fucking mine.”

His knot swelled thick and heavy, locking him inside your trembling body so deep you could barely breathe. And still he didn’t take his eyes off you. He grabbed your face with both hands, rough palms cupping your cheeks, thumbs catching your tears as his forehead pressed to yours.

“I won’t lose you. Not in this lifetime and not in the next.” he whispered, low and dangerous and achingly real.

Your breath caught. Not from the stretch or the fullness, but from the truth in his voice. For all his power, all his violence, you were the one thing he feared to lose. His precious little Omega. The only softness that hadn’t burned away.

“You’re mine,” he said again, slower this time. “Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to worship.”

You whimpered, clenching around the base of his knot as he rolled his hips in tiny circles, grinding it just right. Enough to make you shake, but not enough to push you too far. You were already crying again when he kissed you. Not rough. Not possessive. Just gentle. The kind of kiss that said even a curse like him could love.

“Good girl,” he murmured, cradling your face like you were holy. “So good for me.”

When your heat surged again, when your body begged for more he flipped you over in the nest without pulling out, guiding your hips into the perfect arch. He pulled the mirror closer that was always close in your bedroom, because if Sukuna loved something more than ruining your cunt then it’s watching you getting ruined in every position possible.

“You want it again?” he purred. “Want your Alpha to ruin you nice and slow this time?”

You gasped out a desperate yes, and his grin was all teeth and danger.

“Then don’t let go of that mirror, sweetheart,” he growled, licking up your spine. “You’re gonna watch me own you this time.”

The mirror he’d installed himself. The one perfectly angled to reflect every inch of you when he had you like this. Naked, wrecked, and whining on his cock.

“Look at what you do to me,” he growled, rutting slow and deep. “Look at how fucking beautiful you are with my knot inside you.”

You gasped, legs trembling as he pressed his chest flush to your back. You could barely stand. Your knees shook. His knot stretched you obscenely, locking you in place, and still he moved.

His hips rolled in slow, grinding circles, each thrust purposeful, claiming. One hand tangled in your hair to keep your head up. Another around your throat. The third splayed across your belly, feeling the bulge where he filled you. The fourth? Sliding down between your thighs. Rubbing gentle, maddening circles.

You sobbed his name, chest heaving against the mirror. “P-please… can’t…too much-”

“You can,” he purred cruelly. “You will.”

His fingers dragged through your slick cunt, teasing your clit while his cock throbbed deep inside your pulsing heat. You cried out, watching your reflection shake under him.

“See that?” he hissed, voice dark and loving and cruel. “That’s mine. My pussy. My Omega. You think I don’t watch this every time? You think I don’t stare at the way your body opens for me like it’s made to take me?”

He bit your shoulder, fangs scraping your skin. “You were made for me. Say it.”

“I- I was made for you, Sukuna… only y-you.”

“Damn right.”

He snapped his hips forward, knot grinding into your swollen cunt, making your breath stutter and break. The mirror fogged from your panting. From his growls. From the heat pooling between you, primal and unrelenting.

One hand tightened on your throat, not choking, but holding you steady as he fucked you through your reflection.

“Look,” he growled, voice hoarse with reverence. “Look how perfect you are when you break for me.”

And you did. You shattered. Body clenching, thighs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream. He held you still, knot locking you down, cock twitching deep inside your fluttering walls. Your eyes stayed open. You watched yourself fall apart.

And so did he. “Fuck,” Sukuna groaned, lips against your ear. “You’re never getting away from me, Omega. Not when you look like that. Not when you take me so sweet and sloppy like you were born to.”

You whimpered as your body slumped, but his hands never let you fall. Four arms wrapped around your limp form, hoisting you into his chest, still connected. Still full.

He kissed your temple. “My good girl,” he whispered. “So full of me. So fucking perfect.”

Then with a wicked smirk, he glanced at the mirror again. “…Think we need another round, princess. You didn’t cry hard enough for me yet.”

[lolab4t]

her night nurse - fluff

pairing: thunderbolt!yelena belova x f!reader summary: when yelena shows up at your apartment at 2 am, bleeding and sarcastic as ever, it’s not the first time... and probably won’t be the last. you’re just a civilian with a quiet life and no medical training, but somehow, you’ve become her nurse and the place she escapes to. tonight, the injuries are worse. the banter is softer. and maybe, just maybe, something’s shifting between you. word count: 7k warning(s): thunderbolts* mentioned, WLW, some angst, fluff, injury and blood, medical terms, mild language, mutual pining a/n: i am aware that canonically, yelena is meant to be ace. this is just a fun little story! i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please feel free to like, comment, or reblog! <3 also, requests are open!

love me - elvis presley

it was around 2 am when you heard a knock at your apartment door. you crawled out of bed, twisting the door handle open. you already knew who it was.

yelena stood before you, scratched up, bleeding, holding her side.

"well, you look like shit." you uttered, moving to let her inside.

"that's no way to greet a guest." she answered as she entered, her accent thick.

your relationship was strange. you were just a normal civilian with a quiet life, stable job, and a boring apartment. yelena was a trained russian assassin and a new avenger. on paper, you didn't exactly have much in common.

you’ve known her for a few months now and while you wouldn’t call her a friend, she appears at your door a few times a week: hungry, sarcastic, full of cryptic jokes. she once admitted to you that your place felt like an escape… from the thunderbolts, her job, her past. it was the only place she felt halfway normal.

ironically, the way you had met was far from normal. yelena was bleeding then too. she had kicked open your door, thinking it belonged to a criminal. instead, you stood before her: a stunned civilian holding a spatula.

her voice was smooth like honey, and her accent caught you off-guard. "this isn't 3B is it?"

"uhm, no… it's 3D." you had laughed nervously in response, which earned a chuckle out of her. you both felt weirdly at ease for a moment.

that's when you noticed the stab wound in her thigh. after recognizing her as a thunderbolt, you invited her in and patched her up with your cheap first-aid kit... the one you hadn't looked at since you moved in. and from then on, you became her медсестра (nurse), as she liked to call you.

you would never admit it, but you liked when she called you that. you liked the way it sounded coming out of her mouth.

she would come to you when she had so much as a scrape. you weren't exactly qualified or an expert, so you always scolded her about going to a hospital instead. she never listened. she never seemed to care about your lack of expertise. that wasn't the reason she came to see you.

now, you find yourself closing your door, turning to the girl in question, "lena, it's 2 in the morning."

"медсестра (nurse), i need some patching up here." she faked a pout, sitting on your couch in a laidback manner.

you could never deny her. not when she spoke in that teasing tone, or sat back in that maddeningly hot pose.

you groaned, noticing the trail of blood she had left, "you're leaking all over my ikea rug, again. i just steam cleaned that."

"you own a steam cleaner?"

you rolled your eyes, gesturing for her to take a seat at your kitchen table while you retrieved your first-aid kit.

she obliged, sitting back in it comfortably, like she had done so many times before.

you kneeled before her, instructing her to raise her shirt a bit so you could see the wound on her side. you grimaced at the sight of it, noticing it was deeper than her usual wounds. "lena, you should really go to a hospital for this one."

she shook her head, "i don't trust them. you know that, глупый (silly)."

another nickname. you never complained.

you scoffed, grabbing the antiseptic. you began to clean the wound gently. you felt her wince slightly as it hit her skin, but she covered it quickly. she watched you work in silence for a few moments, the air seeming to buzz around you.

"hold still," you muttered, focused, as you carefully cleaned closer to the wound.

"you are very bossy." she smirked, her accent still thick as ever.

you just scoffed in response, leaning back on your heels to survey the wound again.

“this one’s gonna need stitches,” you murmured, shaking your head. “i can’t do those. not properly.”

“i trust you,” yelena said, too fast. too confidently.

you froze for a second, then looked up. she was already watching you, eyes more serious than before. guarded, but open just enough.

did she know what she was doing to you?

“you shouldn’t,” you said, laughing softly, trying to hide how flustered she was making you.

“but i do.” she said again, more firm this time.

she had to know. she had to know what she was doing to you. she had to be aware that she was torturing you.

you didn’t respond. instead, you reached for the superglue and bandages, trying to ignore the way your hands were shaking just slightly. trying not to think about the way she was looking at you.

you did the best you could when it came to closing the wound. you dressed it in gauze and bandages carefully, standing up with a sigh of contentment when you finished.

"you wanna stay the night again?" you asked casually, as you began cleaning up.

she nodded slowly, "if it's not too much."

yelena had stayed over a few times now. you always offered her your bed, but she never accepted. she would usually just stay on your couch.

you hummed, "it's not. you can take the bed." you offered it to her as you always did, expecting her to decline.

"only if you're in it too, властная девушка (bossy girl)."

your breath caught. you couldn't tell if she was joking. neither could she.

this was the answer you had always wished for, but you never expected it.

then she stood up. slowly, carefully, like she was testing something. then she stepped in front of you.

“come to bed. i know you're tired,” she said, not teasing. just asking.

you blinked. “you’re bleeding.”

“then stay close. make sure I don’t die.”

you scoffed out a laugh, giving her a tired look, “that's not funny... but alright. fine.”

she didn’t smile… not exactly. but something eased in her shoulders. you followed her into the bedroom, flipping the light off on your way. the quiet felt heavy, but not uncomfortable.

she lied back in the bed carefully, wincing just a little as she adjusted.

you grabbed an extra blanket and went to hand it to her, but she caught your wrist instead.

“stay,” she looked up at you, this time softer. not a tease. a plea.

you hesitated for just a second, staring down at her fingers wrapped around your wrist. it felt like your heart had stopped.

then, slowly, you nodded. “okay.”

yelena let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. you lied down beside her under the sheets, facing her with your head on your pillow. it was quiet for a few moments as you looked at one another.

then she smiled. god, her smile was beautiful.

“this is nice,” she mumbled.

you huffed a quiet laugh. “bleeding on my sheets is nice?”

she shrugged lightly, smirking. “you make it nice.”

your heart fluttered at that.

hoping she couldn't see the blush creeping up on your cheeks in the darkness, you let out a light scoff. “you gonna get all sentimental on me now, belova?”

yelena smirked, her eyelids getting heavy, “never.”

a second of silence, filled only with both of your breathing. then she whispered...

“…maybe a little.” her eyes were fully closed now.

“goodnight, lena,” you whispered back, closing your own eyes.

her voice was barely audible. “goodnight, моя любовь (my love).”

thanks so much for reading <3

[lieran03]

Raising Their Voice

Love and Deepspace Fanfic

The usual calm and soft men who never raise their voice suddenly did so in front of you, and that's only to protect you

Genre: fluff/slice of life Pairing: Sylus x fem!reader (usage of Kitten as nickname) Words: 1885 Warning: none!

Writing commission || Ko-fi || AO3 acc

Xavier's || Zayne's || Rafayel's || Caleb's

Based on THIS request

The offer came too suddenly. Although it was a normal thing for Sylus to bring his Kitten along while doing a business—bidding and entering fancy places—this invitation held something more important; a party for rich people and where they show off their belongings. For Sylus, instead of showing off his fortune, he decided to bring her along.

A satisfied smile can be seen on his face while he watches her trying on the dress he specially tailored with the best fabric he could find. Before she could say anything, Sylus had already given a lot of compliments, telling her how beautiful she is and how dazzling she is, to the point that no one at the party would outshine her.

“Don’t start with your words. You know that’s not true.”

“Is my Kitten being insecure tonight? Guess I haven’t poured my heart and love enough.” With his words, Sylus leaves a trail of kisses on her face, making sure that she knows just how much he loves her. “Are you ready to go, Kitten?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to make you late for the party.”

A soft scoff came from Sylus before he said, “What a funny way of thinking. That’s a no. You can take however much time needed, and you’re still not late to the party. They started too fast, and it’s not you who are late.”

Sylus has always had his ways to speak, charming her, and didn’t give her a chance to feel insecure about her looks or worry about anything else. With a smile on her face, she finally took Sylus' hands, walking side by side towards the party venue. With Sylus by her side, she couldn’t help but feel immune to anything,

No one would dare to do anything when she’s with Sylus.

Stares were all she got when walking side by side with Sylus, additionally, Sylus' hands wrapped around her shoulder, putting a protective defense to show she’s taken. Couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with the constant stares people gave her, she finally looked at Sylus, hoping for him to understand what she tried to imply. Instead of understanding her needs, Sylus only gives a light squeeze to her shoulder, his way of giving a reassuring comfort.

“If I were to leave you for a moment, you would be fine by yourself, right?” Sylus’ sudden question made her widen her eyes at him.

Why would he say something like that now?

There were a lot of things she wanted to say to Sylus, but there were none that came out of her lips. Every time she thought she was ready to say it, she always chickened out last minute, leaving Sylus in the dark. She just didn’t think Sylus had to know about her feelings at the moment. They were supposed to enjoy the night, especially since they rarely met.

“I won’t be too long, it will be over before you even know it. Or, are you against me being away from you, Kitten?” The tease that came from Sylus only made her frown deeper. Although he tries his best to make everything seem better, it only raises her anxiety. “Have something to tell me, Kitten?”

This time, worry etched into Sylus’ tone, trying his hardest to read into her and find out what worries her. When she still said nothing, Sylus decided to ruffle a bit of her hair, trying to get a reaction. If he makes a mess of her look, she probably would start yelling at him or scolding him for ruining her makeup.

“I just … didn’t like how I know no one here. That’s why.” It wasn’t a full lie, it was also not one hundred percent true. However, under Sylus' intense gaze, she couldn’t help but say anything. “You better be back in fifteen, more than that, you’re dead to me!”

A low chuckle can be heard from Sylus, understanding the worry inside of her. When she didn’t respond to his attempt before, he knew that he shouldn’t leave her for too long. With a short knowing look, Sylus pointed at someone inside the party with his head, telling her that the person was the one he would talk with.

"He has been eyeing me and you. I will make him know his place and stop staring at you. But what can I say? You’re too beautiful for people not to stare.”

“Just go now and be back fast.” Had enough of his teasing, she finally pushed Sylus’ body away from her.

Knowing where Sylus went, not too far, somehow reassured her, telling her that there’s nothing she needs to be worried about. Minutes pass by just like that, with her accompanied by the drink Sylus brings before, and her watching over her man has a serious talk, a smirk here and there while he talks, and sometimes, looking back at her and locking eyes.

Her short moment was cut off when some girls were walking to her side, surrounded her, and blocked her view of Sylus. The smile on their face made her feel a bit nauseous, screaming that these people didn’t have any good intentions toward her. Before she could tell the people in front of her to walk away or move, they had already spoken.

“You know, I think it’s enough already for looking at that man.”

“We know that everyone wanted to be with him, almost a lot of people have already tried to sleep with him. We tried too.”

“But, did you know that no one has ever been able to touch him? Also, when people try to say they have eyes on him, the other would fight you.”

“Don’t worry, Hon, we can help you get close to you. Maybe, he will sleep with you.”

“Huh?” The anger from before was long gone when she heard what the girls were trying to tell her. What do they mean they were trying to sleep with him? “No … that’s not … I came with him.”

“Oh, please, girl. I know what you feel, we are also trying our best to be able to be his plus one.”

More and more nonsense came from their lips, not even letting her speak or state her opinion. It wasn’t until their topic suddenly changed to something else, talking about how beautiful she is and how dazzling she was, that she could have just gotten any man to be with her, especially at a party like now.

Even now, she tries her best to tell that she has already come with someone. If they didn’t want to believe that she came with Sylus, then it’s better for her to at least make them realize she’s not alone. However, her mind couldn’t help but think about what they just said before. That she could have any man to sleep with her.

“I’m sorry, but I’m uncomfortable talking about this.” When the topic of her having to get someone’s number, a stranger, she decided to cut it off. “I have told you guys that I came with someone. Well, someone as dazzling as me must have a man with me, right? That’s why, stop pushing me with a stranger.”

“What? Did you just hear what she said? We were trying to be nice to you! How dare you talk like that to me!’

“You’re new here, right? I never saw you at to party like this, so you should have been grateful that someone was trying to make you less lonely. Did you realize that you look like a loner at this big party?”

“We will forgive you, but on one condition.”

“No … I didn’t need you guys to forgive me. I said what I said,” she replied with a frown, deeper than she ever made before. How to make them shut up at this point?

Instead of listening to her, the girls decided to point their fingers at the man who used to talk with Sylus—he was nowhere to be seen now—and said she should get closer to him. if she is able to get his number, they will let her go and not taint her name anywhere, or anyone. She was ready to say no and fight with them, and yet someone had already bet her to it.

“I will give her my number. That would be enough, right?” Upon knowing it was Sylus, relief filled her that she almost ran to his arms. As if knowing what she wanted, Sylus put his hand to her hips, holding her close to him. “Let me get to know you more.”

“Sy …?”

The girls couldn’t believe what they had just witnessed, trying to think of the most reasonable Sylus was by her side. Stammering, they were trying to explain the situation to Sylus, and the man somehow listened to their rambling till the end, hearing how they just wanted her, his Kitten, to get to know some men and sleep with them.

Sylus, who usually has control of everything, stares longer at their leader, trying to make sure what he heard just now wasn’t wrong. Still with his face showing how much he didn’t believe what they said, Sylus’ grip on her hips got stronger. There was evidence from the way he held her. Did they just try to sell her out?

“You are telling her to sleep with them?” Sylus started softly, however, his eyes were glaring. “You just told me that she's only worth being with a man like that, right?”

“That’s not what I meant, Sy.”

Hearing the nickname came from the same person who said his Kitten didn’t fit him, the anger came before he could hold it back. “Don’t you dare to call me with names! I didn’t know you, nor have I ever met with you. You should be glad that I talk to you now, just because of her.”

Sensing the dominance Sylus gave, the girls started to talk to each other and tried to run away. At the same time, she was trying to calm Sylus. Although it was nice to see him mad and shouting to protect her, she didn’t want him to cause a scene or scare the people around. It should be a party where he enjoys himself.

“Sy, come on,” whispering to Sylus, she finally tries to drag him away.

“Don’t you ever dare to come near her anymore.” Sylus’ voice slowly became lower, yet still showing his anger. “Kitten, then didn’t do anything to you, right?”

Before long, just after Sylus was away from the girls—and they had time to run away—his full attention went to her, not thinking about anything else but her. Once feeling Sylus’ attention only on her, a smile finally broke on her face, feeling grateful and happy to be with him, and to be someone important to him.

“You lost your cool back there.”

“I’m sorry, Kitten. Did I scare you? Or did it startle you?”

With a shake of her head, she finally hugged Sylus tight, her way to say she’s not scared of him. “Of course, not. I know you do that to protect me. Although I did get a bit shocked, it was all good. Since I know you’re doing this for me.”

[silkpagess]

Every Summertime - Part I

Summary: Fresh off a breakout role, Y/N is cast in the year’s most anticipated romcom. She’s ready for the spotlight—until she finds out her on-screen love interest is Harry Styles, and the lines between fiction and reality start to blur.

Content Warning: none :)

Word Count: 4,311

This is a 5 part story that I've started writing last year and finally had the courage to post lol, I hope you guys like it 🤍

The kitchen smelled faintly of orange peel and clean linen. Y/N stood barefoot by the sink, towel-drying her favorite mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle that she always used anyway—when her phone rang.

She nearly didn’t answer. It was past noon, and she’d promised herself a day off: no emails, no self-tapes, no endless doom-scroll through industry chatter. But then she saw the caller ID: Miriam Klein – Agent.

She grabbed it immediately.

“Hey,” she said, balancing the mug on the drying rack. “What’s up?”

“I hope you’re sitting,” Miriam said, too calm in that way she only got when something big was about to land.

“Not yet,” Y/N replied, already walking to the kitchen table.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re being asked to read for Every Summertime.”

Y/N sat down hard. Her heart did the exact thing it always did when something she’d dared to want actually started to happen.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m very serious,” Miriam said. “It’s happening. Big studio, full greenlight, same producers from Before the Fall. Sadie Bloom’s doing the script.”

Y/N blinked. “As in Sadie Bloom, the Sadie Bloom?”

“Yes. She adapted the novel herself. It’s been buzzing for months. Everyone’s been asking who’s playing Ivy. They’ve done weeks of auditions already, but apparently they’ve been holding off on final callbacks because the director wanted to take a look at a few new names. You’re one of them.”

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table. She’d read the book a year ago, cover to cover in two days, sobbing over the last few chapters and immediately texting Mara to do the same. It was that kind of story—summer and heartbreak, family and longing, slow-burn romance and two people who find each other just as their lives are unraveling in opposite directions.

She had loved Ivy. Had quietly imagined playing her, though she never said it out loud. The role was delicate. Not easy. The kind of part that asked for both lightness and real emotional weight. She hadn’t seen a female lead written like that in a long time.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, finally.

“No catch,” Miriam said. “Just that the room is tight. They’re only seeing three people, total. You’re one of them.”

Y/N’s chest felt tight in the best possible way.

Then Miriam added, as an afterthought, “Oh, and Harry Styles is already attached. He auditioned a few weeks ago and got cast as Theo.”

She blinked again. “Wait—he auditioned?”

“Yep. Just like everyone else. He read three times. Apparently, he worked his ass off for it.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N said. “I mean, I figured it’d be someone big, but I didn’t think…”

“I know,” Miriam said, “but I don’t want that to throw you. You’ve got just as much shot at this. They asked you. That means something.”

Y/N nodded, even though Miriam couldn’t see her. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Send me everything.”

She spent the next two hours reading the sides, walking through the scenes quietly in her living room, letting the language settle into her skin. Ivy was just as rich and warm on the page as she was in the book—witty and careful and emotionally bruised but still hopeful. She understood her immediately. Not just as a character, but as a person.

By the time Mara and Gia showed up at her apartment uninvited—with iced matchas and a chaotic playlist of "songs you can fake-date to"—Y/N had already color-coded the script, flagged three emotional beats she wanted to dig deeper into, and made a Pinterest mood board for Ivy’s wardrobe.

“You’re disgusting,” Mara said, watching her set up a ring light for practice. “You just got the call and you’re already in prep mode.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/N said, breathless, holding the script to her chest. “It’s Every Summertime. It’s Ivy. And they asked for me. They didn’t even make me chase it.”

Gia threw herself on the couch. “Wait, and Harry Styles is Theo? Like, officially?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point.”

“That is absolutely the point,” Gia muttered.

Mara leaned forward. “Do you think he’s going to remember your name? Or like… do that thing where he knows way too much about your performance in something you did three years ago?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I don’t care if he remembers me,” she said, and she meant it. “I just want to walk into that room and be Ivy. That’s the only thing I care about.”

And she meant it. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. And if there was even a small chance that this role—the one everyone in the industry was quietly circling—could be hers, she was going to show up ready.

No matter who else was in the room.

The studio was quiet in that specific, clinical way only casting buildings managed to be—sterile, over-air-conditioned, and filled with soft voices and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat in a hallway.

Y/N arrived fifteen minutes early.

She always did, not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because she hated walking into a room while her heart was still racing. She liked having a moment to breathe, to ground herself, to flip through her pages one last time and pretend that this was all normal—that she wasn’t sitting in a casting office about to read for the role every young actress in the industry was dreaming about.

She kept her headphones in while she signed in at the front desk, though no music was playing. Sometimes she liked the illusion of noise, the space it gave her from being approached or spoken to. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, clean and simple. She wore a soft cream knit top tucked into well-tailored navy trousers—comfortable, but confident. She hadn’t overthought the outfit. She’d learned the hard way not to try and look like the character. The work had to speak louder than the styling.

She sat down in the holding area, a sleek gray couch pushed against a glass wall. There were no other actresses waiting outside. That meant they were being seen one by one. Intimate. Focused. Possibly recorded.

Her heart thudded softly against her ribs.

She reread the scene again, even though she didn’t need to. The one where Ivy and Theo were walking through a parking lot at night after an argument they didn’t totally finish. It was quiet and tentative and messy—full of unfinished thoughts and sideways glances, two people trying not to say the thing they were thinking. The kind of dialogue that lived in pauses, in breath, in what wasn’t said.

She loved it.

“Y/N?” a woman called gently, peeking her head out from a side door.

She stood quickly, smoothing her pants as she walked.

The room was bright and white and warmer than she expected. A camera on a tripod faced the taped floor marks, and a few people sat behind a folding table covered in notebooks, iced coffees, and half-eaten snacks. The director—Elaine Kim, a sharp, perceptive woman Y/N had read about in interviews—looked up from her notes and smiled.

“Hi, Y/N,” she said, warm but professional. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks for having me,” she replied, stepping into the light and placing her water bottle gently on the ground beside the mark.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles sat on the folding chair just behind Elaine. He was relaxed in that effortlessly casual way some people managed to be—wearing dark jeans, a light blue sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair a little messy like he hadn’t tried to fix it before walking in. He was holding a copy of the sides in one hand, a pen tucked behind his ear.

He looked up when she walked in.

And smiled.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t flirty. It was quiet. Just… acknowledgment. Recognition. Maybe even a little curiosity.

She gave a small nod back—professional, polite, but not overly familiar.

Elaine gestured to the center mark. “So this is the parking lot scene. Let’s start from the top and just run through it once. No pressure. We’ll play with it after.”

Y/N nodded and shifted into place.

Harry stood, moving to his own mark opposite her, flipping his page to the correct scene. Up close, he looked exactly like you’d expect him to—but also not. Less glossy. More present. There was something focused in his expression. Something serious.

They locked eyes for the first line.

And something clicked.

It wasn’t fireworks or electricity—not yet—but it was ease. He listened, which was rare in reads like this. He responded, didn’t just deliver lines. He watched her mouth when she spoke. He took a second before replying. His body language changed with hers. And when she shifted her tone halfway through a sentence, he adjusted like he’d already lived in this character for months.

When the scene ended, there was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

Elaine leaned back. “That was great,” she said. “We’re gonna try a version where you lean into the frustration a little more, Y/N—like Ivy’s holding in a thousand things she doesn’t want to say. Can you try that?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N replied, already feeling her body recalibrate.

Harry stayed quiet, letting her take the lead.

They read again. Then again. They tried new beats, changed pacing, added a half-second pause in the middle of a breath and watched the tension stretch out like taffy between them.

It was the most fun she’d had in weeks.

When they wrapped, Elaine stood and clapped her hands once. “That’s great, guys. Thank you so much.”

Harry turned to her and gave a small, genuine nod.

“You were really good,” he said simply, in a soft voice that made her want to double-check if she’d imagined it.

“Thanks,” she replied. “You too.”

They exchanged one more look. Just a moment of eye contact. No lingering. No flirtation. Just… mutual awareness. Two people who understood what this scene could be. Who knew that if they ended up doing this together, it would work.

It wasn’t chemistry in the cliché way.

It was trust.

And that, she knew, mattered more than anything else.

The moment she stepped outside the studio building, the sun hit her straight in the face. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been inside until the daylight made her squint.

She didn’t rush home right away.

Instead, she walked three blocks up and sat on a quiet bench tucked next to a tiny bakery she used to visit when she was still auditioning for short films and background roles. It felt like a good place to land for a second. Familiar. Neutral.

She took out her phone and opened the Notes app—not to write anything in particular, just to look busy, to give her hands something to do while her body caught up with what had just happened.

The read had gone well. She knew that. Not in the arrogant, self-congratulatory way. But in the honest, I-was-present-and-I-did-the-work way. She had hit the beats she wanted. Had felt the tension she built in the back of her throat as Ivy. Had watched Harry adjust and lean into the shifts in energy, the kind of give-and-take that felt real.

She hadn’t felt that kind of scene partner chemistry in a long time. Not the fake “oh my god we just clicked” type people always said in interviews, but the real kind—the kind that made you breathe differently when the camera was rolling.

Still, callbacks were a strange kind of limbo. You left everything in the room and walked out with your hands empty, unsure if what you gave was the version they wanted.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Mara.

MARA:

Did it happen?? Did you cry? Did he cry?

She smiled but didn’t reply yet.

She wasn’t ready to open the door to speculation and “what ifs.” Not yet. Not when her heart was still beating in callback rhythm, not regular rhythm.

Instead, she ordered an iced tea, sat with her thoughts, and let herself do the hardest part of the job: wait.

Two days passed. Then four.

By the fifth, she had convinced herself she didn’t get it.

It was ridiculous—how the brain worked. She could feel confident one minute, and then in the next, be absolutely sure she’d imagined the connection, that the casting team had probably already offered it to someone else. Someone with a bigger name. A better following. A longer résumé.

She went about her days normally—pilates, meal prep, overdue errands—but there was a thin string of tension running through everything she did. An invisible thread tied to her phone, which she kept just slightly too close. Just in case.

Mara and Gia didn’t help.

GIA:

I keep checking Deadline for a casting announcement like I work there. Do you think you’d know before they publish?

MARA:

Should I casually follow the director on Instagram or is that too obvious?

Y/N replied only with a gif of someone staring out a rainy window.

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. She just didn’t want to break the spell.

The call came on a Friday afternoon.

She was folding a blanket over the back of the couch when her phone rang—and this time, unlike before, her stomach dropped the second she saw Miriam’s name. Her breath caught in her chest.

She answered slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Miriam said, a smile already in her voice. “You ready?”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You got it.”

It took a full second for the words to land.

“What?”

“You. Got. It. Ivy Carter is yours.”

Y/N stood still in her living room, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket.

“You’re serious?” she whispered, barely able to say it.

“I’m serious. They just called. Elaine said—and I quote—‘She is Ivy.’ You nailed it, Y/N. It’s yours.”

She sat down, knees folding underneath her like they couldn’t hold her up anymore.

A full breath left her chest. A real one. The kind that only comes when something you’ve wanted quietly, patiently, for longer than you let yourself admit… actually becomes real.

“Oh my god,” she said softly, tears springing to her eyes before she could stop them. “Oh my god.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Miriam said. “Start wrapping your head around it. You leave for pre-production in two weeks.”

Y/N laughed through the tears. “You’re really just gonna say that like it’s nothing.”

“I’m saying it like it’s everything.”

She hung up and sat for a long moment, letting her body catch up to the news. Letting the weight of it settle gently, instead of crashing.

She didn’t need to scream. Or jump. Or call everyone she knew.

She just needed to sit there, quietly, hand over her heart, and smile like she hadn’t in a long time.

Because she had done it.

Not because someone asked for her. Not because of luck. Not because she was “someone’s pick.”

Because she earned it.

She didn’t text them. She could’ve—God knows they’d been obsessively waiting for an update—but this felt bigger than a three-line message or a gif. This deserved real faces. Real reactions. Real yelling.

So she told them to come over.

No context. Just “Please come by tonight, I made dinner. And wear something cute.” Which, in their language, was code for something is up and we’re not taking it lightly.

By seven o’clock, her tiny apartment smelled like garlic and lemon and the fresh rosemary she’d tucked into the sauce just because she could. She wasn’t a show-off cook, but she liked the rhythm of it. Stirring, chopping, laying the table—things that made her feel grounded when everything else was floating.

She’d even lit candles. Mara was going to be suspicious the second she walked in.

When the buzzer went off, her stomach jumped. Nerves, again. Not the kind from auditions, but the kind you get when something good has happened and you finally get to say it out loud.

She opened the door before they even knocked.

Mara walked in first, hair piled up in a claw clip, carrying a bag of chips and a bottle of prosecco. Gia followed, dramatically overdressed in a vintage floral maxi dress with a belt that jingled when she walked.

“Okay,” Mara said, eyes scanning the apartment. “What is this vibe?”

“Why are there candles?” Gia added, narrowing her eyes. “Are we mourning something? Are we casting a spell?”

Y/N grinned. “Sit down.”

Mara raised an eyebrow but dropped onto the couch without another word. Gia flopped down beside her, kicking off her boots and reaching for the chips before the bag was even open.

Y/N took a deep breath.

Then she grabbed the script off the counter, walked over, and dropped it gently on the coffee table in front of them. No words. Just the bold-font title staring back at them:

Every Summertime

FINAL SHOOTING DRAFT

CONFIDENTIAL

There was a pause.

Mara leaned forward slowly. “No. Way.”

Gia blinked. “You got it?”

Y/N nodded, and just like that, the room exploded.

Mara let out a shriek so loud she startled herself. Gia screamed into one of Y/N’s throw pillows. Someone knocked over the chips. Y/N just stood there, laughing and trying not to cry again while her two best friends lost their collective minds.

“YOU’RE IVY?!” Mara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“You’re fake-dating Harry Styles in a movie based on that book?” Gia yelled right behind her. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me emotionally?”

“I can’t believe it,” Y/N said, the words still tasting new. “They called this afternoon. It’s mine.”

Mara paced a circle around the living room like she needed to walk off the adrenaline. “I’m so proud I think I’m going to vomit. This is not a joke. I might actually cry.”

Gia was already pouring prosecco into mismatched glasses. “To Ivy Carter! To our girl! To the woman who is going to be impossible to sit next to in a movie theater because I will be whispering ‘that’s my best friend’ the whole time.”

Y/N finally sat down between them, letting their joy fold over her like a blanket. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her stomach still fluttered every time she pictured that moment on the phone—You got it.

“Did he say anything to you?” Mara asked suddenly, already fishing for gossip.

“About me getting the part?”

“No, about like… your aura or whatever. Your essence. Did he cry when he looked into your eyes?”

Y/N laughed. “We just read the scene. Nothing dramatic. He was focused.” 

Gia sipped her drink. “So you’re telling me he wasn’t completely in love with you already?”

“I’m telling you he was doing his job. And so was I.”

“Boring,” Mara muttered. “But fine. We’ll allow it. For now.”

Y/N rested her head on Gia’s shoulder, letting the room go quiet for a moment. She watched the candle flicker on the coffee table. The script sat between them, the pages fanned slightly from being flipped through too many times already.

This was real.

No more waiting. No more wondering. She was Ivy. She was going to spend the summer fake-dating a man half the world was obsessed with while bringing to life a character she’d secretly been carrying in her chest for months.

And she got to share that moment—with them.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly serious. “For making this feel… big. It’s easy to pretend it’s not. To try and act like it’s just another job. But it’s not. It means something.”

Gia reached out and gently clinked her glass against hers.

“We know it means something,” she said. “We’ve always known.”

The building didn’t look like much from the outside—just another converted studio space in the middle of a quiet block in West Hollywood. The kind of place you’d walk past without thinking twice unless you were part of it. Inside, though, it was buzzing. Quietly. Like a hum under the surface.

Y/N was greeted by a production assistant with a headset and an iced coffee in one hand, who led her down a hallway lined with framed posters from past films and into a bright, high-ceilinged room that smelled faintly like paper, Sharpie ink, and someone’s very expensive cologne.

The long table was already half-filled when she walked in.

Labeled name cards sat in front of every chair. A stack of fresh scripts lay at each place setting. Crew members milled around the edges—producers, assistants, someone from hair and makeup who gave Y/N a small, polite wave as she walked past.

It was her first table read for a major studio project. And even though she had already been cast—contracts signed, emails exchanged, fittings scheduled—it didn’t quite feel real until now.

She spotted her name about halfway down on the left side. Y/N Y/L/N — Ivy Carter. Seeing it printed, so simply, gave her a little jolt in the chest. She ran her hand over the card before sitting down.

She glanced to her right—and there he was.

Harry Styles, sitting just one seat away, wearing a soft gray hoodie and black trousers, flipping through the top pages of the script like he hadn’t already read it a dozen times. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked relaxed but alert—attentive in that calm, still way he had in the callback room.

He looked over when she sat and gave her a warm smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too. Congratulations, by the way.”

She blinked, a little caught off guard. “For what?”

“For getting the part,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I heard they saw a lot of people. Said you were the easiest decision they made.”

It was such a quiet, sincere compliment that it took her a second to respond.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back. “That means a lot.”

Before she could say more, the room began to settle. Elaine, the director, took her spot at the head of the table and greeted everyone, her voice calm and no-nonsense, but not cold.

“Thanks for being here,” she said. “This is going to be a long day, but a good one. We’ll read straight through, pause halfway for a break, and then meet the department heads after. But for now, let’s just live in the story.”

A few people clapped quietly, and then the rustling of scripts filled the air as everyone turned to page one.

The table read began.

The first scene was a quick one—an establishing moment in Ivy’s flower shop, full of overlapping dialogue and neighborhood energy. Y/N found her rhythm quickly, her voice soft at first but steady. It was strange, hearing the lines spoken aloud by real people instead of looping them over and over in her head. They lived differently in the air.

Then came the first scene with Theo.

It was early in the script—scene eight—a chaotic rental pickup gone wrong. Ivy arriving to find out the place she thought she’d have to herself for the summer had been double-booked by a tired, borderline-annoyed journalist who couldn’t believe she still arranged flowers for a living.

Y/N delivered her first line.

Harry replied in character, voice a little lower, a little dryer than his usual one. It was subtle. American, but not distractingly so. Wry, but not smug. He nailed the tone. The sarcasm. The guarded frustration. He even underplayed the joke in a way that made it land harder.

Their back-and-forth built naturally. A little sharper than in the callback room. Quicker. Like two people who had known each other long enough to know exactly how to get under the other’s skin.

By page twenty-four, someone at the far end of the table laughed out loud during a bickering scene.

By page thirty, they were all leaning in a little closer.

They broke for coffee halfway through.

Y/N stood in the corner of the room, quietly sipping a too-hot green tea and listening to the murmur of conversations happening around her—crew members catching up, producers on quick phone calls, someone from casting laughing softly near the door. She felt out of place for exactly forty seconds before Harry walked over.

“How’s it feeling so far?” he asked, nodding toward the table.

“Honestly?” she said. “Like I’m still dreaming it a little.”

He smiled at that. “I know what you mean.”

There was a pause.

“You’re really good,” he said. “You’ve got this way of landing emotion without forcing it. It makes the scenes feel… like real moments. Not written ones.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Was that feedback or a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Both, I think.”

She laughed, and he smiled wider.

The second half of the read went even smoother. Their final scene of the day—the one where Ivy and Theo slow dance under string lights in the middle of an accidental town party—ended with a pause so soft, no one moved for a second afterward. Not even Elaine.

When she finally looked up from her script, the director just gave her a small, meaningful nod.

The whole room felt different after that.

She didn’t say anything on the way out. Didn’t want to break the stillness. But as she stepped into the hallway, script tucked under her arm and nerves finally quieted, Harry caught up with her and said simply:

“See you on set.”

And she believed it. Not just that she’d see him—but that this story, this world, this version of herself she was stepping into… it was real now.

And it was only just beginning.

[nephynes]

can u pls write smth abt jay and spanking … :,)

oof yes baby

MDNI

══════════════════════════

You weren't answering your phone, not for the past nine hours. Jay had called you seven times. Texted you four more after that. And nothing, not even a "hey, I'm okay."

Now the clock reads 3:57 a.m. and he's sitting on the couch in the dark, elbows on his knees, staring at the front door like he could will it to open.

Jay loves you so much, it makes him insane sometimes. But you just love to test him, that’s the only explanation for why you’d be out this late without so much as a text.

You know how much he worries and how protective he is. And yet you still do this—disappear into the night with your friends, leave him pacing the floor of your shared apartment while your location shows nothing but the words "can't be found."

Then he hears you fumbling with the key.

And when you walk through the door, hair a mess, heels in hand, laughing to yourself as you shut the door behind you, he doesn't even speak.

You don't notice him at first.

You just sigh and drop your bag by the entryway, mumbling, "God, my feet are killing me..."

Then you look up. And stop in your tracks.

Jay is sitting there in the dark, lit only by the blue glow of the fish tank behind him. He's staring straight at you, completely still.

"You're up?" you say softly, trying to play it off with a cute smile. "I thought you'd be asleep."

He stands up slowly. His jaw is tight.

"I called you," he says.

"I know. I saw." You shrug, kicking your shoes toward the corner. "I just forgot to text back."

"You forgot."

"I was with my friends, it wasn't—"

"You forgot to let me know you were alive?" His voice is low, but his eyes are burning. "You forgot that I'd be sitting here wondering if something happened to you?"

You roll your eyes. "God, Jay, I'm fine. Can you not be so dramatic—"

"Dramatic?"

You flinch at how sharp his tone is this time.

"Jesus," you mutter, brushing past him. "You're always so uptight—"

That's when he grabs you. It's not rough but it is firm. His hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you back before you can disappear into the hallway.

"Let go," you huff, twisting slightly in his grip. "I'm tired."

"You're drunk," he says. "You didn't call. You ignored me. And now you think you're gonna walk in here like nothing happened and talk to me like I'm nothing?"

You lift your chin, tipsy and stubborn. "You're not my dad, Jay."

"No," he says, voice calm but terrifying, "but I am your fucking boyfriend. And right now? You're acting like a fucking brat."

You blink up at him, heart skipping.

"Try that again," he says, tugging you closer. "Say it to my face."

You stay quiet but that only makes him angrier. Quiet-angry. The worst kind.

He sinks down on the couch again, spreads his knees, and yanks you forward until you're standing between them.

"You wanna act like a brat?" he mutters, looking up at you. "Then you can take the consequences too. Don’t you think?"

You open your mouth to sass him—reflexively, but his grip on your hip tightens, and something in his eyes makes your words die in your throat.

You know that look.

That strict Jay. The one that only comes out when he's really, really mad. The one that only surfaces when he feels hurt and doesn't know what else to do with it.

"Jongseong?" your voice wobbles in the week attempt to ground him with his real name, suddenly not as bold.

He just shifts you, pulling you down across his lap stomach pressing over his thighs, your hands hitting the couch cushion to brace yourself.

Your breath catches.

"Jay—"

"No," he says, low against your ear. "You don't get to run your mouth, ignore me all night, come home drunk at four in the bloody morning and think I won't do something about it."

Your heart is pounding. Not from fear, but from something warmer, deeper, the way only he could make you feel small, safe, and completely undone all at once.

"I was just with my friends," you mumble, though you're already wriggling in his grip. "It wasn't a big deal."

He lets out a dark little laugh.

"You’re saying that again while you're bent over my lap?" Your breath shivers out of you, lips parted, cheek pressing into the couch cushion. You could wriggle out of his grip. He would let you, always. But you don't, instead you whimper when he pins both your hands to your back with one hand.

And you know what this is. Jay doesn't punish you to hurt you. He does it because it's how he expresses all that bottled-up concern, that frustration he feels when you act recklessly and leave him to unravel in worry. And most of all, because you asked for this once. You wanted to know what it would feel like when he got strict. When he couldn't hold back.

So when his palm comes down, all sharp and clean, making you gasp.

"That's one," he says, voice low, hand still warm on the curve of your ass.

You blink, heart jumping. "O-One."

Another slap, this time firmer. It stings, but not in a way you want to run from.

"Two."

You clench your jaw and breathe out, "Two..."

He doesn't pause. The rhythm is deliberate, paced out. The sharp crack of his palm echoing in the quiet living room as the numbers tumble off your lips.

"...Seven..."

Your voice is thinner now, breathier. Your thighs are pressing together, and you know he notices, only because he chuckles softly, one hand pressing your hands to your lower back to keep you still as he keeps going.

"Eight."

"Eight," you whimper.

The ache is spreading now, hot and sweet and dizzying. You lose count once, and he makes you repeat it. And by the time you get to fifteen, your voice is high and cracking and you're squirming across his lap like your skin's on fire.

"Fifteen," you breathe out, teary-eyed and trembling.

Jay exhales, brushing his fingers lightly over your raw skin, soothing it before drifting down.

Your panties are soaked. He barely grazes you over the fabric and your hips buck, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice a little breathless now too. "You love this, don't you?"

You nod, face hot, hair falling into your eyes.

He keeps touching you like that—slow, steady strokes after shifting over the damp fabric and rubbing over your clit, until your legs are shaking, your whines getting higher, your whole body going still with tension.

He knows your body. Every twitch, every shiver. So when he feels you just about to tip over, he stops.

You choke on a sound so high and desperate, as his hand pulls back, leaving you throbbing and helpless over his lap.

And then he gently nudges you off.

You collapse onto the floor with a dramatic flop, your hand slipping between your thighs before he can stop you in an attempt to finish yourself off. He catches your wrist instantly.

"Ah ah," he warns, smirking now as he looms over you. "You don't get to act like a brat all night and still think I'll let you cum."

You glare at him, a frustrated, teary mess. "Jay—!"

"Nope." He leans in close, brushing his lips against your ear. "Fix your attitude. Then we'll talk."

You groan, kicking your legs a little like a child, and he laughs, gently catching your ankle. There's no cruelty in his smile, only fondness and heat. So much heat.

"Don't worry," he murmurs. "I'm not gonna leave you like this all night."

He leans in, kisses your temple, and lets his voice dip to a murmur.

"But next time you ignore me like that? You'll be lucky if you get to cum at all."

══════════════════════════

• a/n: i’m insecure about this, felt cliche