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mindtrcks · 7 months ago

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asmr | CL16

Charles has been having trouble sleeping. Your videos seem to be the only thing that helps.

WC: 5.4k

Notes: performance coach!reader who dabbles in asmr (but only for charles <3), smut, phone sex/mutual masturbation.

Charles has been having trouble sleeping lately.

It could be because of timezones, or how much coffee he drinks. But it probably has more to do with the way he’s been watching the Drivers Championship slip further and further out of his grip with every passing week. But to admit that would be to admit that he’s losing control of the car, and with it, himself. To admit that would be to admit that there's nothing he can do about it.

So he claims that he’s merely been a little restless at night. He’s told to try calming teas before bed, so he does. But then he just has to get up and use the restroom. He counts hundreds of sheep without getting tired, and ocean noises and whale sounds just pound around in his skull until he turns them off. He tries picturing the schematics of the SF24 in his head until he has a perfect rendition in his mind. But then he thinks of how it feels to drag it back into the pits, and works himself up so much he can’t even close his eyes.

He’s growing more than just a little restless. He thinks he might be getting desperate.

—

“Have you tried warm milk?” Andrea asks him, when Charles shows up to training with bags under his eyes, yet again.

“Yes, no luck,” he answers. He doesn’t know a kind way to say that he’s tried everything that appears on the first five pages of google when he searches for insomnia remedies, including an American military tactic that’s supposed to work in ten seconds. (Charles has found it doesn’t work at all.)

Andrea makes a sympathetic sound and begins to guide Charles through a warm-up. His limbs don’t stretch as far as they would if he had gotten a good night’s sleep.

As he struggles, your voice calls out, from the corner, “Wait, he’s allowed to eat dairy?”

And that is something he is still getting used to. You, shadowing his sessions with Andrea. You’re preparing for your transfer to a team that shall not be named, as you like to say. Charles figures it must be a team that pays well, because you take the NDA quite seriously. When Andrea first told him about the arrangement, he worried it would be awkward, but he quickly found the opposite to be true. You talk quite a lot for a soon-to-be head performance coach. It’s comfortable. He likes your chatter, even if it’s a bit inane at times.

“Drink dairy,” he corrects, just to hear you huff.

The satisfaction is short-lived, though, because then Andrea’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him further into his lunge, and deepening the burn in his thighs. “Milk is healthy,” Andrea tells you, sounding like a professor. Like he really thinks you don’t understand the merits of drinking milk. Charles just thinks you want to be difficult. “Also, he has an ice cream company.”

“Yeah, but I didn't think he started it for the love of ice cream. Plus, everybody makes it seem like drivers can only eat gruel. I need to shadow a nutritionist or something.”

Andrea lets him stand up, and instructs him to start stretching his arms now. “You don’t have to make the meal plan,” he says, once adequately satisfied with Charles’ form. “They can just find Dan—”

You interrupt him with a gasp and a rushed, “Shshsh,” not quite a shush, but something close. Like calling a cat. “You can’t say who it is,” you say, waving your arms. But then you freeze, and Charles can see the moment your face lights up with an idea. He knows, instinctively, that it can’t be good. “Wait. Charles, have you tried ASMR?”

He briefly debates lying, but he’s not sure he has a good enough poker face to get away with it normally, much less when Andrea pulls his arm up and introduces a new ache to the stretch. “I have tried, but it did not help much,” he admits, choosing to ignore both the delight on your face and the reserved judgment on Andrea’s. “It felt weird to have some stranger try to put me to sleep.”

“Ah, so you need your own personal ASMRtist, just for you?” you ask, eyebrows raising. Charles would feel shame, but he is just too tired. He watches you turn to Andrea and shake your head. “These drivers, man.”

Charles just sighs. Andrea makes his way to the treadmill, and Charles sighs again, this time with feeling.

—

He doesn’t think much of it, as he goes through the workout. Andrea works him hard enough that he doesn’t think much of anything at all. That is, until he’s doing crunches and your face suddenly appears above him, grinning down. “I could do it, if you wanted to try ASMR again. I could make you some, seeing as I’m not a stranger.”

At this point, Charles would try just about anything. Exhausted, and sweaty, and struggling to finish his set, he grunts, “Sure. If it is not a problem.”

“No problem at all,” you say, throwing him an exaggerated wink.

He’s lost too much sleep over the past few weeks to spend time parsing out whatever that means.

—

A week later, and Charles has honestly forgotten about the entire thing until you text him out of the blue on a Monday afternoon.

what kind of things do you like?

for your asmr :)

He stares down at his phone and tries to think of a reasonable way to respond to that. He has watched ASMR before, yes. It’s true that if it exists on the first five pages of google, he has already tried it. But all of the videos he watched were too creepy, or too loud, or again, too impersonal. He didn’t really discover anything that worked, except maybe for the lack of traffic in the background.

I like for it to be quiet, he sends, eventually. He’s not sure what else to offer. As he watches you type, he hopes that you won't put too much effort into this whole thing. Charles is not very hopeful that it will help in the first place.

well, yes!

i mean do you like talking? or water sounds or something?

I’m not sure, he types. And then, just to ease your expectations, adds, Honestly it will probably not work either way

have you no faith in me?

He doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he turns his phone off instead of overthinking.

—

It’s Wednesday night by the time you text him again.

for you, the message reads. There's a video attached, of course. He has to wait for it to download to his phone before he can see the cover image: you, sitting at a hotel room desk, smiling softly. Your hand is blurry in the frame, like you're pulling it back after pressing record.

He feels something tight in his stomach, a jump of anticipation. If his problem was the impersonality of the few videos he’s tried on YouTube, this would definitely fix that. The frame looks like something he might see if he were to do a video call with you. Something he might see if you were really talking to him.

Pressing play seems dangerous. He thinks it will probably not work, but there's the nagging thought in the back of his mind of what if it does? What if, after all the home remedies and melatonin and sleepless nights, this is what finally works? Your voice, your face, on a video just for him. How is he meant to deal with the repercussions of that?

It's a war within himself, whether to press play or not. The fact is that he needs to get sleep before free practice in the morning. But he cannot honestly say that watching your video would help any more than staring up at the hotel ceiling, counting the cracks and divots. Picturing sheep jumping over a fence, like his maman always said.

It is almost like his phone is singing to him, though. In a voice that maybe sounds like a siren’s or maybe sounds like yours.

He cannot help it. He presses play.

“Hi, Charles,” your voice whispers in the quiet of his hotel room.

Instantly, he panics and shuts his phone off. Much too dangerous, he thinks. The sheep will work just fine.

—

He wakes up feeling more exhausted than he has ever felt.

It’s bad, he knows. He hardly has anything to say to the reporters who try to talk to him before he gets in the car. Free practice is a nightmare, and he nearly crashes out in the middle of a flying lap. And then, of course, he has to sit through an entirely long debrief in which all that seems to be said is how he needs to be focusing more. Concentrating on what's important.

“Maybe you just need to get more sleep,” you offer, like you know, somehow, that he was too much of a coward to watch the video you sent. That you can see how he didn't even try.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

There are sympathetic faces, and then he’s sent back to the hotel early, with firm instructions to go to bed.

—

He tries to fall asleep on his own. He drinks tea and plays whale noises and even does yoga poses, which do nothing but aggravate his muscles, already sore from his incident in free practice.

In the end, there's nothing to be done. He rolls over and grabs his phone, resolving that, if nothing else, he will try. And even if it doesn't work, then he at least will know, and he can stop thinking about you sitting at that desk, whispering his name.

He presses play before he can convince himself otherwise.

“Hi, Charles,” you say, on the video. The room around you is dimly lit, the kind of yellow light in hotel rooms that makes everything look a bit hazy. You’re wearing your Ferrari polo, but you've pulled a zip-up over it. Charles always thought you looked very nice in red. He isn't sure if he's supposed to close his eyes or not.

“I know you’re probably only watching this ‘cause you’re desperate, so I’ll try my best.”

He watches you talk until you instruct him in a quiet voice to close his eyes, and he’s thankful for the clarification. It’s an easier instruction to follow than to just relax, like the YouTube videos say. It’s easier to follow your instructions, period, he thinks. He’s used to it, from your input in training sessions. Straighten your back, widen your stance, do two more. It’s rote, listening to you. And your voice is melodic, comforting. He listens contently as you tell him to count down from ten, and to guess whether you’re snapping with your left or right hand. You start making that sound you’d made at Andrea during his last training session with you, a hushed shshshsh, and Charles finds himself yawning.

Maybe it’s a trust thing. Maybe he finds himself getting tired because he knows he can fall asleep without worrying about you randomly screaming on the video, or interrupting the quiet with an ad halfway through.

Maybe it’s just because it’s you.

He’s asleep before he can come to a conclusion.

—

“You’re looking refreshed this morning,” you chirp at him, when you cross paths in the paddock.

He feels a flush rise high on his cheeks. I wonder why, he thinks. Outwardly, he admits, “Yes, I slept well last night.” And then, after a moment, adds, quieter, “Thank you.”

Your smile is softer than the usual grin you level him with. Still, he can tell you’re proud of yourself. “And you didn’t think it would work. See, Charles, your performance coach always knows best.”

He finds himself feeling grateful for your capacity for talking, once again. When he woke up, he was nervous he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation with you anymore, or wouldn’t be able to force himself into acting normal. Now, though, it still feels just as easy. “You’re not my performance coach,” he states.

It gets him an eye roll. “Right, I’m your personal ‘ASMRtist.’”

You whisper the word, which he isn’t quite sure is a real word to begin with, and it’s almost like he’s watching the video again.

He knew it was dangerous clicking play.

—

With sleep, his performance improves.

It’s nothing miraculous. The car is still the car; the team is still the team. But it feels less like he’s fighting, or like control is slipping through his fingers at every turn. He starts to enjoy it a bit more, even during the rough times. Everything had felt so much worse when he knew that he could spend the entire day wrestling with the car, and wouldn’t even be able to sleep it off when the race was over. Now, he breathes easier knowing that your video is waiting for him.

You send him another, during the two weeks off in April, and then one more after his podium in Miami. He rotates through the three of them based on how he’s feeling, or how long he thinks it’ll take. (Sometimes, he feels a bit spoiled for choice, and starts brainstorming ways to pay you back.) Though he likes them all, he does have a favorite. The one you sent after Miami. You start it by telling him congratulations and saying that you know he’ll be on the top step soon.

It would be one thing if you mentioned his podium finish off-handedly, just the once. But no. The entire video goes on like that, soft encouragement sprinkled throughout, like a reward for racing well.

Whenever he watches that one, your voice follows him into sleep, where he dreams of you encouraging him to do other things, completely unrelated to racing.

—

His problem then becomes wholly unrelated to sleep, and completely having to do with you.

It’s like he’s pavloved himself into wanting to hear your voice, or see your face. He tells Andrea that he would not mind if you sat in on more of his training sessions, just so he can argue with you about the difference between cartwheels and somersaults, electric stoves versus gas, flying commercial or private. He gets to the garage early to see you warm up the mechanics, a thinly veiled excuse to watch you doing squats. He doesn’t put his headphones in while he walks around hospitality, on the off chance that he’ll get to hear your voice.

He once wondered what the repercussions of watching your videos would be. Now, he knows.

—

Monaco is a dream that cannot be deterred by his growing obsession with you.

Charles has been finding it hard to keep his eyes dry ever since the last lap. His mechanics pull him into a hug, and he feels like he’s flying. Arthur is there, crying. Charles never thought he could do it. Jumping into the water feels like victory. It is victory.

There will be a big celebration, he is sure.

You’ll be proud of him, he is even surer.

—

He’s not thinking about sleeping until you find him outside of his drivers’ room, and take him by the shoulders. “I told you you’d do it,” you say, pulling him into a hug that’s tight like a vice-grip.

His voice is muffled by your hair when he says, through a throat still tight with tears, “I am glad I got a good rest last night.”

You laugh as you pull back from him. It is hard to see through the wetness in his eyes, but he thinks he can see a similar shine in your own. He’s not sure what to do with that. There are all these people who are so proud of him, and now you’re one of them. Now you’re holding his shoulders and crying with him. It’s nice. He feels cared for. He wants you there after every win.

“Well, I’m glad to be of service,” you say. “I’m not sure when you’ll be going to bed tonight, but call me if you need help sleeping, Charles. Among other things.”

You punctuate your sentence with a wink, and then you’re gone, leaving him with the memory of your grin at the front of his mind, like an image burned into a TV screen.

—

He is going out tonight. The whole of Monaco will be celebrating him. The team will be waiting to greet him with open arms and open bars. People will want to pour some more champagne on him, and get him drunk, and find a dance floor.

He is going out tonight, but right now, he’s sitting alone in his hotel room, thinking about what you had said.

Among other things, accompanied by a wink. A wink. That’s flirting, he thinks. No, he knows. You’re flirting with him. You had winked at him when you first offered this whole arrangement, too. Charles hadn’t known what it meant. Hadn’t really cared. Now he wonders if you were flirting with him then, too.

It’s not so much of a stretch. You spend a lot of time with him, even if he has orchestrated most of it. It never seems like a chore for you to sit in on his training sessions. You gladly correct his form and tell him that he can take more. You’re a very hands-on performance coach, unafraid to touch him in places Andrea wouldn’t. Whenever Charles is alone in hospitality, you’re always quick to find him, eager to gossip about the mechanics or to share contraband pastries he’s definitely not supposed to eat. You make him the videos that started all of this. You tell him hi and congratulations and I’m proud of you. You talk to him in a quiet voice that he hears in his dreams now.

You care enough to cry over his win. Embarrassingly, that thought is what has him dipping his hand below the waistband of his briefs. He thinks he should not. He has places to be, soon. But he’s still a bit high off the adrenaline, and it’s been so long, anyway. If he is quick, it cannot hurt. This is what he tells himself, as he lays back against the pillow, and pretends he’s not thinking about you.

He doesn’t think of your lips, or your legs, or the way you look in Ferrari red. Or the way you would look as he pulls the Ferrari red off of you, ‘til you’re bare in front of him.

He’s not sure what compels him to pull up the first video you made him; it feels like a force beyond his control. Maybe it’s the memory of your grin, and your wink. Maybe he’s just crazy. Maybe he’s still just as desperate as when this all first started. Probably all of the above, he thinks, pressing play with as much shame as one can feel with their hand on their dick.

“Hi, Charles. I know you’re probably only watching this ‘cause you’re desperate, so I’ll try my best.”

You have hardly finished the first sentence when he closes out of the video with a shudder. Too weird, he thinks. He doesn’t want to tarnish the video. Or to use it for something you didn’t make it for. But now he won’t be able to stop thinking of you, or stop hearing your voice. He feels hot all over as he stares at your contact on his phone. You did say that he should call, even with other things. You had winked! Is this what you meant?

He is a race winner in Monaco. He decides to risk it.

“Hi, Charles,” you say when you answer, just like the video. Louder this time of course, since you’re not trying to put him to sleep.

It takes a moment for him to trust his voice. It would probably be easier if he stopped touching himself, but alas. He manages to get it out eventually. “Hello. You said to call if I needed help.”

“Oh, sleeping?” You ask, after making a shocked sound in the back of your throat that—in a different context—could be interpreted as something else. He has to choke down a gasp, and somehow, you don’t notice. “Wow, early night.”

He swallows, braces himself. “Not sleeping,” he admits. “You said I could call with other things, too.” His voice comes out so quiet with shame that he's almost surprised you can hear it all. You’re silent on the other end for a moment that seems to stretch into eternity. His hand stills where he had been touching himself as he waits with bated breath, half-expecting you to hang up on him.

You don’t. “Charles,” you say. There’s an edge to your voice that he’s never heard before, something vaguely scandalized and entirely too much to handle. He strokes himself, again, unable to stop himself, and hears you inhale sharply. “Are you—”

“I’m sorry if this is not what you meant. I can hang up.”

“No, no it's fine,” you say. He can hear shuffling across the phone. Just like pressing play on your video was dangerous, this is, too. Because now his imagination is left to run wild, and he wonders if you're in bed like him, if you're taking off the Ferrari polo, if you're touching yourself. “I've gotta be honest, I don't really—er, I haven't exactly done this before,” you confess.

“That's okay.” There’s a shy, nervous energy about you that he can feel through the phone. It's not something he’s used to; you're always the one with something to say, cocksure and easy. Maybe now it's his turn to take the lead. Maybe this way he can finally pay you back for all your effort in making him the videos. “This is something you want, yes?”

“Charles, I offered.”

And he supposes that is true enough. “Right,” he says, steeling himself. This is something he can handle. It's not like he's used to it by any means; it feels strange that you're not here with him, stranger that you’re doing this in the first place. But he can't exactly stop now. The slide of his palm against his dick feels nice enough on its own, but the prospect of you, on the other end of the line listening is something else entirely.

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

He feels like a dick even before you laugh out a shocked, “Jesus Christ, Charles.”

Still, he knows there are only so many ways that this goes. “It is how you do it!” he defends “I say ‘what are you wearing’ and you say—well, you know what you say.”

“But you know what I’m wearing. Ferrari shirt. Jeans. My uniform.”

He does know. He has been picturing you in red this whole time. But it's not as if he had asked out of curiosity. He asked so that he could tell you, “Yes, it’s probably not comfortable. You should take it off.”

He hears the sound of your throat clicking as you swallow. “Oh,” you say, really nothing more than a huff of air. It feels just as close to victory as jumping into the water.

“Tell me when you’re done,” he instructs, to the sounds of more shuffling. He can picture it, in his head. You, pulling off your shirt, ridding yourself of the jeans. Laying back just like him, waiting patiently for instructions. It’s becoming difficult to think through the blood rush to his dick.

“Done,” you say, plainly. He wants nothing more than to be able to see you, touch you. He wonders if your hotel room is cold, if you have goosebumps he could chase away with his hands. The thought distracts him, until you huff, “Charles.”

“Ah, sorry,” he says. It really is hard to think, especially when you're saying his name like that, breathy and soft and naked in bed on the phone with him. His dick twitches and he has to pull his hand away for a moment before continuing. “If I were there, do you know how I would touch you?”

The sound you make is almost like he’s punched you in the stomach. “You’re such a tease, just tell me.”

It’s easy to imagine, as he tugs on his dick. He’s not too proud to say that he's thought of this before. Maybe not over the phone, but you, with him, together. “I would take my time to thank you properly. I would touch your thighs, and your stomach first. Just lightly. You should, too.” He can tell you’re listening based on the way your breaths come in harsher. “Does it feel nice?”

“Yeah,” you answer, sounding dazed. Charles understands, deeply. He cannot believe this is happening, that you’re doing this with him, touching yourself the way he instructs.

You seem content for a moment, but when he doesn't specify anything further, it's not long before you seem to want more. “I could do this on my own,” you whine, a pitch to your voice that he never wants to stop hearing. He files the sound away in the same corner of his mind that remembers what you sound like talking him to sleep. Distantly, he hears the sheets moving beneath you, and can't help but to imagine you writhing on the bed, aching for more.

“I can hang up and leave you to it,” he threatens, with absolutely no intentions to make good on it.

The sound of the sheets rustling stops. “You’re not being very nice. Some 'thank you’ this is.”

You are a bit of a brat, he thinks. He should've known, really. You always seem to have something to say. But he certainly won't complain about it now, not when the sound of your voice is enough to make him believe that you’re there, that it’s you touching him, faster now, than before.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “Proper thanks are in order, right? You can touch yourself where you want to.”

Your breath hitches, and he can practically see you, on your bed, your fingers working expertly at yourself. “Are you?” you ask, and it takes him a moment to recall the line of conversation.

When he does, he chokes out, “Yes, I—have been.”

“Chivalry is dead,” you sigh out.

He still tries to defend himself, even as the sound of skin slapping against skin becomes more and more pronounced in the emptiness of the room. “I’m being nice! You help me to sleep so now I will help you to come.” He hears you squawk a laugh, but it quickly turns into something more like a moan. “Ah, see? I am helping.”

“You’re not doing anything.”

He briefly debates the merits of walking through the hotel sweating and hard in his underwear to find you. But he thinks the team leads at Ferrari would prefer if he did not. He supposes that imagining will work just fine, for now. “If I were there, I would use my mouth,” he decides. “You could sit on my face, I would let you.”

“Oh,” you say. He pictures you with your head thrown back, chest heaving, and hid dick twitches in his hand. “Maybe you are a gentleman.”

Eh, this is not very gentlemanly, he doesn't think. If he were a gentleman, he would've taken you to dinner, or something. Not called you with his hand already down his pants. Still, he says, “Yes.” And then: “You should put your fingers inside.”

It might be his imagination, but he swears he can hear it, the slick slide, muffled by the sound you make, a choked mewl. “Good,” he says, and he thinks your answering groan may be equal parts frustrated and aroused.

He has to adjust himself against the pillows. Holding the phone makes it awkward; he considers dropping it and putting you on speaker, but he doesn't think he's quite ready to be able to hear your voice and your hands your noises projected in the room. It feels more intimate like this, just for him. And he would have to open his eyes to put you on speaker, have to stop picturing you fucking yourself with your fingers, at his request. It's not an image he plans on abandoning soon.

He hears your breaths become heavier and heavier over the phone, accompanied by sounds that slowly drive him insane, moans like a pornstar’s instead of a performance coach’s. If this is what you are like just from your own fingers, he cannot imagine how nice he could make you feel on his dick.

“I would fuck you,” he says, after a particularly nice stroke. He feels a little crazy with it. He won't last much longer, he knows. You called him a gentleman but he might finish first. At this point, there's nothing he can do about it.

The little hah you say into the receiver certainly doesn't help. “That would be—I can't say I haven't thought about it.”

“What did you think about?” he asks. He has to know now.

You make a tortured sound. He pictures you trying to hide your face, or squirm away from your own hands. His hips buck into his fist; he pretends it's you.

“I don't know. Everything, Charles,” you confess, through heavy breaths. “When you would take your shirt off in the gym, I’d think of you fucking me on the equipment. You made it very hard to take notes. Sometimes I'd think of you, like, fucking me in your car. The car.”

“There is not much room,” he says, instead of examining why that thought nearly sends him careening off the edge.

“Knowing that is above my pay grade.”

“I could fuck you on the hood, maybe,” he hums. The image is—god, he’s really not going to last. “My two favorite things.”

The sound that comes out of you is a mix of his name, and several assorted swears, and maybe something about Ferrari firing you. But your voice is shaky and you gasp like it’s over, like you just made yourself—

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “Did you—”

“Yes,” you squeak, like you're embarrassed. He didn't know you had the capacity. “Oh my god, Charles.”

It’s his name on your tongue that has him finally spilling his load with a shout that he hopes is mostly muffled by the hotel walls. He’s pretty sure Fred is the next room over, something he hadn't wanted to think about with his hand in his dick and still doesn't want to think about now, cum drying in his boxers and you catching your breath on the other end of the line.

“Is that what you meant?” Charles asks eventually. “When you said I should call you?”

You sound almost sheepish when you answer. “Yeah, but to be honest I didn't think you’d pick up on it.”

“I thought it might have been just wishful thinking. The adrenaline made me do it.”

“Well, you were very good at it. I think you could make better asmr than me.”

He shudders at the thought. He cannot imagine doing what you do, whispering to his phone camera and pretending it's you. He's grateful for your lack of shame, because he's not sure he’d be able to do it were the roles reversed. “No, I'll leave that to you.” And then, because he’s still running mostly off of adrenaline: “Maybe we can talk more later? In person?”

He can hear the grin in your voice when you answer. “I’d be mad that you're hanging up on me, but I think you may be trying to invite me to your party?”

“You know you're already invited. But maybe you could come with me?”

“It’s a date,” you answer, which makes Charles three for three on victories for the day. Somehow, this one feels the most monumental. Maybe it's because of the cum still drying in his briefs. “I’ll wear something more fun to take off than my team kit.”

—

You wear something that's honestly rather difficult to take off, but he quickly discovers that you're good with your hands, and layer, he discovers that ASMR is not the only trick up your sleeve to tire him out.

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #smut #ignore the fact that he has a hotel room for his home race #formula one #f1 rpf

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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

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friday, i'm in love (eddie munson x reader)

summary: one of these days, you'll talk to the cute boy at your coffee shop. just... not today. (wc: 6.3k+)

order up! i've got one cup of sunshine for @munson-blurbs ♡

Today’s the day.

You take a deep breath, adjusting the strap of your bag as it digs into your shoulder.

Today’s the day.

You pull the door open for your local Starbucks, your preferred study date destination.

Today’s the day.

You smile at one of the other regulars, a kind and older gentleman named Jim. If you focus on Jim, your eyes won’t avert to him.

Today’s the day.

You already know he’s here. You delude yourself into believing you can specifically hear the scratch of his pencil on paper, that every click of a mouse or clack of a keyboard is coming from his laptop. Hell, maybe if you closed your eyes, you’d convince yourself the music humming over the shop’s speakers is actually the muffled tone warbling out of his headphones.

Today’s the day.

You order one of your normal drinks, one brimming with caffeine and drowning in enough sweet caramel drizzle to give you instantaneous cavities. It doesn’t matter – today’s meant to be a sweet day. The weather’s nice, nothing like it was last week when you’d been ordering a hot Earl Grey tea sweetened with honey each day, and you tell the young man taking your order that it’ll be iced.

He’s new. You have no doubt in your mind, because he wasn’t here last week, and one of the baristas you do recognize is hovering to the side as he rings you out.

You’re a creature of habit. All the baristas know you well, other regulars (see: Jim) even recognize you these days. You used to only come in once or twice a week, either to cram for tests or play a morbid game of catchup with all your homework, but something changed in the last two months.

He showed up in the last two months.

Today’s… not the day.

You turn with your overly sweet drink in hand only to be met with sore disappointment. You were right, he is here, already seated at his usual table.

And he’s joined by a girl and boy you’ve never seen before, but he surely has, by the way he’s all smiles and laughter focused directly at the pair.

You try to not let your stomach drop too low, to catch it before it hits the ground and gathers any unwanted attention your way. It’s fine, it’s okay, it’s good – today wasn’t the day, but maybe tomorrow will be. Maybe tomorrow can finally be the day you speak to the boy from the coffee shop who’s overrun your thoughts one day at a time, the boy you see every day like clockwork, the boy you’ve never exchanged a single word with.

“Dingus, you can’t just say that to a girl!” the girl seated in front of him, her back to you, yells as she smacks Dingus on the chest.

Your coffeeshop boy only cackles in delight, and you feel as if the sunshine that has broken through the cloud cover outside has wormed its way into your veins. His laugh is brilliant and warming as it echoes in your chest, and you try to remind your beating heart that it isn’t yours to keep. That doesn’t stop your arteries and veins from wrapping their way around the sound and thrumming to match its pace. It doesn’t stop your ribs from trying to hopelessly capture the sunshine. Maybe one day you’ll make him laugh like that, maybe one day you’ll find the nerve to strike a conversation with him.

Tomorrow has to be the day, since this sunny Monday hasn’t been.

—

Tuesday also isn’t the day.

You don’t even have a good excuse this time. He’s alone today, just as he usually is. His headphones are already in once you’ve arrived and you can hear tinny guitar solos blaring out of them from across the room. You almost convince yourself that that’s a good reason to approach him, to tap his shoulder and let him know how listening to music that loudly can permanently damage your eardrums, y’know?

But then you realized how prissy that made you sound. If you did that, you’re sure Chrissy, one of your favorite baristas here, would absolutely taunt you for days on end, probably making jabs about you being a grandma, going the full mile and offering you a senior discount just for shit and giggles.

So you stay seated. And you meet the peculiar look of Chrissy as she watches you and Eddie, the only two customers in the lobby this time of afternoon, as if she’s waiting for something to happen. Anything. The raise of her eyebrows serves as a painful prodding in your side as if to say “Well? What are you waiting for? Go on.”

You don’t go on. And that’s the issue – for the last two months, you have let the idea of some stranger completely occupy every thought you have to spare without even knowing his name. He was just always here; two months ago, your once quaint and nice study spot was infiltrated by wild curls and drumming fingers, plush pink lips that could make the older ladies that pass through absolutely swoon with a simple smirk and hello. You’d talked the ear off of all your friends for nearly an hour the day he’d worn grey sweatpants in rather than his normal ripped jeans. You’d caught yourself staring intently at the various rings that decorate his left hand on more than one occasion, trying to make out what the various symbols of silver were.

“This is getting painful to watch.”

You hadn’t even noticed Chrissy round the counter and head over to your table with a cloth in hand until she was looking down at you with a soft, childish pout and her big blue eyes framed with furrowed brows.

“What?” you question, putting down the pen you’d been clicking on and off for the last ten minutes, making no move to properly revise and submit the essay lighting up the screen of your laptop.

Chrissy keeps her voice low, moving to lean down closer to you under the guise of wiping the table beside yours, “The two of you. It’s painful, babe. One of you has to stop making eyes and make the first real move eventually.”

Real. A word you had cursed over a glass of wine with your roommate last night.

She’d pointed out the way you only liked the idea of your coffee shop boy thus far, how you had yet to introduce yourself to the real him. Which, she was right, of course. It was easiest this way; from a distance, he can be anything you want. He could be your easy Sunday mornings, sleepy smiles over toast and coffee made at home. He could be your tired Thursday evenings, coming straight home from whatever class or shift had wreaked havoc on your mind and right into his arms, popcorn and a movie already waiting for you to decompress over as you told him about your day. He could be a source of comfort on cold nights, a breath of fresh air on warmer mornings. He could be anything, as long as he continued to be just your coffee shop boy. A fruitless crush you’d always observe from across a bustling lobby. Keeping him at an arm’s length kept both of you safe: from disappointment, from complications, from reality.

“Just because we both come in everyday to use your free wifi and drink your mediocre coffee, doesn’t mean you get to play match-maker when you’re bored,” you try to keep a straight face as you say this, forcing a look of disinterest as Chrissy stares you down.

Normally, this would be the part where you’d snap at Chrissy that if she was so piqued in her interest with your coffeeshop boy, she could ask him out herself. But he wasn’t Chrissy’s type – the round enamel pin on her apron with a faded, baby pink background, multiple cats stacked on top of one another in different shades of pink, orange, and white, told you as much. The heart eyes she’d made at the girl that had been here with him the day before confirmed it.

“Don’t be so pissy,” Chrissy teases, “Or I’ll revoke wifi privileges.”

“You don’t scare me, Chris.”

“I should.”

“You’re all bark, no bite,” you scoff, a bit louder than before, and don’t even notice your boy subtly taking one of his earbuds out, fighting to keep his eyes down to the page he’s scribbling on rather than glancing up at your interaction, “And I use bark sparingly, considering your bubblegum pink aesthetic doesn’t exactly scream scary dog.”

Chrissy grins wider at your words – you’ve never backed down from being brazen with your humor against her. You don’t treat her grossly delicate or thickly lay on fake niceties. You’re genuine. It’s probably a contributing factor to you being her favorite regular.

He snorts, and you just barely catch the echo of the sound, making both you and Chrissy glance in his direction.

His eyes are glued on his notebook as a blush begins to spread up his neck. You can’t help the shy smile that urges the corners of your mouth upwards.

Talk to him, Chrissy mouths obnoxiously as she grabs her rag, taking slow and exaggerated steps backwards before she spins, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she speed-walks back behind the counter.

One day, you’ll talk to him. Soon.

—

Soon comes too soon. Far too soon and far too embarrassing of circumstances.

One moment, your eyes are glued to the statistics textbook in front of you, laptop set off to the side with your headphones connected in and a study playlist queued up on Spotify. The next, someone’s frappucino is spilling across the pages of numbers and percentages, making you gasp and jump back to no avail. The damage is done – your book is ruined, the front of your shirt is soaked, and all of your handwritten notes are now soggy and unreadable.

“Oh, shit!” the poor kid who had been the culprit stands before you, stunned and red with embarrassment as his friends quiet their cackling from behind him. It’s clear the group had been rough-housing, and that’s what led to this accident.

You zero in on a melting glob of whipped cream that settles into the open spine of the textbook, mouth falling agape as tears fill your eyes immediately.

Shit. No. No, no, no. This was a rental.

None of the younger boys are the one to make a move to help you. The baristas don’t stand a chance, delayed in even noticing the commotion. You’re a statue of bleary vision and panicking breaths as you realize the sticky mess is everywhere, including your laptop.

Your coffeeshop boy notices immediately. He’d noticed the moment the young boy had lost his balance beside you, was already scooting out his chair and jumping up before the blended coffee had even made contact with your table.

You come to your senses right around the time he’s at your side, a fistful of napkins, uselessly attempting to save your textbook that was already clearly ruined.

“Ah, fuck,” he whispers as he uses up all the napkins he’d managed to snag, looking up wildly at you, eyes zeroing in on the mess on the front of your shirt. You can’t even relish in the fact that this is the first time you’ve heard his voice so closely; you’re mortified and trembling, still unsure of whether you’re more angry about your textbook, your laptop, or your shirt, “Hey, you okay?”

Tears. There’s tears streaming down your face, hot with embarrassment and anger and defeat. You think the kid whose drink is now in your lap has been apologizing, but you pay him no mind.

“Go get cleaned up,” the coffeeshop boy immediately moves out of the way, motioning you out of your seat, towards the bathrooms, “I’ll watch your stuff, try to clean it up some, too.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice. You’re up in an instant, ignoring the stares of the baristas and the other boys, racing to the back corner of the shop where the two single-person bathrooms reside. You rush into one blindly, trying to calm your erratic heart and the impending panic attack.

It takes you twelve minutes to do so. Three splashes of cool water to the face, two pep talks about how it “wasn’t that bad”, and another whole minute of blankly staring into the mirror at the baby-hairs that frame your face that are now wet and plastered to your cheeks and forehead alike, just wondering where you’ll come up with the money for your damaged textbook.

And laptop. It also got on your laptop, son of a bitch.

You also have to come to terms with the fact that you’d burst into silent tears in the middle of your favorite coffee shop. In front of your coffee shop fantasy crush. You may never recover from that embarrassment, if you’re being honest with yourself.

A small knock comes from the door of the bathroom, forcing you to sigh deeply before gathering up all your composure and broken pride.

“Yeah?” you ask through the crack, hardly opening the door.

It’s Chrissy, standing wide-eyed and hopelessly holding two pieces of clothing in her hand, “Okay, so uh, we don’t have any spare shirts here. But… But I have a spare apron? And a spare jacket? I’m sorry, these are awful options.”

“I…” I’d rather die than wear that apron, or ruin someone’s jacket. “It’s fine, Chris. I’ll probably get going anyways.”

“But your shirt is all-” she pauses, and you could burst into tears all over again at the way she scrunches her nose so adorably, “-sticky.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“It’ll get all over your car.”

“It’s already all over my stuff. Might as well go big or go home.”

“I owe you a free coffee now, you know that?” Chrissy’s shoulders finally deflate in defeat, accepting your stubbornness as the winning contender, “Next time you come in, probably tomorrow. Whatever you want. It’s on the house, I sw-”

“Damn, now I wish some twerp spilled their mocha cookie whatever all over me,” it’s him – your coffee shop boy. A boy who came to your rescue, a boy who lives in all your bedtime fantasies, and a boy whose name you still don’t know. Chrissy turns and the two of you both look at him, you opening the bathroom door wider despite your embarrassment. He immediately throws up a hand in surrender, “Sorry, I’m, uh- shit, I’m interrupting. But I just… Uh, well. Okay, this is weird. Really weird. You can ban me if this is too weird,” he turns to Chrissy with wide brown eyes, making her immediately cross her arms across her chest defensively, “Seriously, okay? Say the word, I’ll accept my banishment. I just-”

“What’s behind your back?” Chrissy narrows her eyes. You hadn’t even noticed the boy hiding something, too busy being enamored by his stumbling words and adorable blush. Fuck. You hated it; you hated the fact that everyone was right, and the real him was even more adorable than you could have anticipated.

He brings his arm out from behind him, and when you see what’s in his clutches, you nearly scream in frustration.

He’s not just more adorable than the fantasized versions of him you’ve created – he’s more thoughtful, too. It spells out trouble for you and your restless, irrevocably romantic heart.

“I keep spare shirts in my van,” he explains sheepishly, “I swear it’s clean. It’s for- well, I… It’s for ‘just in case’ situations. Sort of like this one, I guess.”

Chrissy is quick to take it from him, passing it along to you as she keeps staring him down, “How convenient.”

“Very,” he nearly cowers under her stare, swallowing hard before turning to you, “You don’t have to give it back or anything. You can even burn it, for all I care. It’s just some shirt for… for, uh, some shitty band.”

You don’t think too much about the comment, just shut the door and leave Chris alone with the coffeeshop boy, silently praying she doesn’t tear into him unnecessarily after the act of kindness. You change shirts, dabbing at your chest with wet paper towels between peeling off your coffee-stained blouse and switching it for your coffeeshop boy’s shirt.

Corroded Coffin. It’s not a band you recognize, as you read out the jagged writing of the logo across the front of the black t-shirt. The white font pops and you’re already trying to think of an easy segue into maybe discussing whoever this ‘shitty band’ is with coffeeshop boy rather than the mortifying disaster you’d just endured from a group of young teenage boys who knew no better.

But when you leave the bathroom, that group of scoundrels is gone, along with coffeeshop boy. Chrissy wears an apologetic look over the shoulder of a customer she’s taking the order of at the front counter. It does nothing to wear on the sinking feeling of disappointment in your gut, that deflation at realizing he didn’t wait around for you. The customer pays and leaves the counter, and Chrissy almost looks to be expecting you to stop and say something, but you don’t.

You don’t say a single word. Only rush and gather your things off the table, which are surprisingly clean. Coffeeshop boy did a good job.

Too bad you don’t have the chance to tell him.

Reality, you decide, has something in common with the coffee; it’s always going to end with a bitter bite, no matter how much sweetness you suffocate it with.

—

You don’t return for several days after Wednesday’s incident. Thursday turns to Friday, Friday bleeds into Saturday, and by the time Sunday rears its ugly head, you’re still wallowing in self-pity. Embarrassment has a way of sinking deep into your bones, and no amount of curling up in the center of your bed will make it fade. You try to sit up at your desk and finish some of the revisions you’d been working on that awful day before wearing some kid’s frappucino, but you can’t focus. The pages of your rental textbook are still sticky, your S and K keys now only work half the time, and you can’t find the right study playlist. The atmosphere is wrong, the vibe is wrong, everything is just wrong.

At least you hadn’t resorted to wearing Coffeshop Boy’s shirt. You’d thought about it, of course, but you hadn’t hit that low of a point. Not yet, at least.

Your roommate can’t take it. She insists you get out of the house, simply because your moping is “too fucking sad” to witness. To which you obviously had to retort, “how do you think I feel?”.

So now you’ve been standing outside of your usual Starbucks for five minutes. Squinting like a weirdo through the large, front windows, trying to make out if he was there. Or maybe the ‘twerp’ who had spilled the frappucino. You weren’t looking for a fight – you just needed to avoid every individual who had witnessed the most embarrassing day of your life to date.

“He’s not here,” a voice suddenly says from behind you. You jump a fraction before spinning and catching sight of one of those damn witnesses: Chrissy, “He never comes in on Sundays. You don’t, either, by the way. What gives?”

“I’ve come in on Sundays before,” you deflect.

Chrissy laughs, shaking her head, brushing past you with her green apron rolled up into one of her fists, “No, you haven’t. So I’ll ask again,” she pauses, opening one of the front doors and motioning for you to enter first, “What gives?”

Your feet drag as you walk past her, the lobby eerily quiet. At the very least, she’s right – there’s no sign of your coffeeshop boy. Just some old dude with a newspaper in your usual corner, and a girl with a laptop, seemingly in some sort of video meeting, in coffeeshop boy’s usual spot.

“No hidden romance there, unfortunately,” Chrissy notices your staring and waves between the patrons. Neither so much as look up, “You and Eddie are our store’s only modern Romeo and Juliet.”

“Who?”

“Eddie,” she repeats, watching the realization spread across your face. A smirk appears on her glossy lips as she clarifies anyways, “Your knight-in-shining-armor. The boy you’ve been making heart eyes at for weeks. The dude of your dreams-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you cut her off, cheeks already warming as you glance again to the girl and the old man. Still no reaction. Your mortification today, it seems, has no audience.

Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

The name thrums through your chest, excitement and a twinge of guilt racing through your veins.

Your coffeeshop boy’s name is Eddie.

“I never knew his name,” you whisper quietly, catching yourself staring in the occupied seat that is usually his. “I… Have you known it this entire time?”

Chrissy shakes her head, “No, I asked him Thursday. You know, the first day of your disappearance.”

You can’t even process her slight jab at you, or the way she tilts her chin as she waits for a reaction. You’re too busy thinking about Eddie. Eddie, who doesn’t come here on Sundays. Eddie, who keeps spare t-shirts in his van– Eddie, who drives a goddamn van.

He’s suddenly tangible. It’s dizzying.

“He asked about you, y’know,” Chrissy’s voice is low and you finally glance back to her, “On Thursday. And Friday. He asked about you.”

Eddie, who you’ve been waiting for the day to introduce yourself to. Eddie, who asked about you.

“What’d he ask? Specifically?” you question, taking a deep breath and trying to clear your thoughts.

“If you’d been in, if I’d seen you. He even asked for your name.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Nope,” she grins, blue eyes sparkling, “I figured I’d give you the honor.”

It’s on Sunday that you decide the next day you see coffeshop boy, that you see Eddie, it will be the day. It’s only fair that he knows your name now that you know his, after all.

—

Monday isn’t the day, and neither is Tuesday. You show up to the Starbucks, you take your usual spot, you spend hours studying – Eddie never shows up. Wednesday and Thursday aren’t the days either, filled with finals and celebratory dinners at twenty-four hour diners with friends.

By Friday, you’re missing your coffeeshop romance terribly.

But Friday, as it turns out, isn’t quite as unlucky as the rest of the week. You wake up that morning, and you can feel it in your bones; today’s the day. You’ll see Eddie today. You’ll introduce yourself to Eddie today, without a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappucino soaking your shirt. It’s an acknowledge truth in your bones, maybe even in the stars. Everything is aligning, and you were going to stop spending your days with your head in the clouds. Maybe it would fizz out, and the crush that had kept you on the edge of your seat, that had kept you mildly entertained for months would lead to nothing. But maybe, just maybe, this could be a beginning. A leap of faith into reality that could turn into something real.

When you first show up, you don’t see him. It’s during the tail-end of the morning rush that you make your way in, ordering your usual iced coffee and taking your usual seat with the perfect view of Eddie’s usual seat. Customers filter in and out, a line occasionally forming before the baristas take care of it quickly, but not a single person is the one you’re looking for.

You distract yourself. You busy yourself with pulling out your laptop, glancing over whichever grades have been finalized, pondering over the ones that have yet to be set in stone. Once you’ve beat that horse to death and have nothing left but scholarly anxiety bubbling up, you’ve moved on to making a spreadsheet of all the books you want to read during the summer, with all the free hours you definitely weren’t going to waste, and would totally make use of. You even color code by genre.

You think you have more fun making the spreadsheet than you will enjoy the actual reading over the novels you listed.

Just as you’ve finished your iced coffee, ready to move onto looking at goddamn Yahoo news to entertain yourself, a cup is sat down in front of you. A hot grande cup.

You read the sticker turned towards you before you even spare a glance to the person who’d sat down the drink: a grande Earl Grey tea, sweetened with one packet of honey.

“Chrissy, I only get this when it’s rain-” you start, assuming the barista would be the one standing over your table. It isn’t. It’s coffeeshop boy – it’s Eddie. You can’t help the curse that falls from your lips, “Oh, shit.”

“Sorry,” he bites his lip as if holding back a life, hands nervously shoved into the front pockets of his jeans as he rocks on his heels, “I just… I honestly don’t know what you usually get. But your cup was empty when I walked in, and the one time I got here before you, this was the drink you got, but now that I think about it, it was raining that day and that didn’t even cross my mind-”

Your smile is slow as it uncurls, so saccharine and so enamored as you finally cut off his rambling, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t look reassured in the slightest, paling as he stutters out, “Oh, God. I- I’m a creep for remembering that, aren’t I? Fuck, I’m sorry. I just wanted to do something nice because I know Thursday was so rough-” he cuts off at your subtle wince at the reminder of that entire tragedy, “Sorry. God, how many times can I say sorry, am I right?”

Eddie, who is absolutely fumbling over rambles like a fool when he approaches you to talk to you first. Eddie, who is quickly shaping up to be better than even your wildest dreams.

“First of all,” you start, nervously making eye contact, trying to calm your nerves by reminding yourself he’s an even bigger mess than you right now, “You’re not a creep for remembering that. That’s… it’s really thoughtful, actually,” he breaks out into a restrained smile, the smallest glimpse of relief on his face, so you continue, “And second of all… I mean, who knows? Maybe it’ll rain and you saved me some trouble.”

He lets out a bark of laughter at that, and immediately, all frozen awkwardness around the moment shatters. Whatever pedestal you’d set the boy on the last several weeks has crumbled with ease. Reality comes crashing down, and you relish in it.

You relish in the golden streaks through his messy curls, and you drown in the richness of his brown eyes, entrancing this close up. You relish in that dimple in his right cheek, deep enough to swallow you whole as he recollects himself. You relish in the fact that he’s here, it’s Friday, and today is the day.

“There is absolutely rain on the forecast, and you should absolutely just take my word for that and not fact check me,” he jokingly replies, “I’m Eddie, by the way.”

“I know,” you blurt out with thinking, and immediately regret it. You can’t tell if the shock on his face is laced with amusement or not and you panic, desperate to defend yourself, “I- Chrissy told me, I swear. I’m sorry, that was weird, I just-”

He’s the one interrupting apologies now, “It’s okay. Can’t be weirder than knowing a stranger’s rainy day coffee order.”

Grinning. God, you can’t stop grinning, even as you breathe out your name.

“Sorry?” he asks with furrowed brows, hardly catching on to the whispered reveal.

“That’s my name,” you explain before repeating yourself. His cheeks undoubtedly ache the same way yours do, “Now I’m not a stranger. Makes it less weird.”

His smile is downright radiant, and oh, God what you’d given to hear him murmur your name under his breath again in that odd, peculiar manner he just did. As if he’s trying it out, tasting it on his tongue and deciding if it’s worth repeating.

His eyes shine; you have a feeling you will be hearing it again.

“Say, is this seat taken?”

You assume he’s meaning the chair across from you, tucked neatly into the table covered in your belongings, and you immediately shake your head to tell him it’s not, motioning for him to join you.

He wasn’t meaning the chair. He flops himself down beside you on the bench seating, settling into the plastic plush as his thighs brush against yours.

“So,” he starts, propping his elbow up on the table beside your laptop, resting his chin on his fist,“Tell me about yourself, not-stranger.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he answers, making your heart clench, “But maybe, let’s just start with your coffee order for days that aren’t rainy.”

Hours. You and Eddie spend hours talking. The baristas behind the counter rotate, the sun eventually sets, and you don’t even notice when clouds form and light spatters of rain spit out onto the sidewalk outside. You dive headfirst into reality with Eddie, and it’s like the first breath of Spring.

He wakes you up in a way no shot of espresso ever could. It’s as if something deep inside of you had been sleeping for so long, you’d forgotten it existed until he magically awoke it. Something shining, something wonderful, something new. Something real.

Everyone was right. The tangible Eddie is infinitely better than the idea of coffeeshop boy.

“You know,” you’ve drained your earl grey, laptop long since closed as your body mirrors Eddie’s and twists until your kneecaps press against each other. His arm rests casually along the back of the seat just over your right shoulder, “I’m still curious who Corroded Coffin is. I know you said they’re shitty, but-”

“Oh, God,” Eddie throws his head back in laughter, running his free hand over his face, “So, uh, funny story.”

You quirk an eyebrow, “Funny story?”

“Yes. Hilarious, actually,” he affirms, “Corroded Coffin is… uh, well… Corroded Coffin is my band.”

You can’t stop the snort, realization dawning on you. That’s why Eddie had the spare shirt in his van – it’s his own damn merch.

“I’m going to pretend you’re laughing with me, not at me,” he hums, leaning back and watching your giggles continue to hit you in waves.

“I am-” you start to reassure, broken off by another gasping laugh that even has him chuckling along, “I am, I swear! I just… Why would you tell me you guys are shitty?”

“A bad joke,” he hums, waving his free hand, chuckles still lingering at the edge of his tone, “I tend to tell a lot of those around pretty people.”

Pretty people. He thinks you’re pretty.

“Yeah?” you choke out, laughter abruptly fading as the realization hits you.

He thinks you’re pretty.

“Yeah.”

Oh, God. He thinks you’re pretty. He’s in a band. He remembered the drink you got on a rainy day ages ago (him forgetting the rainy detail can be forgiven because he remembered without even knowing your name). He smells like spice, like everything kind and gentle and warm. It mixes so well with the smell of the coffee already in the air, you wouldn’t have noticed it was his cologne unless you hadn’t spent a better part of the hour leaning in closer and closer to him, the scent getting stronger and stronger.

Maybe reality can be sweet. Maybe it’s not always bitter.

“You know, we have a show coming up,” he continues on, tilting his head at you curiously, “Tomorrow night, actually.”

“You do?” you ask dumbly, not catching on, not yet.

He nods, the corners of his lips curling up, “Yeah. It’s at this venue not far from here, a small bar. It’s not much but it’s an upgrade from where we started…” he trails off, eyes diverting to the wall behind you and across the store, “Uh, you obviously don’t have to… but, I mean, if you’re not busy, I could always add your name to the guest list. It’s no pressure, obviously! I mean, you don’t have to go, it’s just an id-”

“I’d love to,” you stop him with a hand on his knee, grounding him from the returning rambling, “Tell me when and where tomorrow night, and I’ll be there.”

Your heart might just burst.

“Right,” he seems to still entirely beneath your touch, eyes darting down to where your hand rests, “Yeah. I can write it down for you-”

“Or I could give you my number.”

“Or you could give me your number.”

You’re both grinning, blushing fools. He takes a second, just staring at you, seemingly in awe, before you have to remove your hand from his knee and put your palm up as a signal for him to hand over his phone.

He nearly drops it in his flurry to get it into your waiting hand, bouncing his knee the entire time it takes you to put in your contact information. You make a point to add a coffee cup emoji after your name.

“Hey, guys,” the two of you are suddenly interrupted just as you’re giving his phone back. It’s the barista from last Monday – the new one, the one who’d taken your order when you’d been convinced that would be the day you were going to speak to Eddie. Funny how clueless you had been at the time, “Sorry to interrupt, just wanted to let you guys know that we close in about ten minutes.”

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie gasps, sitting up straight as he tucks his phone back into his pocket, “Sorry, man. We’re heading out.”

The new guy’s eyes light up ever so slightly, shrugging off the apology and just nodding with a polite smile.

You wonder if you’ll even get the chance to break the news to Chrissy. Something tells you she’ll be finding out before you see her again.

The boy retreats, and you’re quick to grab your laptop and move to shove it into your bag. Eddie stands and waits, unbothered and encouraging you to take your time before you swing the heavy bag over your shoulder.

Eddie, the boy who’s show you’ll be going to. Eddie, the boy who now has your number.

You don’t think you’ll ever get sick of his name echoing through your mind.

“Thank you again,by the way,” you say as you pick up that empty grande cup, turning for the trash, “The tea was good, even though-”

It’s raining. It’s steadily sprinkling outside, trees shifting with a gentle and stormy breeze. You can tell easily, even with the darkness of the evening having fallen. There’s rogue raindrops racing their ways down the window in front of you. Your reflection stares back faintly, and over your shoulder, you can see Eddie smile shyly.

“It’s raining,” you murmur.

“I told you,” Eddie says softly, “It was on the forecast. Also, I might have noticed the clouds building up on the drive over.”

You turn to face him slowly, heart thumping against your ribs, “Did you… You knew it was my rainy day drink, didn’t you?”

He blinks once, twice, before swallowing hard and nodding, “I did.”

“How?”

“I mean, I wasn’t lying. I did hear them call it out that one time. Also, you always have a hot drink especially when it’s raining.”

He looks like he might pass out from embarrassment, but you just let a grin overtake your features, “Oh?”

“Like I said, it’s creepy. Do I need to apologize again? I can apologize again.”

Oh, your grin grows.

“What else did you notice?”

“Excuse me?”

You shrug, “What else did you notice about me? For example, I’ve always noticed your rings. Also, you listen to your music far too loudly. You’re gonna go deaf one of these days, you know.”

He melts, color returning back to his features as he realizes you’re not upset or creeped out, “You noticed me before the other day?”

“I did,” you try to downplay it, keep an even tone as your heart screams, “And it sounds like you noticed me too.”

A boyish grin and two steps forward, he’s approaching you and evading your space with that warm smell of spice once more.

“Yeah, I did,” he admits, ears and bridge of his nose alike tinged in a spackling of pink, “I noticed the faces you made whenever you’d work on math homework. And the way you’d cringe every time I turned up my music. And the way Chrissy never stopped teasing you, the same way she’d tease me on the days you weren’t here.”

“Wow,” you sigh, looking back down at that empty cup. That goddamn empty cup that just revealed to you that he thought of you just as you’d thought of him, “We’re idiots.”

That feeling that still rings in your bones. No longer just the feeling that today is the day, but that there’s more good things to come. There are lazy Sunday mornings to be had, relaxing Thursday nights to enjoy. There are tangible things to have and to hold in your future, materializing right out of nonsensical ideas you’d clung to just days before.

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs in agreement as you toss the cup into the trash, “Yeah, we’re fuckin’ idiots. Don’t tell Chrissy, capiche?”

Today was the day. Today was just the beginning.

“Capiche.”

It’s not until a month later, when you and Eddie come in together on one of your slow Sunday mornings, that Chrissy gets her I told you so moment. After the shock of seeing her two favorite customers on a Sunday, of course.

#3k celebration #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #see? i still write!#proof i'm literate

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sometimesanalice · 9 months ago

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Make Me Your Masterpiece

Summary: Bob credits you for helping him to find his new hobby. And when he asks if he can you paint you, you find you quite like the idea of being his muse.

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Female Reader

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: fluff, smut, and basically an ode to Lewis Pullman’s hands (mdni)

(Author’s Note: smutty fics are the new friendship bracelet, spread the word! Happy Birthday, Ames! 🎉 @laracrofted)

You’ve always had a thing for Bob’s hands.

They were one of the first things you noticed about him that day at the coffee shop almost a year ago now.

You’d been reaching for your iced vanilla cinnamon latte when a big hand had wrapped around it just a half of a second before you could grab it. Which you wouldn’t have minded admiring them for a moment under any other circumstances, but after an endless string of meetings you’d been in a dire need of a caffeine fix- and not the weak stuff that people brewed in your office’s communal coffee pot.

“I think that’s-” you’d started.

“Oh, I’m sorry-” the coffee thief backpedaled.

The next thing you knew you were looking into the prettiest pair of ocean blue eyes.

The two of you were startled out of the moment when the barista called out the next order as they’d set it on the counter.

By some kismet or fate, they had been a matching set. But instead of embroidered towels, it was his and hers coffee cups with your names written on them in a hasty scrawl.

Realization dawned over his features as he gave you a sheepish smile, “Think this one might belong to you, Miss.” He spun the coffee until he found the spot with your name. That little smile becoming a full grin as he’d said it aloud before passing the cup to you.

The hands had been good, the eyes had been great, but Bob’s smile directed at you had left you weak in the knees.

You’d been a goner right then and there.

And while you’d ended up almost ten minutes late to your next meeting, you’d also gone back to the office with his phone number written on a cardboard coffee sleeve that was tucked away safely in your purse and a date lined up later that week.

As it turned out fate had a name and it was Robert Floyd.

Barely twenty minutes into your first official date with Bob, his ears had turned a delightful shade of pink as his anxious fingers straightened the silverware on the white linen tablecloth of the Italian spot he’d taken you to. He’d fessed up and apologized as he came clean, telling you that he’d purposefully ordered the same coffee as you in hopes of getting to start up a conversation with the pretty girl who’d been standing in front of him in line.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, since you looked busy. But I didn’t want to miss my chance,” he’d confessed over candlelight.

He’d told you how he’d only been at the coffee shop because he’d recently returned from a deployment and was fighting the jetlag that came with adjusting to being back on Pacific Standard Time, and that he normally preferred tea but he needed something with a bit more to it to get him through the day.

Instead of getting up and taking the bottle of wine to-go as a consolation prize, like you would have if it had been anyone else, his genuine earnestness had charmed you instantly. And you’d settled on having a second date with him before the first one had even really started.

You only let him sweat it for about thirty seconds before you took pity on him. With a light fingertip, you traced along one of the veins on the back of his hand and simply asked, “So other than being a meet cute mastermind, what is it that you do for a living, Bob?”

It was the best first date you’d ever had.

For your second date with him, you’d bought tickets to a ‘Paint and Sip’ event at a buzzy new bistro in town your friend had told you about.

You weren’t an artist by any means, but during that dinner date his antsy fingers and expressive hands had clued you into how nervous he’d been. You’d found your eyes drifting to them on more than one occasion. Partly because they were so enticingly disproportionate to the rest of him, but also because you couldn’t look him directly in the eye for too long without feeling your face heating up.

You thought it would be a good way for the both of you to work past the getting-to-know-you jitters, something that would keep your hands and eyes occupied enough to relax a bit more and have fun together.

Although instead of the seascape class you’d thought you’d signed up for, you’d willingly paid $86+ tax to watch Bob’s lithe, long fingers delicately grip a paintbrush in a way you thought was going to make you lose your mind.

You’d spent the whole first hour trying and failing to mix the perfect shade of blue before giving up when you’d realized that the man next to you, in addition to having really great hands, was also very good at painting.

Bob had seemed surprised by that too because he’d kept flushing that wonderful shade of pink that had quickly become your new favorite color every time you complimented his piece.

He had steady, capable hands. But you were quickly learning that everything about Bob Floyd seemed that way. There was a quiet confidence about him. He didn’t shy away from the way he’d openly observed you, like you were a riddle he was enjoying learning to decode.

You’d never known a man to be so attentive until him.

Bob’s tongue was peeking out as he’d worked on adding some wispy clouds to the top of his piece. You weren’t even sure what step you’d technically stopped at before you’d given up to watch the visual feast of him painting instead. Only halfheartedly adding random bits to your canvas along the way to make sure it wasn’t totally blank by the end of the session.

You’d been so zoned out watching him create that it was like a slow-motion sequence in a horror movie. You’d reached out for your wine glass, lifting it to your lips to take a sip, it had only taken you a split second to realize it wasn’t the full-bodied red you’d ordered that was coating your tongue, but the murky, gritty paint water instead.

Mortified, you’d looked over just in time to see Bob’s empathetic wince. You’d been hoping to fly under the radar, but it had turned out that you’d had more than one set of eyes on you.

“And we officially have our first casualty of the evening, folks,” the instructor cheerily announced to the group, “The rest of you can breathe easy now!”

You wanted to be able to laugh at your own expense, but you’d groaned as you buried your face in your hands.

It was not the way you saw the night going. You wanted to be dazzling, you wanted that pivotal third date with him. But now you were the girl who drank paint water whose canvas looked like it had all the same efforts as an enthusiastic fourth grader.

Bob’s hands had gently wrapped around your wrists before he’d pulled them from your face. And then he’d leaned in close, taking your chin in his hand and kissed you squarely on the lips, his tongue dipping in and sliding against yours to taste the acrylic pigment from your surprised mouth.

“Huh,” he’d said, contemplatively. He’d pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. “Celadon blue doesn’t taste like a Cabernet, go figure.”

He brushed a light kiss against your cheek as he’d passed you your wine glass so that you could rinse the paint water taste out of your mouth.

You couldn’t help but to still be a little embarrassed, but then you’d caught the way he’d shoot an unimpressed look at the instructor every time they passed by for the rest of the evening. You didn’t need a knight in shining armor when you had a Bob Floyd with a paintbrush and a cutting side eye.

You took him home with you that night and learned for yourself just how capable those hands of his were.

It was only later that you realized the exact shade of blue that you’d been trying so hard to capture earlier that night was the same color as the eyes that gazed down at you as Bob fucked you for the very first time.

There was no way you could have known that the ‘Paint and Sip’ date would have inspired him to pick up painting as a hobby.

First, he’d started taking classes at the Rec Center. His once a week classes later turned into him checking out books from the library. And then he’d turned his spare bedroom into a studio, as it has the best afternoon light in the Spanish style house he rents near the Naval base. He’d even bought a comfy chair for you to curl up in as he painted, a little nook of your own in his favorite space in his home. And steadily, the walls of both your apartment and his place fill up with all of his art.

You’d even had your favorite one professionally framed. The pretty landscape done in shades of soft greens that he gave to you for your birthday hangs in a place of honor above your bed. You like having that piece of Bob as one of the last things you see before you fall asleep and one of the first things you see in the morning on the rare occasion the two of you aren’t sharing a bed. You liked to imagine the hours he spent on it with the sunlight streaming through the open window as he lovingly and painstakingly created something just for you with his own two hands.

Although you did have to beg him to sign it for you. He claimed that since he does it for fun that there’s really no reason too, but you were adamant about it and he’d eventually caved and scrawled his name in the lower right-hand corner.

Now it’s become your personal mission to ensure that every Bob Floyd original has his signature on it when he gives his paintings out as gifts.

Everyone assumes that his art would be all straight lines and precise angles, but it’s your favorite moment when people get to see his abstract landscapes. He’d told you he spends so much time in the sky that he likes to paint what’s on the ground, the things he doesn’t get to see when he’s 50,000 feet in the air.

You could tell Bob was a little nervous when he first asked to paint you.

After almost a year with him, you’d think he’d know by now that you’d do anything for him. Not to mention, you were more than a little in love with the idea of being his muse.

“Are you saying you want to paint me like one of your French girls?” you’d teased with a grin, unable to resist the opportunity. You always did have a thing for men with perfectly floppy hair.

He’d tipped your chin up so that you were looking into his blue eyes- a color you were positive couldn’t be replicated- and stated, “No, I want to paint you like my girl.”

Which is how you’ve ended up naked on the floor of his living room.

You’d been surprised when you came downstairs to see that the furniture had all been pushed to the side to make space for the king-sized top sheet he’d laid out on the floor. You figured it must have been from some mismatched set he had stashed in his linen closet because you’d never seen it before and you spent more than enough time in his bed getting familiar with his sheets.

Bob was shirtless and wearing only a pair of loose-fitting and paint stained jeans that were hanging low on his hips as he worked on getting all of his brushes and paints set up.

You were pretty sure that Michelangelo himself wouldn’t be able to do proper justice to Bob’s body. He wasn’t as built as some of his friends on the Dagger Squad were, but there was an undeniable sturdy steadfastness to him. Those defined shoulders and arms often were the stars of your afternoon daydreams, since you got to admire his handsome face anytime your phone lit up.

He came and met you at the bottom of the stairs, giving you a low whistle, “Well, aren’t you as pretty as a picture in my shirt.”

“Oh,” you’d said, feigning surprise and toying with the hem, “So it is.” And then you’d slowly lifted it up and off of you, revealing more of your body to his artist’s eye.

You never felt as good about yourself as you did when you were naked in front of Bob. The color of his morning skies eyes would always darken to a deep shade of Prussian blue as he took in the curves of you. With him you always felt appreciated, wanted, desired.

His greedy hands came to grip your hips pulling you to him until you were pressed against him.

“Is this how you wanted me?” you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. “I always want you.”

You never knew true distraction until you’d felt Bob’s lips against yours all those months ago. You’d happily lose minutes, hours, days to them. The thing about Bob is that he never does anything halfway. If he’s kissing you, he’s doing it thoroughly until you’re out of breath.

The sound of the air conditioner kicking on and the light draft that it coasted over you reminded you that there were other plans on the agenda. And that the sooner he starts, then the sooner he finishes, and the sooner you can feel his lips on other parts of you.

“Where do you want me?”

“In my bed,” he murmured against your lips.

His name started as a laugh but turned into a sigh as he dropped a line of kisses down your neck, “I meant, like on the couch or on one of the chairs from the kitchen.”

Bob pulled away and peered deep into your eyes, “Darlin’, I wanted to paint you.” He trailed a teasing finger down your soft stomach. “If that’s alright with you.”

You thought you were just going to be his subject, but as it turns out he wanted you to be his canvas too.

You’re trying not to shiver as he meticulously coats your overheated skin with cool paint. Goosebumps follow in the wake of every delicate stroke he makes along your body.

His hair was curled over his forehead in a way that had your fingers aching to touch him. There was a slight furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the deliberate lines and curves he painted on you. The paint smudge on his cheek only made him all the more attractive to you.

Bob had tucked a pillow beneath your head before he’d started, a gesture that you appreciated now because time had lost all meaning to you. You had no idea how long you’ve been lying there. You were pretty sure every inch of you had to be covered by now.

He’d started along the plane of your stomach and steadily worked his way out from there. Up your arms. Along your clavicle. Over your breasts and tops of your thighs. You didn’t miss the way he’d smirked when you arched into that soft to the touch paintbrush as it glided over your peaked nipple. Or the way he’d hummed pleased when you’d try to subtly rub your thighs together to relieve the need that had been building as you laid there.

Bob loves taking his time with you. In bed, he loved teasing you until you had tears in your eyes and were begging for his cock. And it became clear very quickly that this would be no different.

There was an electric thrum that was pulsing through your body with every dip and swirl and brushstroke. The muscles of your stomach jump involuntarily as the fine hairs of his paintbrush drift over your hypersensitive skin making you whimper.

He tsks, “Gotta stay still for me, pretty girl. I’m almost done, promise.”

You release a shaky sigh and nod, not trusting your voice to betray just how needy you were for him. Although the self-satisfied smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

You try to control your breathing as he works on finishing, but your shallow breaths sounded loud in his living room. You love getting to watch him work normally, but the intense way he is looking at you- his eyes your favorite shade of Prussian blue now- is too much for your hummingbird heart.

Just as your skin was collecting layers of paint from his brush, the space between your thighs was steadily collecting your wetness. You were so desperate for him to touch you, the need made you want to crawl out of your skin.

You hear the sound of a watery swish and the clink of a brush against glass and your breath catches in your throat in anticipation.

“God, look at you,” Bob breathes, reverently, “You’re so beautiful. This might be my best work ever.”

Instead of the paintbrush, you can feel the path of his flame blue gaze traveling over you as he takes in the art he’s made out of you.

You open your heavy eyes and see Bob wiping off his hands with a frayed towel.

“There she is,” he says, giving you a smile that makes your toes curl. You didn’t notice it sitting there with all his paints until he was reaching for it, his dad’s old film camera. He holds it loosely in front of him like a question, “Can I take a few just for me?”

The answer is easy, “Yes.”

You trusted Bob more than any other man you’d ever been with. He’s never once given you reason to doubt his words because his actions always spoke for themselves.

The guys you’d been with before had been boys, Bob Floyd was a man.

The tension between the two of you is thicker than the acrylic he’d been using earlier as he snaps photo after photo. You admire the way his muscles shift as he bends and angles himself to get the perfect images.

He stands over you, the lens pointed down at you, “Look at me.”

You can barely breathe. You feel yourself getting even wetter at the thought of seeing yourself through his eyes. No one has ever made you feel the way he does.

“Bob”, you whine.

The camera clicks.

“I know,” he hums, “You’ve been so good for me.” He sinks to his knees between your legs and hooks a hand behind your knee, pulling it up so it’s propped on the floor. And then he does the other so that you’re sprawled open for him, just the way he likes you to be, “Just one more, darlin’.”

The heat in his eyes has dried up all the words in your mouth.

He trails a finger down the soft skin of your inner thigh and you gasp.

The sound of his camera reverberates in your head.

“You’ve made such a pretty mess,” he drawls, as he gently sets the camera on the floor next to you. “It’s a good thing I put something down. You’re damn near dripping.”

“Bob, please.” You arch towards him like a flower in the sun.

He settles between your thighs and pushes them apart further so that his broad shoulders fit between them. The paint is still drying on your skin, but neither one of you cares about that now.

“You were so perfect for me. I appreciate you staying so still.” He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t worry, I know just how to thank you.”

Your body jolts at the first touch of his tongue on your clit. You can feel his smile against you, he knows exactly what he does to you.

Bob has always eaten you out like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.

Normally, he’s teasing you with gentle licks and tracing nonsensical shapes on your clit with his tongue until you’re a squirming mess for him. He knows your body so well, always building you up to the point where you’re breaths away from tipping over the edge and then pulls himself back before building you right back up again.

But tonight, there’s nothing playful about the way his mouth is working against you. His hot mouth is sealed to your clit. Bob hums in satisfaction with every keen and whine that he pulls out of you. He laves at you until you’re writhing underneath him, your thighs already shaking.

“Wanna paint you just like this,” he murmurs, sucking at the spot where your leg and hip meet. “But I don’t think you’d stay still long enough for me to finish.”

Bob dips down and gives you another long broad stroke of his tongue. He pulls back only long enough to spit on your cunt before diving right back in, chasing after his own taste on you.

Your hands are in his hair. Clutching at his shoulders. It’s taken him no time at all getting you to the point where you’re trembling and taut.

All the air leaves your lungs when he buries two large fingers into you. Your hips cant into his mouth on their own and he moans. Bob wraps an arm around your hips and presses down on your lower stomach to hold you in place.

You feel the paint smear beneath his warm palm. You were dying to see it. You hoped there was a handprint- his handprint- that disrupted all the lines and swirls of color that he’d decorated you with. Something that was distinctly him.

You were wearing his art and now you’re wearing him. The evidence of this moment in time on your skin.

His fingers and tongue weren’t enough.

You needed more.

“You cock, Bob, I need your cock,” you pant, tugging at his hair.

He meanly sucks your clit into his mouth in a way that has you crying out and jerking against him. You love it, you love him.

“God, I love it when you beg for me,” he licks into you again, “Sweetest sound in the world.”

Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, it’s a stark difference to the filthy way he’d been using his mouth on you. He rises to sit back on his knees between your parted legs.

He looks so good kneeling above you the way that he is. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess. That knot behind your bellybutton twists tighter because you did that to him.

He unzips his jeans and tugs them down low enough to pull his hard cock out.

It’s pretty enough to be featured in a gallery, you think to yourself, even in your desperate haze. It’s long, thick, perfect and yours.

Bob smirks when he notices you admiring him, pumping himself slowly a few times for your viewing pleasure.

The only time Bob Floyd was ever a show-off was when he was in bed.

He grabs your thighs and pulls them over top of his own, so that yours are draped over his obscenely, and then he thrusts easily into you.

You gasp at the sensation of being so full of him. It always takes you a minute to adjust to his cock, no matter how many times you’ve taken it now. His thumbs make little circles along your hipbones as your body relents and yields to the size of him.

“There you go,” he says, rocking into you, working you open, “Just needed this cock, didn’t you?”

You whimper your agreement. Your hips tilt into the pressure like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Wanting to show him how much you can take. You know you’ll never get enough of him.

He fucks into you at a reckless and unrelenting pace. You’re high off the feeling of seeing Bob like this, that you’re the one who gets to see him unreserved and uninhibited. He has your hips gripped so tightly, keeping you closer than close. And when you clench around him, you’re treated to a wrecked groan.

Your skin prickles with desire and the feeling of paint drying on you. His cock is hitting just the right spot inside of you and you know you won’t be able to hold off for much longer, not with the way he’s grinding against your aching clit.

Bob’s eyes glued to the spot where you two come together. You’re on full display for him. He watches the way you stretch and spread around him with every deep thrust with the same appreciative gaze that he admires his favorite artists.

It’s under his river blue gaze that your orgasm swiftly sweeps you away. And with your back arching and thighs quaking around his, you give yourself up to the endless current of it.

You know he’s close when his hips start to stutter.

Bob pulls out of you and wraps his large hand around his slick-shined cock and works himself with rough, purposeful strokes.

This time he paints you with himself, his come covering your stomach.

The only sound in the room is the two of you breathing hard, trying to catch your breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob huffs, raggedly, taking in his handiwork, “You’re my masterpiece.”

You’re covered in paint and come, but you’ve never felt more beautiful than you do right now as he looks down at you in awe.

“Did you remember to sign your work this time?” you ask, out of breath but teasingly.

“I think I left my mark, darlin’,” he says, with well-earned smugness in his voice. You can’t help but giggle. He flops down next to you, throwing his arm over his eyes, “Goddamn.”

You prop yourself up onto your elbows to look at yourself.

“Baby, I think you gave Jackson Pollock a run for his money.” You grin widely when he lets out an amused snort. “Wait, where’s your camera?”

He passes it to you, the fondness in his eyes makes your chest feel warm. You scooch in close to him and hold it up above your heads, the camera flashes when you kiss his flushed cheek.

That picture is the first one that gets put up in the new house, the one the two of you chose together when he asked you to marry him six months later. Followed by the soft green landscape that now hangs above your shared bed.

It’s your favorite picture of the two of you, happy and in love. You can just see a hint of the cloud he’d painted on your shoulder.

That night Bob had decorated your body with the place he loved best.

He gave you the sky and he made you his world.

Happy birthday, Ames! Your gift will be mailed eventually, it really was a lesson in chemistry, lol! Enjoy a Bob fic just for you in the meantime!

A big, bigggg thank you to the Bob Babes/Lew Crew girlies! @callsignspark and @attapullman I appreciate you two so much for being such ultimate hypegirls! And thank you to @theharddeck, you helped me out of my writers block and I've been so excited to write this since we talked about it back in January!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

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806 notes · View notes

yok00k · 11 months ago

Text

Igual Que Un Ángel

pairing: hellokittylover!/bimbo!oc x boxer!jk

genre: MATURE, fluff, lowkey angst,

“heaven must have sent you, love”

synopsis: after spending the entire day shopping with your boyfriend, you’re craving mochi donuts and bubble milk tea before going to bed and jungkook, even in his tired state, will do everything to make you happy.

word count: 5.4k

warnings: so much fluff, NO plot, jealous/possessive kook, oc can’t tell when someone flirts with her, tiny silent treatment, oc is kinda dumb, lots of kisses, shower sex, oral [m], oc’s head game is STRONG, head pusher jk, hair pulling, they went shopping for underwear, cussing, aftercare, oc is obsessed with pink/hello kitty, oc is so desperate for his cock and she must get what she wants⛄️(she was virgin before this took place), oc had a vid of her playing, mention of toys, JK is not trying to b obvious but he’s IN LOVE, brief cockwarming at the end, <not proofread>

author’s note: i def did not write this in between my classes😮‍💨 i just discovered that im mentally unhinged as im editing this in class. I have my priorities straights tho so here you go🥢

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆

you suppose today was really wonderful.

you two spend almost the whole day at the outlet mall, mostly to shop clothes for yourself. you needed new pairs of undies and Jungkook being the glorious boyfriend he is, helped you shop. not only he paid for all your purchase, he also gives his opinions on certain cloth materials of what the underwear was made of. he wants to make himself useful by helping you out pick out make sure that they’re comfortable to your preference, he goes with you in the fitting room to try them on in front of him.

As you try on clothes for hours and hours in multiple shops, your boyfriend miraculously always finds a chair in the corner of each fitting room that he can rest on. a few hours later, you two arrive back at your place. jungkook initiated to carry all the paper bags you had as the two of you headed from the garage to inside your house.

soon, he began cooking the night’s dinner, which you really enjoy watching because he keeps entertaining you with his skillful talent and his humorous jokes. a quality time like this just makes you fall in love with him even more. you wish and pray that you can spend the rest of this delightful lifetime with him.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆

the hands of the clock signifies 11:11, which is usually the time you drift off to sleep. except tonight isn’t a typical night, owing to the fact that your beloved lover is sleeping over at your cozy flat.

although it’s pretty late, you two are cuddled on your not-so-spacious couch, watching a kdrama that was recently released and you still have the clothes you put on this afternoon: a cute pink long sleeve crop top and a pink/black mini skirt. you also can’t forget to add a pair of thick fleece tights since it’s freezing cold outside.

you felt a sudden cravings for something in the midst of the show. you desire for something sweet. and chewy.

“koo..” you murmur, distracting your man from the show on the big screen. he redirects his focus to you as he caresses your hair with his soft, yet rough palms.

“i’m craving donuts”

“want me to go to the convenience store and grab some for you?” he suggests

“no I don’t want that, I want mochi donuts” you cutely demand

“but baby it’s too late” he said, lifting his wrist to look at his gold Rolex watch. “aren’t they close at this time?”

these days, your social feeds are just full of ads, particularly bakery places nearby your place that serve mouth-watering breads, donuts, ice creams, bubble milk tea, and the list goes on. promptly, the phone that’s sitting next to jungkook was taken by you.

“look, there’s one that’s still open till midnight” you replied, showing him the navigation to the bakery shop that’s on your screen. his tired eyes glanced at your phone, then back at you.

“please koo?” you pleaded, climbing on top of him and giving him thousands of kisses all over his face until he’s got enough is the most effective technique to persuade him. how can jungkook say no when you display a behavior like this to get whatever you want? the forever answer is he just can’t.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆

You two arrive at the place twenty minutes before they close. Since it’s late at night, you can see through the big windows that there’s not many customers inside the donut shop.

“oh my, we’re finally here” you joyfully babble to yourself out loud which made your driving boyfriend chuckle. while jungkook slows down the car to eyeball a good parking spot, you reach for your pink purse taking out the hello kitty lip oil to apply them on your chapped lips.

Jungkook carefully parked the car on the side of the road. He looked at our surroundings such as the front, back, and the side of his vehicle, making sure everything seems clear before he takes off his seat belt and gets off of the automobile. As usual, Jungkook walks to the other side, gesturing that he will open the car door for me. This man doesn’t ask a lot regarding how things should be in our relationship but the number one rule he established is that you could never open any door when you’re with him.

He quickly unlocked my door with one hand and offered his other hand to assist my body getting out of the car. As you got out, you felt the strong wind blowing your mini skirts, making them move up. but jungkook immediately takes off his zip up fleece oversized jacket to tie it tight around your waist.he ensures that the skirt won’t go up by walking behind you whilst holding your cold hand towards the bakery.

a scent of sweet caramelized brown sugar that you’ve been craving welcomes you as soon as you step into the threshold of the place. Looking around the store, you notice multiple neon pink led lights of donuts are decorated in the walls. the long honey maple stained table against the windows was paired with white barstool chairs. You also did not fail to miss that their white snowed christmas tree is still up, filled with rosy ornaments and pinkish lights around it.

‘this is definitely my new favorite place’ you noted to yourself as you feel cozy inside.

Your boyfriend wasted no time to lead you to the counter, only for you to see the variety of flavor of their delicious mochi donuts displayed on the front top. you can’t help but to drool on the sight, you’re starting to feel satisfaction by just looking at them.

“hello, what can I get for you today?” the tall male server who’s probably around your age friendly greeted. a little too friendly, in jungkook’s opinion but he chose to try to shrug it off. before answering him, I turned to jungkook “what are you getting koo?” asking to know what he wants.

“don’t know. you can order whatever you want for me” he responds as his doe eyes look up to scan the menu on the screen that’s mounted in their polished ceramic walls. Jungkook is on a diet these days therefore he tries his best to restrain eating sweets but he knows that cheat days won’t hurt if it only happens once or twice a month.

turning to face the server once again, you made up your mind on what to order. “hi, can we get two brown sugar milk teas with less ice and can you make one extra sugar please” you gently requested and the server instantly punched the orders in their ipad.

you take another look at the yummy donuts before continuing. “and i would like to get a dozen of the mochi donuts.” you pointed to the biggest bakery box.

jungkook wasn’t even surprised that you’re getting 12 pieces, potentially all for yourself considering you have a sweet tooth, which could be really extreme sometimes. he stands still next to you, amused by how cute you are, getting all excited by all these sweets you’re about to eat as you tell the the guy the flavors you want.

the server hands you two of their fresh brown sugar bubble milk tea & pink box that contains lots of sugar and of course, you happiness. afterwards, he declars the total for all the things you order. you’re about to tap in your debit card that’s covered with hello kitty skin when jungkook’s black card is already approved on the chip card reader.

“you didn’t have to koo” you murmur. your man always insists on paying for everything,

“i want too”

he does things for you not because he’s going to gain something or that he’s expecting some type of return from you. Rather, he does them solely because he loves you and he loves seeing you getting all the things you want.

for the meantime ,you look for a table that you two can sit at, particularly a spot where there’s a cute background since you would like to take some photos.

immediately, your eyes spot the perfect table right next to the huge windows to sit and take pictures in. you swiftly walk over the spot and your boyfriend follows you like a lost puppy.

“kook can you take pictures of me here?” you ask, while unwrapping the thick jacket around your waist and position yourself on the stool chair.

jungkook unlocks the camera on his phone, positions the cellular in your desired angle, and clicks the white button multiple times. he casually looks at the camera screen and looks up to you. when he notices that by the way your sitting is slightly showing your ass, and instantly goes up to you to fix it. you’re confused at first by his sudden action but you soon realize why.

“oops, thank you kookie” you chortle

when he goes back to his previous standing position, he catches the same annoying server maliciously staring at you, in a way that’s very unpleasant to him, which just pisses him off more. nevertheless, he captures photos of your adorable face while attempting to drink your favorite bubble tea for the camera. then, he passes his phone so you can review the images.

‘he’s such a great photographer’you thought. these picture will be posted on your pink themed finsta.

“can we go now?” jungkook harsly rushed. this place is alright, but that fucking server is just making his blood boils. he needs to get you two out of here before he does something not pretty.

you read his sudden unusual behavior and chose not to argue. you really loved this place, but you can understand that your boyfriend is too tired and just wanted to sleep. you’ll definitely come back though.

“wait koo, I'll use their restroom first.” you excuse yourself, feeling the need to change the menstrual pad that you’re wearing, you fear bleeding through jungkook’s leather seats.

you did your business pronto. unexpectedly when you walked out of the restroom, the friendly worker corners you, with something in his hand.

“miss, would you like to have this?” He offers the cute and huge hello kitty boba plushie that is in his grip. your eyes widening as they gaze upon the lovely thing. “I noticed your phone case and I thought this is perfect for you” he shyly adds as he scratches the back of his head, pointing out the pink Hello Kitty case you have.

“sure! how much is it?” you respond with full of energy. this plush will be added to your collection.

“don’t worry about it,here” he extends the plushie towards you, gesturing that you should take it.

you look for some type of unseriousness in his eyes but you found none. he does seem nice. you accept the cute plushie that’s waiting for you to be held, hugging it really tight.

“you’re really cute. do you mind if I get your number?” the man in front of you speaks. “so i can give you more plushies for free of course” he further explains, trying to convince you to give him your digits

but you remember what jungkook once said, and that is never give any other men your number. Although you can’t grasp why he doesn’t want you to do that, you listen to him because you don’t want to get him all sad and mad at you. angry jungkook is the least thing you want to deal with. he turns really cold and you hate not getting affection from him.

“I'm sorry but I can't give you my number. thanks for this though.” you give him a weak smile. you also hate the feeling of rejecting people but you also don’t want to get in trouble.

the friendly expression that the guy has been erased and replaced with a blank expression, as if ‘no’ isn’t the right answer. he snarls before speaking “Is it because of your punk boyfriend? c'mon pretty girl he doesn’t have to kno-“

“who doesn’t have to know what?” a familiar voice cuts off the man you’re facing before you can understand what the previous man just said.

jungkook approaches you, snatching the plushy in your grasp. “where did you get this from?” he sternly asks. he might have known the answer, it’s so obvious from what it looks like, but he needs to make sure before he beats somebody’s ass.

“koo he gav-“ that was enough for jungkook to vigorously slam the plushy back onto that guy’s chest, making the man flinch and slightly back off. “look or talk to my woman one more time and things will get ugly for you” he threatens, giving the guy the most serious stare, the same stare he has when fighting in the boxing ring.

without saying anything, he grabs your hand sternly and you two walk out the store. you still didn’t get why jungkook didn’t want you to have that plushie, it was perfect to add to your collection.

the entire car ride back to your place was awfully quiet. you offer to drive back home when you notice that he’s speeding and seems so tense, but jungkook refuses, telling you that he’s fully capable of driving back with a somber tone.. his tattooed hands aren’t where they’re supposed to be placed, your thigh. but you argue no further, not wanting to make him more angry than he already is.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆

hours later, you’re gathering the sleepwear you’ll wear for tonight before hopping in the shower, which is currently occupied by your boyfriend. usually, you two always shower together whenever you’re sleeping at his place and vice versa, but tonight you received no invitation from him since he’s giving you silent treatment for an unknown reason.

despite the fact, you made up your mind to join him as you enter the steamy bathroom, the warm atmosphere welcomes you while you close the door behind you.

your gaze meets jungkook’s tall muscular figure, his tattooed arm up against the white wall, while head is pointing down as the hot water that’s coming from the showerhead runs down his body.

quietly strip down your clothes, you proceed to open the sliding shower door and step inside the shower, closing the distance between you and him.

jungkook faintly flinched as he felt a pair of dainty arms wrapped around his bare torso. he knew exactly who they belonged to, his loved one.

he slightly turns his head, just to see you, hopelessly showing affection towards him in the midst of washing the negative internal thoughts out of his system.

“are you mad at me baby?” you worriedly ask, overthinking that you might have done something that might upset him or maybe he’s too stressed out on his non-stop training schedule since his competitions are coming soon or maybe he can’t handle being with you anymore. lots of maybe but communication is the only way you will know how he feels.

the question of yours sends a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. you completely did nothing wrong. he knows for a fact you can’t say no to anyone who gives you a Hello Kitty plushie. your tiny little head just can’t comprehend that these guys want something in return for giving you things you love to collect. you’re too good for your own.

now he feels like a total idiot, another part of him feels guilty for the sudden shift in his behavior, solely because he's so in love with you that he can’t stand seeing men look at your way.

you did nothing wrong. nothing at all. you’re just so goddamn beautiful that your boyfriend is starting to lose it.

he can’t help but let the possessiveness take over him as soon as he perceives other guys showing their interest in his pretty girl. the woman he desires to keep to himself for the rest of this lifetime, the next one, and for many more

jungkook crowds you up against the cold marble wall just after he turns his buff body to face you. wasting no time, he leaves smooches on your pouty lips and jaw. “didn’t I tell you I'm the only one who can give you hello kitty stuff?” he sensually whispers to your right ear, continuing to give you wet kisses. “hmm?”

“but why?” you pout, resulting in the kisses to come to stop. he looks at you directly in the eyes, “because i’m your boyfriend and that job is solely for me” he simply explains

“but koo it was for free, he was really nice but then he started asking for my number so he could give me more but i didn’t give it to him because you specifically instructed me not to.” you mindlessly babble, explaining your side all in one sentence. simultaneously, you grab the white loofa next to the pink one and apply jungkook’s favorite body wash. it still doesn’t make sense to you. you love collecting hello kitty, but the love you have for the man in front of you is significantly greater.

oh jungkook is really going to lose it. that fucker had the audacity to ask you shit like that right when you’re with him.

“and that’s why I don’t want you talking to them, they want to take advantage of you” he takes a deep breath

“i’m sorry kook” you mutter, attempting to cuddle his naked form.

“i know something was off with that motherfucker” he starts off, “keeps looking at you in a way i don’t appreciate” he finally admits, with his tone hinting a pinch of jealousy. “and that fucking plush- he’s getting on my fucking nerves.”

“all he can do is look koo” you laugh. “Besides, I’m already cuffed by my hot boyfriend. what more can I possibly look for?” your words declaring that your eyes are only fixed to him. there’s no reason to look at other men anyways.

“you’re only mine right?” he just needs to directly hear those words come out of your mouth.

“only yours” you murmur. and that reassured him. for now.

you stand on your tiptoe to kiss his cute nose, from there you smack your lips against his as your smooth palms trace his jawline.

as seconds goes by, the desire to express how much you love him is rapidly growing. you want him. you need him.

you detach your lips against his, just to fixate them on his neck, right on the pretty tiny mole on his skin, your favorite spot. your hand does its own job to explore his sculpted body, finding its way to palm his painful growing erection.

he knows where this is going

your kisses trail from his upper chest to his defined abs; so brawny and delicious. he follows your gesture, finding you on your knees, beneath him, your beautiful face positioned right in front of his hardening cock.

oh this is the one and only circumstance he would kill and die for to be in.

jungkook knows that sly grin expression you wear as you look up with those round doll eyes. purposely, your both arms push against each other to give him a good view of your perky breast squeezed together. with his shaft twitching, can’t help but to utter an uncontrollable moan from seeing you like this.

“can I?” you ask softly, waiting for permission from him as if you’re not in this sinful position at least twice every time you two spend time together. no matter what, you still drool by just staring at his cock as if it’s your favorite lollipop.

he quietly hums and nods his head while nibbling his lip piercings, giving you the green light.

you start off slow, giving his pretty pink tip covered with precum small pecks. smearing the liquid around your lips, pretending it as if it’s one of your lip gloss, making them nice and glossy.

sweet

“i only wanna do this with you” you hungrily voice out in each swift peck while locking your seductive eyes on his.

he brings his fingers towards your jaw, lifting your chin up. “open” he commands, directing you to open your mouth. and so you did, without hesitation. a hot glob of spit falls into your tongue, which turns you on even more. you quickly swallow it and resume with what you’re doing.

he continues to watch you as your swollen lips slowly wrap his thick cock. your mouth is solely made for jungkook as it welcomes him inch by inch. although sucking him becomes a part of your daily routine, you still need to take a sweet time adjusting to his length.

irresistible tears roll down your face as he hits the back of your throat for the first few times, but you’re so determined to make him feel good. you began bobbing your head back and forth as your mouth slowly adjusted to his size.

“hmm, so good baby” he muffles weakly. “j-just like that” almost sounds as if he’s about to cry from the incredible sensation.

you can’t help but to release a quiet whine from hearing him. the steamy bathroom is filled with jungkook's angelic yet sinful groans, along with the sounds that’s being created as you which arouse you even more. he’s got your pussy clenching over nothing.

your bent knees on the cold and wet ground are starting to get tired, but you pay no attention to them. rather, you take him even more, until his tip hits the back of your throat. you continue to do it smoothly, using no hands.

you proceed to shift your attention to untouched balls. your tiny hand softly jerks off his length upward, as a trail of kisses made their way from the underside of his girthy and veiny cock to one of the oval-shaped organs. wet and loud smooches on jungkook’s sensitive skin turn to sloppy sucking. your mouth is so full of him. a mixture of his precum and saliva of yours covers your entire chin, even some of it drops on the ground.

this sequence stirs more moans from jungkook, but this time he gets louder and louder. his slender hands acts at its own and gather your length hair into a ponytail, just so he can manipulate your head, to use you however he pleases

Jungkook pulls your hair back, causing you to lose contact with the sac you were passionately lapping. he leads you mouth back to where it should give its focus to. his throbbing cock. once his dewy dick is shoved in you, he pushes your cock drunk head to take more of him. you obediently follow the flow of the hand guiding your head

“such a good girl” he grunts, throwing his head up in the air, then focusing back on you. “only for me”. your boyfriend is still controlling your head bobbing on his length.

“you’re such a slut for a fucking hello kitty, aren’t you?” jungkook mocks in between deep breaths. “me or that stupid kitty cat? huh?” thrusting his hips into your messy and well-fucked face.

you just moan against him, not even bothering to answer him because you’re too fucked, your tiny little brain is wearing out as you keep bouncing your head up and down. and also it might be because you know for a fact that you could be a slut for hello kitty too sometimes. you’re in no position to protest.

the man above you grips your hair even tighter, demanding you to answer him. “I wanna hear you baby”

“‘mmh you, o-only you koo,” you sob. lots and lots of tears coming out of your eyes. “all I want is you and this cock” you mewl weakly as you desperately lap his precious tip, just like how he loves it.

“that’s it, pretty girl, I'm cummin’” he verbalizes, grasping your head forcibly as slamming his pelvis into your abused mouth. to this point, you feel dizzy and your whole body is worn out. you grip into his beefy thighs as you allow him to utilize you like a slut.

“hmpp f-fuck” he moans loudly, releasing abundant strings of semen into your mouth. he cums so deep inside your throat. not wanting a drop to fall, you gobble up everything as your life depends on them.

after swallowing, you show him your empty mouth, with tongue being out. you can see in his half lidded eyes that he’s proud, giving you a soft smile.

you were about to get up when all of a sudden the dizzy spell hits you real hard, causing you to lose your balance but jungkook catches you before you can even fall.

“hey, you okay? Did I go too hard?” he locks his gaze upon you, hoping that you will lock yours to him too. but you didn’t as you are sobbing and trembling a little bit. jungkook wipes the dries tears on your swollen face with one hand while the other wraps around your waist. he might have gone harder than you can handle.

“baby look at me please? did I hurt you? i'm sor—“

“koo i’m okay” you faintly cut his sentence off. he doesn’t need to be sorry. “just need a few minutes to recover” you explain. jungkook immediately understands that. he gives you minutes of peaceful silence, with that, he takes care of washing your body. gently rubbing the pink loofah in your smooth skin as he hums the song that’s been stuck in your brain for quite a while.

after showering, he helps you slip on your baby pink dainty nightgown. this dress is special. jungkook got it for you when he flew abroad for one of his boxing competitions. one day, he and his team were strolling around the fancy mall when he passed by a cute local lingerie store that you will definitely check out, only if you were with him. of course, he chose to follow what his heart tells him to do, to go inside and find a thing or two to give you as soon as he comes home. to you.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆

both yours and jungkook’s bodies are situated on your twin sized bed. in spite of the fact that there’s not much for the two of you and one of you might fall on the ground if another moves a little, it’s not a hurdle as you two embrace each other’s warmth as if there’s no tomorrow. two bodies comfortably embracing one another. tonight, you’re designated to be the tiny spoon

“ggukie..” you murmur, hot breath fanning against his bare chest. “hmm??” jungkook looks down to see what his princess needs.

“want your cock”you weakly pleaded, causing the man to slightly chuckle. you must be out of your mind.

“baby, your body is tired” said by him, shaking his head to show his disapproval. what a silly idea that goes around your mind when your eyes can barely open. you’re really out here doing everything but to sleep. he continues to caress your soft hair.

on a side note, you and jungkook never had penetrative sex before. yes, he eats you out here and there and vice versa. but he never dares to insert himself inside you.

indeed you’re a virgin but it’s not that you never wanted to. matter of fact you’ve made up your mind and are willing to give your virginity to him. jungkook is well aware of that. however, fear of hurting you always troubles him. he’s afraid that you will go through pain, scared that he’ll break you: his fragile pretty girl

“need your cock inside me” you continue to whine. “didn’t I show you a video of me from last week taking the toy you gifted me? you said I did so well” reminding him that one video clip of you masturbating to the pink rose you got from him. how could he forget about that when he uses it to get off every single night? with full on volume too, all ears concentrate on your high pitched moans, giving him more than the satisfaction he craves. the thoughts of that makes the lust that nearly vanishes inside him linger, you just never fail to get him arouse even before going to sleep.

however, jungkook is still in his right mind. “that’s different,” he argues. it’s valid to doubt that he’ll fit.

“ok then just put it in me then we can sleep?” you beg, attempting to compromise. “just wanna feel you close while I sleep. can you imagine how much I missed you?” you’ve come to an extent to use the guilt trip tool to convince him.

he understands the emotion you’re trying to make him feel as he looks into your bambi doe eyes. looking so innocent yet begging for his cock. evoking his guilt to get what you want. jungkook recognizes you in and out, you won’t take no for an answer. also it’s not like he’s not dying to do it, as if he doesn’t fantasize about it when you sleep over at his penthouse. the amount of self control he has..

you have him on a chokehold. jungkook doesn’t say anything, rather he gently lifts up the arm which your head is laying on and slightly gets up to open the pink mini cabinet on top of your nightstand, taking out a sky blue container.

“here, apply it”, throwing the lube bottle on your lap.

you’re stunned, heart excitedly does jumping jacks inside your chest. next time it will be you doing jumping jacks on his di-

“cmon cutie I don’t have all night” he blurts, interrupting your thoughts. you never get up so fast in your nineteen years of living. he goes straight back to his original position, laid on his back. he may act chill,but he’s internally pleased and aroused.

as you go down on him (again), your two hands get a grip of the band of his black boxer and pull it down, his semi-hard cock immediately springs out. you can’t help but to give it a tiny peck before giving it a few strokes as you point it towards your lips

you open the bottle up with a pop, squirting out enough lube on your fingers before gently spreading it on his tip. he hisses as he feels the cold liquid substance being applied to him. you trace the sides of his length, ensuring the reduction of friction.

he grabs your arm, guiding your body to lay down sideways next to him. a tattooed veiny arm from behind snakes around your torso, clasping your upper body.

“ready?” he whispers, as he nibbles your ear. jungkook earns longingly nods from you, and for a split moment he spreads some liquid using his lubricated tip around your private area before slowly inserting it in. you discern the penetrating sensation in your core, which makes you purr.

he continues to penetrate inside you furthermore, causing you to close your eyes and tighten your clasp on his arms as you bear with the ache. he fully aware of how you’re feeling as he’s also having a hard time moving in.

“bare with me baby” tensely reassuring you. “so t-tight, fuck.” his other arm makes its journey below your nightgown, traveling its way to your perky breast, delicately squeezing one of them. jungkook does the same and gives the attention to the other one. simultanously, he plants a few smooches on the skin behind your ear, attemping to distract you from the pain. you quietly release moans and groans as he continues. he’s inches in when he feels your wall clenching around him.

your tight pussy becomes jungkook’s personal paradise. it’s the way your walls are clenching around him is better than he imagined; unmatched from all the fantasy he creates in his mind about you.

“koo.. “ your fingers tracing the veins on the back of his palm.

“what? my baby can’t handle it? tell me and I’ll stop” he softly asks. a tear just drops from you leg but you’re too tired to even react.

“n-no just stay inside, i’m sleepy” and with that, you instantly drift to sleep.

he hums, a hand that was busy playing on your chest shifts to caress your hair. jungkook lays one last kiss at your temple.

“goodnight to you too my pretty girl, love you so much”

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