#i was sitting there thinking if its too late for me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

michimichim · 3 days ago

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author’s note: yes, yes i wrote 8.2k of pure filth and sin. yes i did that. and you would do it too, for a check?!🧍🏾‍♀️

ningning x g!p reader -> you were so adamant on never crossing the line between coach and client. what changed??

The metro hums steadily, its wheels grinding against the tracks in a low, rhythmic growl that vibrates through the floor and up into your legs. The air is cold, mixed with the distant scent of someone’s coffee and the crisp, sterile smell of the train itself. You’re slouched in your seat, one earbud dangling loosely, the other playing a muted TikTok audio with your duffel bag sitting heavily between your spread feet.

You swipe lazily through your feed—a dog singing Expresso by Sabrina, a chef flipping pancakes, a man tumbling mid-spin—when your screen suddenly goes silent. A notification slides in from the top, muting the video.

For a moment, you think it’s probably Ning announcing she’ll be late again, her schedule bleeding into yours like it does at times.  “the companys gyms closed come to my place instead … i still want my session :( ”

You stare at the message, your thumb hovering over the screen. The gym’s closed? Since when? You tap the notification and type back, “Why’s the gym closed?”

Her reply comes almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting for you to ask. “not the owner idk.”

You let out a small laugh. Typical. You send back a thumbs up, followed by, “Address?”

The response is swift, as expected. An address pops up. Before you can click out of the chat, your eyes catch the last message from her—a view-only-once photo she’d sent a week ago. You hadn’t responded, but the image lingers in your mind like a stubborn song.

It was late that night, after your workout session. She’d texted you out of the blue, asking about squat positions. You’d rolled your eyes, knowing full well she’d already mastered the form. But then the photo came through—a view-only-once shot of her hips, the curve of her waist accentuated by the dim lighting. Her skin had looked soft, almost glowing, the faint shadow of her sports bra strap cutting across her back. The caption read: “sooo sore.”

You hadn’t replied. You never did. But the image stayed with you, popping up at the most inconvenient times—like now, as you sit on the metro. You shift in your seat, bouncing your legs lightly as the train slows into the next station. The address she sent isn’t too far—just five stops past the gym. You exit the chat and pull up the map, double-checking the route.

You’ve been Ning’s fitness coach for a little over three months now. When she first walked into the gym, you didn’t recognize her—not that you would’ve, anyway. You don’t keep up with pop music or the latest celebrities. But even then, there was something about her that made her hard to ignore.

She’d strutted in wearing a pink tracksuit that hugged her figure a little too perfectly, the zipper pulled down just enough to reveal a sliver of a sports bra underneath. Her hair was styled in loose waves, and her makeup was flawless, as if she’d just stepped out of a photoshoot rather than a workout session. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly how much space she deserved to take up, a cold confidence bordering on arrogance.

Yet, there was a playfulness to her too, something appreciative in her eyes as they swept over you, lingering for a moment too long on your arms, your shoulders, your stomach. It wasn’t subtle—the way she looked you up and down, as if judging you but couldn’t quite decide if she approved.

“Are you my new trainer?” she’d asked, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a practiced ease. Her voice was light, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it, like she was testing you.

Far from impressed, you’d nodded, your tone flat. “If you’re Ning, then yes.”

She’d smirked, as if your indifference amused her. “Lucky me,” she’d said, dragging out the words like she was savoring them.

At first, you thought she’d be like most of your clients—rich, entitled, and quick to quit when the workouts got too hard. But Ning surprised you. She showed up consistently, pushed herself harder than anyone you’d trained in a while, and never complained. Well, almost never. She had a habit of backtalking, questioning your methods with a snark that made it clear she was just trying to get under your skin.

And she did. Not in the way she probably intended, though.

It wasn’t that you were affected by her. You weren’t. But you noticed things—the way she’d “accidentally” brush against you while reaching for a water bottle, her fingers grazing yours just long enough to make you wonder if it was on purpose. The way she’d stretch in front of you, her movements slow, as if she were putting on a show. The late-night texts she’d send, asking about workout tips you’d already explained a dozen times, only to follow up with a photo that had nothing to do with it.

You told yourself it was harmless. That she was just being Ning—playful, flirty, and a little too confident for her own good. But you couldn’t deny that she had a way of testing your patience, of pushing boundaries you hadn’t even realized were there.

Like the time she’d placed her hand on the small of your back, her touch light but lingering, as she leaned in to ask a question about her form. Or the way she’d laugh at her own jokes, her eyes sparkling as she looked at you like she knew something you didn’t.

You didn’t let it get to you. You couldn’t.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step into the hallway, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps. The air smells faintly of vanilla, mixed with the crisp, clean scent of expensive cleaning products. The walls are lined with modern art, the kind that looks like it costs more than your monthly rent, and the soft hum of the building’s heater system fills the silence.

You follow the numbers on the doors until you reach hers. The gold plaque beside the door reads “Penthouse A” in sleek, minimalist font. There’s muffled music coming from inside—a rap song with a heavy bassline that thrums through the door. Adjusting the strap of your duffel bag, you knock twice.

The door opens almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting on the other side. Ning leans against the frame, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s dressed in a white top that stopped just below her navel and a pair of booty shorts that hugged her curves in a way that felt almost intentional. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, a few strands framing her face, and her lips curved down as she takes you in.

She tilts her head, her gaze trailing slowly from your hoodie to your navy blue shorts, lingering for a beat too long on the exposed skin of your legs. “You know it’s freezing, right?” she says, her voice lilting with mock concern, though the glint in her eyes gives her away. “Did you even check the temperature before leaving the house?”

You shrug, the movement loose and unbothered. “I run hot,” you say, your tone dry.

Ning steps aside, her arm brushing against yours as you pass her. The contact is brief, almost accidental, but her lips curve into a small smile as she closes the door behind you.

The living room stretches out before you, bathed in the warm glow of a single floor lamp. The city glitters through the windows, a painting of lights blurred by the faint condensation on the glass. A yoga mat lies in the center of the room, flanked by a pair of dumbbells in front of the t.v. The air carries a faint sweetness—vanilla, maybe—mixed with the crispness of clean linen.

“Nice place,” you say, toeing off your shoes before dropping your bag by the mat.

“Thanks.” Her voice floats from behind you, light and airy. She moves toward the kitchen, her steps unhurried, the soft swish of her shorts brushing against her thighs. The muffled bass of a rap song pulses faintly in the background.

She opens the fridge, the cool light spilling over her face as she glances over her shoulder. “Can I get you a drink?” Her white nails tap lightly against the door, a casual rhythm that matches the beat of the music. “Water? Tea? Something stronger?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”  You kneel by your bag, unzipping it with a sharp tug. The sound of Ning rummaging in the kitchen fills the silence—the clink of glass, the soft hiss of water from the tap. When you glance up, she’s leaning against the counter, a glass dangling from her fingers.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” she asks, her head tilting slightly. The light catches the curve of her neck, the faint sheen of sweat already glistening at her collarbone.

“I’m good, love,” you say, pulling out the resistance band. The material stretches taut between your hands as you test its give, the snap of rubber sharp.

She hums, low and noncommittal, “Love,” before pushing off the counter. “That’s new.” Her footsteps are soft against the hardwood as she crosses the room, glass still in hand. She sets it down on the coffee table.

You hum back distractedly. Dismissive.

“So,” she says, turning to face you. Her arms cross over her chest, drawing attention to the way her top rides up just enough to reveal a winking jewel nestled in her belly button. The light catches the piercing, sending a faint glimmer. “What’s the plan for today?”

You stand, the resistance band still in hand, and gesture toward the mat. “Warm-up first. Then we’ll work on your core.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a laugh. “My core, huh?” She steps onto the mat, slowly , savoring the way your eyes follow her. She pauses, tilting her head slightly, her ponytail swaying with the motion.

“What do you think of my progress so far?” she asks, her voice light but laced with something sharper. Without waiting for an answer, she turns around, her hands resting on her hips as she glances over her shoulder. The curve of her waist dips into the swell of her hips, the fabric of her shorts clinging just enough to emphasize the shape of her ass.

When she turns back around, the outline of her breasts is unmistakable, the peaks of her nipples pressing against the fabric as she shifts her weight slightly. Her stomach is taut, the faint shadow of muscle definition visible beneath her smooth skin. Every movement she makes—the slight arch of her back, the way her shoulders roll as she adjusts her stance—draws attention to the lines of her body, lean and sculpted but undeniably soft in all the right places.

You step closer, the resistance band still dangling from your fingers. Your eyes trail over her body, oh so slowly, taking in what you hadn’t let yourself linger on before.

You don’t rush. You take your time, letting your eyes roam over every detail, every inch of her.

When your eyes finally meet hers, she’s still looking at you, lips parted slightly, like she’s waiting for you to say something. Anything.

You don’t disappoint.

“You’ve got the kind of body,” you say, pausing, your voice low and steady, “that makes me want to skip the workout and just fuck you right here on this mat.”

For a moment, she freezes. Her lips part slightly, a soft inhale catching in her throat, and her eyes widen just enough to betray the shock she’s trying to hide.

She then bites her lower lip—plump, teasing, the kind of mouth that makes you wonder how much work she could put into something if she really tried. The glint in her eyes sharpens, flickering between shock and something darker, something intrigued.

But before she can regain her footing, you’re already pulling away. Your face smooths into cool indifference, like the last five seconds hadn’t just happened, like you didn’t just knock her off balance and leave her scrambling for control. Let her chew on that for a while.

The corner of your mouth twitches, barely noticeable. You lean back, exuding nothing but ease, like you weren’t the one who just set fire to the air between you.

“Let’s get to work.” The sharp clap of your hands slices through the tension, final, dismissive.

For a beat, she doesn’t move. Then, a soft, breathy laugh escapes her—equal parts incredulous and amused. She tilts her head, smirk curling slow and taunting. “That’s it?” she says, her voice thick with mock disappointment. “No follow-through? Figures.”

The taunt is obvious—bait, a challenge wrapped in condescension. She’s used to winning, used to having people scramble to impress her. She’s trying to make it sound like you’re the one who can’t keep up.

You don’t take it.

Instead, you pick up the resistance band, rolling it between your fingers, your grip tightening just slightly. Follow-through? She’ll get it. Just not the way she’s expecting.

“Warm-up first,” you say, tone all business, as if you hadn’t just said something filthy enough to make her breath hitch. “Then we’ll hit your core.”

Her eyes flick to your hands, then back to your face, her smirk deepening like she’s already imagining ways to make you crack.

Good. Let her try.

The workout begins, and it doesn’t take long for Ning to start pushing boundaries.

During side lunges, she sways her hips with every rep, exaggerating the movement just enough to make you notice. The curve of her ass so fucking alluring as she dips low, her shorts riding up with each motion, teasing more skin than they cover. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She glances over her shoulder, catching your eyes flicker—just for a second. Her lips curl, slow and knowing.

“Am I doing this right?” she asks, voice drenched in faux innocence. To drive the point home, she arches her back ever so slightly, her sports bra straining against her chest.

You twist your lips. “Lower your stance,” you say, voice flat, unreadable. But when you step in to adjust her form, your hands hovering just over her hips, you don’t miss the sharp inhale she takes, the way her breath catches for half a second before she steadies herself. The heat radiating from her skin, even through the fabric, doesn’t go unnoticed either.

She doesn’t make it easy.

During planks, she shifts her weight, her body trembling just enough to make it obvious. As she lowers herself a fraction more, her cleavage pushes forward, a bead of sweat tracing a slow path down her collarbone.

“This is harder than it looks,” she says, voice breathy, teasing. You catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes, the way she’s barely biting back a smile.

By the time you move to resistance band exercises, she’s fully committed to the game. She stands in front of the mirror, positioned just right so she can watch you watching her.

The band stretches tight around her feet, her thighs flexing with the effort, shoulders rolling back. Her breath comes slow, controlled, her lips parting slightly as she exhales. But it’s the way her gaze flickers—to your mouth, just for a split second—that makes your fingers twitch.

“How’s my form now?” she asks, her voice dipping lower, threading with something suggestive. She already knows the answer.

“Better,” you say, tone even, detached. But the slight clench of your jaw betrays you.

And she sees it.

The workout is over, but the tension lingers—thick, heavy, undeniable.

You're sprawled out on the couch, legs spread, back sinking into the cushions, muscles still burning from exertion. Sweat clings to your skin, cooling in slow, sticky trails. Your breathing is heavy, labored, chest rising and falling in deep, steady pulls. Across the room, Ning isn't much better—her shirt damp, her skin glistening under the low glow.

The only sound, aside from your breathing, is Flo Milli playing low in the background—sharp beats and cocky lyrics.

You watch her. Unapologetically now.

Ning stays stretching on the mat, rolling out her shoulders, arching her back in a way that puts her body on full display—whether it’s for you or just because she knows you’re looking, you can’t be sure. She tilts her head as she leans into a side stretch, her hair sticking to the damp curve of her neck, her breath coming out in slow, steady exhales.

Your fingers tap idly against your thigh. But the pressure between your legs is a different story—half-hard, pressing against the fabric of your shorts, aching just enough to make you bite down on the inside of your cheek.

Ning’s eyes flick toward your lap. And for once, she doesn’t smirk. She just watches back, lips slightly parted, chest still rising and falling with exertion.

“Look at me,” you say, voice low, firm.

She does.

And then—

“Take your top off.”

Ning doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts, languidly, sitting up on her knees on the mat, her hands sliding over her thighs as she straightens.

Her gaze stays locked on yours as her fingers hook under the hem of her top. She drags the fabric up over her stomach, revealing inch after inch of glistening skin, the defined lines of her full waist, the swell of her tits beneath the tight compression of her bra.

She peels it off in one slow motion, arms raising above her head, back arching slightly as she pulls the damp shirt over her head. The movement makes her chest lift, makes the slick skin of her stomach tighten, and you catch the way her breath shudders as the air rushes over her overheated body.

The shirt drops to the floor.

She sits there, on her knees, looking up at you, her white sports bra dark with sweat, clinging to her like a second skin. The fabric outlines everything—the perky buds, the goosebumps.

Her fingers trail absentmindedly over her thighs, nails scraping lightly over damp skin as she holds your gaze, her chin tilting up just enough to look like a challenge.

Your fingers stop tapping against your thigh.

And then—

"Come here," you say, voice rough, thick with something that coils tight in your stomach.

Ning's lips curve, slow and taunting, but she doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, she shifts her weight forward slightly, tilting her head. "That all?" she asks, voice low, teasing, her eyes flickering down, then back up again, like she's daring you to give her something more.

Your patience is razor-thin.

"Now," you say, sharper this time.

And this time, she listens.

Ning moves.

Slow. Cat-like.

She leans forward, pressing her palms flat against the mat, and starts crawling toward you.

Her hips sway behind her with each measured shift of her body, her back arching slightly, the smooth curve of her waist rolling with every movement. She keeps her eyes on you the entire time—heavy-lidded, dark with intent, burning with something teasing, something so fucking sexy.

That look—it sinks into your skin, into your chest, into the heat pooling low in your stomach.

Her gaze flickers down for a second—just for a second—to your lap, to where your fingers have already moved between your legs, pressing. She sees it all. The way your hand is pressing against the hard, aching shape of your dick in your shorts. The way your thumb drags along the waistband like you’re debating just how far you’ll let this go.

And fuck, the way she looks at it.

She licks her lips—takes it between her front teeth. Then her lashes flutter as she looks back up at you, her eyes molten, her smirk barely-there but devastating all the same.

You don’t stop.

Your fingers tighten around your cock, your palm pressing down, pleased at the attention. You want her to watch.

She keeps moving.

Every inch she crawls forward, the space between you shrinks, the tension growing thick, charged, a live wire stretched between your bodies. You can feel her heat before she even touches you. The scent of sweat, of skin, of something unmistakably hers, seeping into the space between your knees.

And then she stops.

Right between your legs.

Her hands rest on your thighs, light at first, barely-there touches that only make the burn under your skin worse. She tilts her head, eyes dragging over your face, then down—down to your mouth, down to your hand, down to where your cock is begging for something, anything.

She breathes out, soft, amused.

“So impatient,” she laments, her voice sweet and taunting, her nails dragging the slightest bit over your skin. “Didn’t even wait for me.”

But you don’t miss the way her own breath shudders at the sight, the way her fingers flex against your thighs like she’s trying to stop herself from moving too fast.

Like she’s just as desperate as you are.

Your eyes drag over her, taking in every inch, feeling every emotion—she’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth of her body between your legs, her hands still resting lightly on your thighs, fingers tracing barely-there patterns.

You let her sit there for a moment, just looking. Letting the weight of your gaze settle over her.

“Take it off.”

Your voice is low, even, but there’s no mistaking the command.

Ning tilts her head, her smirk deepening, playful and knowing. But she listens.

Her fingers move to the band of her sports bra, gripping the fabric, pulling it up—deliciously slow, enough to tease you. The damp material peels away from her skin, revealing inch by inch, until it drops to the floor beside her.

Your stomach tightens.

She’s so fucking sexy like this – flushed, glistening, every inch of her begging to be touched. Her breasts are perfect, soft and perky, the kind that makes your mouth go dry and your pulse spike. Her nipples are already hard, pebbled from the cool air—or maybe from the way your eyes drag over her, slow and unrelenting. You don’t know. You don’t care. All that matters is the ache in your hands, the hunger curling deep in your gut, the overwhelming need to touch, to taste, to take.

The way she stretches, the way her hands ghost over her tits, teasing pink nipples, knowing exactly what she’s doing. She rolls her shoulders back, letting herself be seen, and you catch the slight rise of her chest as she exhales, the way her thumb and index pinch her own skin, toying, testing.

You let your tongue swipe over your bottom lip, “You like showing off, don’t you?”

Ning moans, dragging her nails down her stomach, slow and absentminded. “You like watching,” she counters, her voice sweet, teasing, but there’s something darker under it now—something just as sharp as the way she looks at you.

And yet—

She looks up at you through her lashes, lips curving. “Do you like me like this?” Her fingers press a little harder against your thighs, a deliberate shift. “A pretty princess like me, sitting on the floor for you?”

She’s high maintenance, that much is clear. A spoiled little thing who knows exactly how much power she holds in a moment like this.

Your breath comes out slow, controlled, but the fabric of your shorts strains against your cock, already hard and throbbing, the tip damp and sensitive where it presses against the material. Every shift of your hips, every breath Ning takes, makes the coil of tension inside your stomach wind tighter, hotter, until it feels like you’re one touch away from snapping.

God, she’s something else.

And you need to take it up a notch.   You watch her, a smile spreading across your face as you take her in once more. “You want me to like you like this, huh?” you ask, voice thick with amusement.

You don’t break eye contact as you lean in, “I do love you like this,” you admit, the truth leaving your mouth like a slow burn. “A pretty little thing on your knees, looking up at me like you want to take my dick. Like you’ll do anything for me to fuck you the way you need it.”

Your hand slides from your thigh to grip her chin firmly, tilting her face up to meet yours. You let your thumb trace the curve of her cheek, dragging down to her throat, “But you’re going to have to work for it,” you murmur. “I want to see you begging. See how far you’ll go to make me want you more. If you can do that, then maybe I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Your eyes trail down her form, “Get ready, love. You’re gonna need more than just a pretty face to get me to give in. Touch yourself." Your voice is rough with desire, leaving no room for backtalk as you lean back against the cushions.

Ning’s breath catches, just for a second. She doesn’t move right away—she lets the moment stretch, lets the silence thicken, lets you wait. But then, finally, her fingers start to trail lower, one hand skimming over your lap, and the other continues its trail down her pelvis, teasing herself just as much as she’s teasing you.

Your eyes stay locked on her, dark, but your hands aren’t still either. One slips inside your shorts to grab at your cock, while the other drags under your shirt, up your torso, under your bra, fingers brushing skin before finding your breast. You toy with yourself lazily, rolling a nipple between your fingers, watching the way her gaze flickers—between your hands, your mouth, your eyes.

She’s breathing harder now, her body tense with anticipation, her thighs pressing together like she’s feeling the weight of your stare everywhere at once.

"Show me how you touch yourself thinking of me."

Her lashes flutter, her fingers finally dipping lower, and the moment she touches her pussy over her shorts, the sound that slips past her lips—soft, breathy, wrecked—makes something tighten inside you, sharp and unrelenting.

And still, neither of you look away.

Especially you. Not when her fingers press gently against her shorts, the outline of her pussy unmistakable, the puffy shape of her lips visible beneath the thin material. She rubs herself at a teasing rhythm that makes it clear she knows exactly how much it’s affecting you.

She keeps her touch light at first— the fabric clings to her, dampening with each press of her fingers, and you watch as she traces the seam of her shorts, feeling the way the pressure makes her hips shift, seeking something—more, more of her fingers. And more of your dick.

Her breath hitches, a soft sound that carries through the room, and her touch grows more urgent, her fingers pressing harder, making circles over her clit through the fabric. The shallow, uneven rhythm of her breath fills the space between you, and you don’t miss the tremor that runs through her thighs, or the subtle arch of her back as she grinds against her own hand, pushing for more friction, more sensation.

“Like this?” Her voice is quieter, breathless, teasing, but with an edge. It’s charged, heavy, and you can feel the way her gaze locks with yours, so hungry. It’s a question, yes—but it’s also an invitation.

You make a low sound of approval, a soft hum that vibrates in your chest, before your hand pats your lap, the gesture clear. And Ning doesn’t hesitate. She settles onto your lap, her body fitting against yours in all the right fucking ways. You feel the heat of her skin, the warmth of her pussy pressing against you even through the barrier of clothing, and it’s enough to make your cock throb, already hard and leaking against the fabric of your shorts.

She feels it too—the way it presses deeper, pulsing, the shape firm and insistent even through the thin barrier of fabric. Each shift, each subtle movement, each brush of the fat head pressing against her.

The music changes. The sound is light, playful, but charged with an energy that mirrors the way you’re both moving. Ning giggles, something light and teasing as she shifts, her hands traveling over your shoulders, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck. She leans in, brushing her lips close to your ear.

“That’s my song,” she whispers.

You feel the heat of her words settle between you, but there’s a different kind of heat now—the kind you can feel all over, the way her pussy starts sliding over your cock, the friction just enough to make your hips jerk forward instinctively.

“Let’s fuck to it.” Your voice is quieter, and without hesitation, you press your hips closer to hers. It’s a slow burn, a pressure building, each movement of her hips grinding against you sending shockwaves through your body.

“Let’s record it.” You feel her shift again, grinding just a little harder, her body rocking with the beat of the song. Each movement makes your cock strain against the fabric of your shorts—it feels like too much and not enough all at once, every inch of her body pressing against you, her warmth seeping through the thin material. Your cock is leaking at this point, the tip slick and sensitive where it presses against her clit.

 Your hands slide down her sides, fingers digging into the curve of her hips as she grinds against you. She’s driving you absolutely wild. The heat is unbearable, but you’re not done teasing her yet.

One hand slips lower, fingers tracing the curve of her ass before you bring your palm down in a sharp, stinging slap, skin on skin. The sound echoes, and Ning gasps, her body jerking forward against yours.

"Mmm," she exhales, her voice unsteady yet laced with something playful. A slow smile tugs at her lips, and her eyes gleam with mischief as she gazes down at you.

You smirk, your hand lingering on the warm, reddening skin. “You’d like that,” your voice low and rough, “seeing how I’d fuck you senseless to your songs? Watching yourself bounce on my dick while your own music plays in the background?”

Ning laughs, a soft, breathy sound. She shifts her weight, grinding harder against you, her hips rolling in a way that makes your cock throb. “Wouldn’t you?” she teases, her voice dripping with playful arrogance. “This ass was made to be seen over, and over again.”

“Damn right,” you agree, your fingers digging into her flesh as you pull her closer, your lips brushing against her ear. “And this ass?” You give her another slap, harder. “This ass is fucking. perfect.”

She moans back, high and needy, and you feel her body tremble against yours. Her fingers tighten around your shoulders, nails pressing into your skin as your hands glide over her waist, fingers curving possessively around her sides. With a firm pull, you guide her hips back—against your hard bulge.

Ning’s breath catches, a sharp inhale before she tosses her hair over her shoulder. Then, without hesitation, she leans in, lips grazing your neck before sucking softly at your pulse. Her tongue flicks out, tracing a slow, heated path from the base of your throat to your ear, the sensation sending an army of goosebumps all over your spine. And just as the warmth of her breath ghosts over your skin, she moves—hips rolling forward, grinding the cleft of her pussy lips right on the outline of your cock.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” you reply, your voice steady despite the fire burning inside you.

“Mmm,” she keens, her voice barely above a whisper. “Imagine what else I can do with my mouth.”

You grin, and your hand slides around to her front, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts, and she gasps so prettily, her hips bucking against your touch. Your fingers tease and tease her fold through skimpy fabric – and damn, is that a thong? – feeling how wet her pussy is. “You’re making me want to skip all that,” you say, your voice thick with desire to fuck her already. “Skip all of it and fuck you right away.”

Ning’s breath crumbles into stuttered gasps, her eyes locking with yours as she grinds against your hand, and you deliberately slide in one knuckle … then the next, the juices of her arousal giving you easy entrance despite the very tight clench of her inner walls. You can feel them fluttering, soft flesh enveloping your finger and almost sucking it in while she keeps at moaning and grinding.

Your eyes drop to her tits, the sight of her pert nipples, so hard and begging for attention. You don’t hesitate—you lean in, capturing one nipple between your lips, sucking hard, your tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. The sharp gasp that escapes her lips is music to your ears, and you feel her body arch into you, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

This close you can taste the salt on her skin, feel the way her breath hitches, the way her hips grind against yours. She bites her lip, a high-pitched moan slipping past her clenched teeth as you switch to her other nipple, giving it the same attention. Her back arches, her body trembling under your touch, and you can’t resist the urge to slap her ass again, hard.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, her voice breaking as her nails dig into your shoulders, her hips rocking against you, desperate for more friction, more of you. “Don’t stop,” she breathes, her words barely coherent, her body writhing under your hands and mouth.

You pull back just enough to look up at her, your lips glistening, her nipples red and swollen from your attention. Your hand keeps sliding over her cunt and the other still grips her ass, squeezing hard. “You like it when I take what I want?”

She nods, her eyes dark with need, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Yes,” she whispers, her voice trembling, her body pressing into yours, begging for more. “Don’t stop.”

You smirk, your hand coming down on her ass again, the sharp sting making her cry out, her body jerking against yours.

“Oh, God…” Ning says, her voice trembling. She lifts herself slightly, just enough to slip her fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts. The elastic drags against your skin as you help her ease them down, before your cock finally snaps free. Her gaze lowers, drawn between your bodies, her lips parting slightly as she takes in the sight of you— dick resting thick and heavy against the flat plane of her stomach, the contrast making her breath hitch.  The hand that had been teasing her pussy, slick with her wetness, moves to grip your cock, the warmth of her arousal coating your skin as you tap the tip against her stomach. Both of your fluid smear across her skin as you tease her.

“Think you can handle it?” you ask, cockily, your grip tightening slightly as you drag the head of your cock across her skin. The question hangs in the air, as you watch her reaction, your thumb brushing over the sensitive tip, smearing a bead of pre-cum.

Ning bites her lip, her eyes dark with mischief as she brings her thumb to your lips, pressing it gently against them. Her touch is soft, her nail sliding against your lower lip and before you can react, she pushes your hand away from your cock, her fingers wrapping around you instead. Her grip is firm, her thumb brushing over the sensitive head, and it’s your turn to curse, your hips jerking instinctively.

“I’ve seen bigger,” she says, her voice teasing, her lips curving into a smirk as she looks up at you. Right … It makes you laugh, a light, rumbling sound that vibrates through your chest, but the way her hand moves on you quickly sobers you up.

Thick beads of precum meet her fingers as she delves right up to the head, her soft fingertips massaging your aching gland, rubbing the slit with a precision that makes your breath hitch. You sigh, your hand gripping the flesh of her ass, fingers digging into her skin as she works you with practiced ease. Ning moans softly, her thumb brushing light, curved paths under the very tip of your cock, the sensation sending a shudder through the root of you and pushing up a fresh gush of precum—right onto her waiting hand.

She circles your slit, slowly, before starting a slide up and down your length, her palm slicked with your precum. The wet, sticky sound of her hand moving on you fills the room, mingling with the soft, breathy noises escaping your lips. Her eyes never leave yours, her gaze heavy with intent.

“But I bet,” she murmurs, her voice a sultry whisper, thick with mischief. Her thumb pressing against the sensitive underside of your cock, “you’ve never had this kind of pussy in your life.”

 Ning’s words hang in the air, but instead of responding, you decide to take matters into your own hands. In one swift, decisive motion, you flip her onto her stomach, throwing her face down onto the couch. Her surprised gasp is muffled by the cushions, but it quickly turns into a laugh—soft, breathy, and dripping with amusement.

“Let’s put it to the test,” you say, your voice low and rough, your hands gripping her hips as you position yourself behind her.

Ning doesn’t resist. Instead, she arches her back, presenting herself to you. Turning her head just enough to catch your gaze, her lips curve to the side, amusement dancing in her gaze. “Mmm, I hit a nerve?” she purrs, her voice lilting, teasing, as she gives the smallest sway of her hips—just enough to taunt, just enough to push you further.

You don’t answer. She titters once again.

You tug your shirt off in one sharp motion, leaving you in just your bra, the cool air brushing against your heated skin. Your hands move to her shorts, fingers hooking into the waistband and yanking them down the round of her ass. The sight that greets you makes your breath catch—a black thong, barely there, framing her ass perfectly. The fabric clings to her, accentuating the curve of her back dips into the rise of her ass, still red from the marks of your palm. The muscles there are taut but soft, the kind that begs to be touched.

“Jesus.” You mutter, marvelling next at the faint stretch marks that curve along the sides of her hips, subtle and easy to miss.

Ning glances back at you again, her smirk widening. “Like what you see?” she asks, her hips swaying again – she knows too well what it’s doing to you.

Her breathing hitches when your hand settles on her ass, the warmth of your palm so much better than the with the cool air against her skin. You tug the thong aside, the fabric sliding against her slick folds with a soft, wet noise that makes you shiver.

Her pussy is a work of art, glistening and swollen, the kind of pretty that makes your mouth water and your cock aches. The lips are full and puffy, a delicate shade of pink that deepens to a flushed red where her arousal pools. The folds are soft, almost velvety, parting slightly, begging for you, the wetness coating her thighs and glistening under the light. Her clit peeks out from its hood, swollen and sensitive, a tiny bead of desire that seems to pulse with every shaky breath she takes.

It’s so perfect, so hers. You want to ruin it in the best way possible.

A firm push of your thumb, and she stretches open, taking your digit with a low, raspy gasp that almost breaks into a moan. Her eyes flutter shut, her face flushing hot as she tries to steady her breathing, but it’s just not possible with the way your thumb plunges deep, exploring her slowly, dragging out with accurate precision.

And when your thumb slides free, she lets out a faint, protesting whine, but you don’t give her a chance to recover. Instead, you bring your hand down in sharp, stinging smacks—one after the other—each one landing on a different cheek with a satisfying crack, the sound mingling with her breathy cries.

By the time you’re done, she’s reduced to a trembling, sobbing cry-baby, her body arching into your touch even as she tries to catch her breath. You don’t let up. Leaning forward, you press your hips heavily against her ass, your cock grinding against her slick mound from beneath. The friction is delicious, the heat of her body searing against yours as you rock against her, light veins rough grinding against her clit.

“You want this dick? Hmm?” you tease, sliding your cock across her slick entrance, the tip catching on her soft, trembling lips. You can feel her warmth, the way her body quivers in anticipation, and it’s almost too much to resist. Ning tenses, her breath hitching as she fights to hold herself together, but her body betrays her. Her pussy is greedy, desperate, and even the slightest pressure has the head of your cock sinking in, her wetness making it impossible to resist. She gasps, a sharp, broken sound, and you can’t help but smirk. That’s how wet she is—how much she wants you…

She can barely speak, much less think on her own.

She wants you. She wants you. She wants you so badly. So blindly, bad!

She’s barely coherent, her mind a blank slate as she arches beneath you, blindly reaching out, her fingers clawing at the air as if she could pull you closer. Her heart pounds in her ears, a frantic rhythm that matches the way her body trembles. A desperate, whimpering sound escapes her lips, and you know she’s lost in this moment, consumed by the need for you. Everything else has faded away—there’s only you, only this.

A deep, pulsing ache coils inside her, an unbearable emptiness that leaves her trembling with need. It’s maddening—the way she craves you, the way her body betrays her with every shallow breath, every instinctive movement. She’s drunk on anticipation, on the slow, torturous build of what’s to come, until she can’t help but press back, rolling her hips in search of more.

And then—relief, sharp and so good. The head slips fully inside, stretching her open, and a strangled cry spills from her lips. Her walls grip you instinctively, clinging tight, as if trying to hold you there, refusing to let you go.

The sensation is dizzying, your teeth sinking into your lip hard enough to taste copper, the world narrowing to nothing but the slick, suffocating heat of her cunt.

“Hmm, fuck,” you breathe out, a laugh tumbling from your lips—breathless, almost delirious. Slowly, you pull back, just enough to make her feel the loss, before sinking in again. Her walls yield effortlessly, wrapping around you, in a scorching, velvet embrace that pulses and grips, the sensation so intense it sends a shudder down your spine to your toes. You shift, angling your hips just right, upwards, and the effect is immediate—another broken moan spills from her lips, her back arching as pleasure rips through her.

"Aah—slow down, s-slow d—" she stammers, her voice barely a whisper beneath the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

But you’re not feeling generous. Leaning in, your fingers tangle into her hair, tightening at the roots as you pull her head back, forcing her to meet your gaze.

” But you’ve had bigger?" you murmur against her ear, voice dark and edged with something primal. To punctuate your words, you thrust deep, savoring the way her body reacts—how she clenches around you, how her eyes squeeze shut as she cries out your name like a prayer. And Ning just takes it like a champ, her hole suckling at the base of your cock like a good cunt. Like a good whore. “Hmm? Answer me.”

And to drive the point home, you quicken your pace, each snap of your hips merciless, relentless. Her cries grow louder, more urgent, every stroke pushing her closer to the edge. Your grip in her hair tightens as you lean in, voice rough and demanding—

"Answer."

“No,” she gasps, her voice cracking, barely holding together as she struggles to form words. "Hmm—fuck, no, I lied," She reaches back, fingers grasping at you in a desperate attempt to slow you down, but you catch her wrist with ease, pinning it behind her back. A quiet, defeated whimper escapes her, but it only fuels you.

Your other hand grips the soft curve of her ass, fingers digging into heated skin before you drag her back onto you with a sharp, punishing thrust. She screams—high, broken, the sound raw with pleasure and something dangerously close to surrender.

The room is filled with it—the sharp slap of skin meeting skin, the ragged sobs that spill from her lips, the wet, obscene sounds of her taking every inch of you. Your moans. You don’t let up. You can’t. You drive into her harder, deeper, until her toes curl and her entire body quakes beneath you, pleasure teetering on the edge of something unbearably exquisite.

She’s a mess beneath you—shaking, breathless, her thighs trembling, her ass flushed and hot beneath your grip. And you can’t get enough. Not of the way she clings to you, not of the way she tightens around you like she could die if you let her go, like she’s trying to milk every drop from you.

And she really didn’t lie. It’s the best pussy you’ve ever had.

The distant thrum of music plays in the background, muffled and insignificant against the raw sounds of her pleasure—ragged breaths, gasping moans, the soft, wet suck of your cock inside of her.

You press her into the couch, your weight a delicious burden, pinning her beneath you as you drive into her with ruthless precision. Every thrust forces a choked cry from her lips, her body arching instinctively, desperate to take you deeper as she starts pleading to keep going.

But you don’t.

Slowly, you withdraw, savoring the way her walls clutch at you, slick and trembling, reluctant to let you leave. The sight of her—stretched, quivering, her body begging for more—sends a dark pulse of satisfaction through you.

And then, just as her fingers tighten in protest, you feed her the tip of your cock, slowly fucking into her. The drag is delicious.

“Oh, look at that." your grip tightens around the back of her neck, pressing her deeper into the cushions as you claim her. The strain burns through your arms and thighs, but you don’t stop. There’s no stopping this. Your hips drive forward with relentless force, each thrust sending shockwaves through her body. "You're so fucking pretty when you're screaming my name, Ning."

Those moans, broken and breathless, feed the fire curling low in your spine. You're close—so fucking close.

For a moment, you pause, chest heaving, grounding yourself in the sight of her beneath you. But Ning isn’t having it. She pushes back onto you, hips rolling in desperation, her body greedy for more. Her moans come in shattered gasps, trembling with need and you can’t help but groan at the sight of her ass bouncing against your hips, her pussy dripping with every thrust.

“Hmm, you’re so big,” she whimpers, cries, voice raw, breath hitching as she arches her back, taking you deeper. “Oh, fuck!”

Your gaze is heavy, hooded, as you watch yourself disappear into her, each lsnguid thrust mesmerizing. The sight of her—sprawled out, pussy taking you so greedily—sends a thrill curling through you.

She rolls her hips on the next drag, making her ass jiggle, thighs slapping against your skin as she forces you deeper, desperate, insatiable. It’s like she’s been starving for this, for you, ever since she first laid eyes on you.

A low, guttural moan tears from your throat as you pull back before slamming into her again, harder, faster. The pace turns frantic, all restraint shattering. Ning’s cries pitch higher, her body bowing against the force of your thrusts. Her thighs shake, her ass reddened beneath your grip, and she can feel herself dripping, her pussy throbbing with an imminent release. She’s dripping, throbbing, falling apart beneath you, and when she whimpers your name, voice ragged and desperate, it nearly undoes you.

She’s screaming now, her body writhing beneath you as you fuck her through her orgasm, fucking her like she’s nothing more than a whore, your hands sliding down from her waist, pressing two fingers to her engorged clit, and she can’t even scream, her pussy clenches around you as she comes, her body shaking with the force of it. You’re right behind, gripping her tightly as you pulse inside her and fill her with your release, the sensation so intense it leaves you breathless.

#kpop smut #aespa smut #ningning smut #gxg smut #girl group smut #gg smut #ningning x reader

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winwintea · 2 days ago

Text

stolen dance

PAIRING ↬ idol!park jisung x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ romance, fluff, they dance a bit, there is totally no angst, i would never lie!

SUMMARY ↬ jisung has been teaching you how to dance lately. but is it really to teach you or is jisung using these dances as a form of escapism to hold onto a deeper secret?

WORD COUNT ↬ 2.8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ in classic winwintea fashion here is jisung's birthday fic <33 suffer.

PLAYLIST ↬ stolen dance - milky chance; show me the meaning of being lonely - backstreet boys

“Alright, alright, one more time!”

Jisung grins, as he claps his hands and beckons you to step back into the middle of the room.

The living room is bathed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows across the room. The faint hum of a speaker plays an upbeat pop track, its rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat through the air. A pile of mismatched socks and sneakers sits abandoned by the couch, proof of your long evening spent dancing. You groan dramatically, flopping onto the couch instead. “I can’t feel my legs anymore, Jisung. This is basically torture.”

“Nope, no quitting!” he says, darting over and tugging you up by the wrists. His hands are warm, steady, and they pull you effortlessly to your feet. “We’re not done until you can at least try to keep up with me.”

You roll your eyes but smile, letting him guide you into position. “I’m only doing this because you’re making me, you know.”

Jisung smirks. “And because you secretly love it. Admit it, you want to keep up with me on stage one day.”

“Oh, sure,” you laugh, stumbling a little as he begins to guide you through a spin. “Me, a world-class dancer. We’re talking about K-pop standards too. Totally believable.”

“Hey, don’t doubt yourself like that!” Jisung says, catching your hand to stop your wobble. “Besides, I’m a great teacher. You’ll be better than me in no time.”

“Better than you? Let’s not get carried away.”

He steps back, giving you a playful once-over. “Okay, fine, maybe not better. But decent. Maybe passable.”

You swat at his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder.

The music shifts to a softer beat, and Jisung takes a step closer. “Alright, let’s try that one move again. Step left, then cross. No, your other left—”

You fumble the step, tripping slightly, and Jisung reaches out just in time to steady you. His arm loops around your waist, holding you close for a moment.

“Gotcha,” he says softly, his voice losing its teasing edge for a second.

You look up at him, breathless but grinning. “You know, for someone who claims to be a great teacher, you’re not very patient.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “And for someone who says they hate dancing, you’re not as bad as you think.”

The room feels still for a beat, the music fading into the background. Jisung’s dark eyes linger on yours, something unspoken passing between you. It’s the kind of gaze that makes your heart skip, though you can’t quite place why.

“Anyway!” Jisung suddenly blurts, breaking the moment as he steps back with a sheepish grin. “Let’s try again. I’ll slow it down this time, I promise.”

“Good. My feet are already filing a complaint,” you joke, shaking off the strange flutter in your chest.

He grins, taking your hands in his again, and the music picks up once more. The two of you fall into the rhythm, tripping over each other’s feet and laughing so loudly that it drowns out the sound of the song.

The days start to blur together, each evening spent in the same corner of the living room. The small space becomes your personal dance studio, the furniture pushed against the walls to give you just enough room to practice. Jisung shows up every time with the same excitement, the kind that’s so contagious you can’t help but play along.

“Step, step, and pivot—yes! That’s it!” Jisung exclaims, clapping his hands together as you nail the move for the first time. His grin lights up the room.

You beam, sweat dripping down your face, and collapse onto the floor. “Finally! That only took, what, twenty tries?”

Jisung flops down next to you, still full of energy. “More like thirty, but hey, who’s counting?” He nudges you with his shoulder, handing you a water bottle.

You take a long sip and gasp dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for this boot camp, you know. What happened to ‘just a fun dance session’?”

Jisung leans back on his hands, smirking. “This is fun! Besides, you’re getting so much better. Look at you, two weeks ago, you couldn’t even figure out which foot was your left.”

“Wow, thanks,” you deadpan, though your smile betrays your mock annoyance.

The next night, the routine continues. The two of you move in near-perfect sync as Jisung teaches you a new routine to a faster song. Your steps are cleaner, your turns sharper, and when you finish the sequence without a single mistake, you both cheer so loudly the neighbor downstairs bangs on their ceiling.

“Oops,” you whisper, covering your mouth to stifle your giggles.

Jisung shrugs, unbothered. “Worth it. You nailed that!” He holds up a hand for a high-five, which you give him, laughing at how proud he looks.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice how your progress isn’t the only thing changing.

One evening, as you struggle through a particularly tricky move, Jisung stops mid-step. His gaze drifts off toward the window, his body going still.

“Jisung?” you call, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Jisung?”

He blinks, shaking his head quickly. “Sorry, what? Did you say something?”

You frown. “You spaced out. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says with a too-bright smile, waving you off. “Just tired, I guess.” He grabs the remote and cranks up the music. “Come on, let’s run it again.”

You hesitate but decide not to press him.

Later, after another exhausting session, you collapse on the couch, panting. “I’m done. For real this time. My legs are basically jelly.”

Jisung sits beside you, his gaze soft as he watches you. “You’re really doing great, you know.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you joke, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“I mean it,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I just... I like seeing you like this. Happy. Laughing.”

You glance over at him, and for a moment, he looks... sad, though the expression vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You okay?” you ask cautiously.

“Of course,” he says, forcing a grin. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re stuck with me, remember?”

“Lucky me,” you tease, but his words stick with you as the night goes on.

The dance sessions grow more frequent, his enthusiasm almost desperate. Every moment feels heavier, though you can’t quite figure out why. You catch him watching you sometimes, his smile softer, as though he’s trying to memorize the way you move, the sound of your laugh.

“What?” you ask one night when his eyes linger too long.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, spinning you around before you can press further. “Just... don’t stop dancing, okay?”

You laugh, brushing it off, but there’s something in his voice that makes you wonder what he’s not telling you.

The music echoes softly through the living room as you and Jisung move together, your steps slightly out of sync but improving with each pass. The rhythm feels effortless now, the usual fumbling replaced by a newfound fluidity. You’re laughing, breathless but exhilarated, when the sharp buzz of Jisung’s phone cuts through the song.

It vibrates insistently on the counter, the screen lighting up in the dim room.

“Hold on,” Jisung mutters, his usual smile faltering as he jogs over to check it. He picks up the phone and stares at the screen, his expression shifting to something unreadable.

You wipe your forehead with the hem of your shirt, catching your breath. “What is it?” you ask, noticing the way he hesitates.

Jisung’s thumb hovers over the screen, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, in a voice that’s a little too casual, he says, “It’s nothing. Just a friend checking in.”

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “Must be a pretty intense message to make you zone out like that.”

He glances at you quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s not important. I’ll deal with it later. Come on, let’s not lose our momentum.” He sets the phone back down, face down this time, and crosses the room toward you.

Before you can say anything, he reaches for your hands and pulls you into a hug. It’s sudden, uncharacteristic, and tight. Tighter than his usual playful embraces. You blink, caught off guard.

“Uh, Jisung? You good?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he buries his face against your shoulder, his grip unyielding. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost fragile. “I’m just... really proud of you, you know? You’ve worked so hard.”

The hug lasts longer than it should, and something in his tone feels off. You try to pull back slightly to look at him, but he only holds on tighter.

“Jisung, what’s going on?”

He shakes his head against your shoulder and releases you just as abruptly as he hugged you. “Nothing. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” His smile is back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now, come on. Let’s run through it again. You were so close to getting it perfect!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you press, still watching him carefully.

“Of course I am,” he says quickly, bouncing on his toes to reset the mood. “Now, less talking, more dancing!”

You hesitate but eventually let it go, letting him take your hand and spin you back into position. Yet, as the music starts up again, you can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s more to the text than he’s letting on.

On the counter, Jisung’s phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up briefly before going dark. The message still sits there: "You ready to see her?"

The rhythmic click of Jisung’s shoes echoes down the hospital hallway, a stark contrast to the sterile silence that surrounds him. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, clenched tightly as if to keep himself from shaking. The confidence and playfulness that had defined him earlier in the living room are gone, replaced by a hollow, heavy weight in his chest.

He pauses outside the door to a room, staring at the small plaque on the wall with your name printed neatly on it. His heart hammers in his chest as he exhales shakily, steeling himself before finally pushing the door open.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, casting an unforgiving brightness across the room. Machines beep softly, their rhythm steady and monotonous. And there you are. Completely motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale, your body almost swallowed by the thin blankets. Tubes and wires tether you to the machines keeping you stable, their presence stark and invasive.

Jisung freezes in the doorway, the sight of you knocking the air from his lungs.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cracking. He steps closer, his movements hesitant and unsteady. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him feels deafening.

He lowers himself into the chair by your bedside, his trembling hands reaching for yours. Your skin is cold, unmoving, and his grip tightens instinctively, as though holding on to you will keep you from slipping further away.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m here, so… you can wake up now, okay?”

The only response is the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Jisung leans forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. His shoulders begin to shake as tears spill over, falling silently onto the thin hospital sheet.

“You know,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion, “I taught you how to dance. I mean, not perfectly, but we were getting there. You were laughing so much, and—” He stops, his breath hitching as the reality of his words catches up to him.

Because it wasn’t real.

The living room, the music, the laughter— it was all in his head. His imagination, his desperate mind, had conjured you up to fill the unbearable silence you’d left behind.

“I just…” His voice cracks again as he squeezes your hand. “I just wanted to see you smile. To hear you laugh. Even if it wasn’t real.”

The weight of the truth crashes down on him, suffocating and relentless. His mind replays every moment of the past few weeks—the way he had clung to the image of you, teaching you to dance, pretending everything was okay.

His tears flow freely now, soaking into the fabric of your blanket as he clutches your hand like a lifeline. The room feels unbearably quiet, the sound of the machines and his muffled cries the only noises breaking the stillness.

He sits there for what feels like hours, talking to you about everything and nothing—how much he misses you, how much he needs you to come back.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice raw, “don’t let this be the end.

But you don’t move. Not yet. And Jisung can only sit there, crumbling under the weight of his grief, as reality continues to sink its claws into him.

“I thought…” His voice cracks, and he pauses, choking back a sob. He grips your hand tighter, as if that alone could anchor him in this unbearable moment. “I thought I could bring you back. Even if it wasn’t real—” His words catch in his throat, and he pulls his hands to his face, muffling the anguished cry that escapes him.

Tears stream down his face as he looks back at you, his expression one of complete devastation. “It felt real,” he whispers, his voice raw and broken. “You were laughing. You were dancing. It was like… like you were still here with me.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against your hand as he begins to unravel completely. “I just wanted one more dance with you,” he says, the words slipping out in a strangled sob.

The silence in the room presses against him, suffocating and unrelenting. His shoulders shake as he cries, the weight of the last few weeks crashing down on him all at once.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he confesses, his voice thick with grief. “You were the one who kept me grounded. When everything felt too hard, you… you were my anchor. You gave me a reason to keep going.”

He lifts his head slightly, his tear-streaked face staring at your still form. “And now…” His voice falters, his lips trembling as he struggles to find the words. “Now I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His gaze drops to your hand in his, his fingers tracing over yours with a tenderness that breaks his heart all over again. “Dancing with you, even in my head… it kept me going. It made me feel like maybe… maybe you were still with me.”

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go away. “But they stole it from us,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “They stole our dance.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final, as Jisung lets out another ragged sob. His grief pours out of him uncontrollably, raw and unfiltered, as he buries his face in his hands.

The walls of the hospital room seem to close in around him, the sterile brightness only amplifying the darkness he feels inside. He leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the back of your hand, his tears falling onto your skin.

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me. I don’t care how long it takes. Just… come back.”

His words are met with the same unyielding stillness, the heart monitor’s steady rhythm the only response. And so he sits there, broken and lost, holding on to you as tightly as he can, afraid to let go of the only piece of you he has left.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from crying. He looks down at your hand, his tear-filled eyes blurring the sight of your still fingers. “I want to believe you’ll wake up, but… what if you don’t?”

The question lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating. He lets his head fall forward, his forehead pressing against your hand as his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m so scared,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Scared that I’ve already lost you.”

For a moment, the only sound is the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

And then it happens.

A faint movement—so subtle he almost misses it.

Your fingers twitch beneath his.

Jisung freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His head snaps up, his wide, tear-streaked eyes darting to your hand. “Y/N?” he whispers, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and disbelief.

He watches, his heart pounding in his chest, as your fingers twitch again—just the slightest motion, but enough to send a jolt through his entire body.

“Y/N!” he says again, louder this time, his grip tightening around your hand. He leans forward, his eyes darting between your hand and your face, searching desperately for any other sign of movement.

The heart monitor continues its steady rhythm, the faint beeping echoing in the room as the scene begins to fade.

“Please,” he whispers one last time, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me.”

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams @mango-bear

#nct #nct dream #nct dream fic #nct fluff #park jisung #nct jisung #jisung park #park jisung fic #park jisung fluff #jisung fic #nct fic #nct scenarios #nct angst #nct x reader #jisung x reader #park jisung x reader #nct dream imagines #jisung fluff #jisung angst

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brothersfuck · 1 day ago

Note

I love your baby sammy infantilization post and i would just like to add:

bartender/ waitress sees dean putting something in sammy’s drink & pulls him (sam) aside to warn him:

Bartender: Just so you know, I saw that guy you were with slipping something in your drink. do you want me to kick him out?

Sam: yeah i know he’s doing that it’s fine :3

Bt: ?????

sam’s falling asleep and nuzzling up to dean & trying to crawl into his lap like he used to as a kid. dean thinks its so cute that he just has to fuck him.

idk… your posts r so delightful

-🪼

I love the idea that Sam is completely aware Dean is drugging him, but not telling Dean that he knows. Dean thinks he's so sneaky but really, Sam is panting and getting weak at the knees thinking of his big brother roofing his drink,, also thank you for your compliments 🪼anon::)) some kinda continuation under the cut

Sam has known for quite some time now.

Well, not that Dean ever tried to hide it as well as he thought he did. The roofies were one thing, all in the pocket of his most unused leather jacket, the pills cut up in half.

He connected the dots between his ever impending sleepy-times and the fact that Sam is experienced in staying up because of college. He doesn't just start feeling sleepy if he doesn't want to.

Usually after he gets sleepy, Sam doesn't remember anything after. It's fuzzy. Comfortingly fuzzy, like his brain is telling him that he doesn't have to remember.

So when it happens again, Sam lets it happen. No protest, no nothing, just a sly look towards the roofied beer and a tilt of his head, the liquid slipping through his throat, settling in his stomach.

When he starts getting uncomfortably dizzy for one beer, Dean starts doing what he usually does, but this time, Sam will remember. He's sure of it. At least, he can try.

He hears (though muffled) "heyheyhey big guy, okay, come here Sammy. Come here Sammy." He feels (though electrifying) Dean's hand cup his side, guide him out of the bar, and take him to his car.

Dean's head is tilted to look at Sam, smile on his face like he used to when he still looked down on his baby brother from the bars of Sam's crib. He waits for a while, two maybe three minutes, before accepting that Sam probably won't remember any of this.

Sam does.

He promised himself he would.

It's a shock, but not enough that he physically reacts (probably because he's so relaxed) when Dean takes his hand and runs it through Sam's hair, cooing and whispering something about being sleepy.

When a particularly hard tug to his hair because of a knot happens, Sam freezes and his eyes start to water, his mouth opening to produce what he himself can only describe as, at the moment, the crying of an infant.

Dean panics, and he panics hard. "Fu--I mean, I'm sorry Sammy, I'm so sorry Sammy, lemme kiss it to make it better, okay? Come here,"

And Dean does, he does kiss Sam! Because that's his Sammy, and well, Sam quiets down. He doesn't know why he does (just like most of the things he's doing as of late) but he relaxes into the head kiss and whines when Dean's lips leave his hair.

At this point, he's drooling all over himself. Jesus, Sam thinks, the roofies he bought must have been from a hunter.

Sam's head falls backward, and the last thing he remembers is the sound of the engine starting.

When he opens his eyes again, he's in his bed, Dean is sitting on the edge, he could tell before he saw, because Dean does it often.

"Mm..Dee?" It's only been about thirty minutes since the drive back to the bunker, they got here at the fourteen minute mark and Dean had carried Sam like a baby to his bedroom at the sixteen minute mark. Which meant he spent at least fourteen other minutes just staring at Sam drool all over himself while he slept.

He's sporting a hard-on.

Well, can you blame him? Sammy's cute cocksucker lips covered in drool right in front of you, wouldn't you have a hard-on too? Dean asks the unavailable audience in his head.

When he contemplates going to the bathroom and taking care of himself there, he hears and feels Sam shift from his position laying on his back to crawl over (with drool still dripping out of his mouth) and plop his upper body on Dean's lap.

This time, it's Dean who freezes, and shakes, because good lord, fuck, this feels good. He's going to become a true believer in those sleeping pills if things like this keep happening.

Sam's clothes must have ridden up a little, because it's not clothes that press against his covered erection, it's his baby brother's stomach. All bare. Pressing against jeans.

Fuck. He's going to really start worshipping those pills.

He can't think about what he did after, about chuckling and grabbing Sam by the arm, about pulling Sam up and sitting him on his lap, about babying him even though he's even taller when he's sat on his big brother's lap--

Sam can though, and he will, because he was there for the entire thing. Sure, maybe he was off his game and babbling like a baby going "Dee, Dee," while lifting his hips and letting them fall back down on Dean's lap but he doesn't stop thinking about Dean breaking and finally throwing him down on the bed, eyes softening at Sam's confused face, and hands roaming all around and under those clothes.

He also doesn't stop thinking about how good it felt for his brother's cock to fill him in, and how snug it was, like a teddy bear. Doesn't stop thinking about drool coating his chin and eyes rolling back and accidentally calling Dean "dad"

He doesn't stop thinking about how that made Dean cum. Hard.

With that knowledge, Sam makes it his life goal to be as cute and babbly as ever. He's stuttering his words more, whining when he can't reach over the table for some seasoning, tugging at Dean's sleeve to tell him something.

Personally, Dean thinks he's going to hell, but fuck if heaven here didn't feel so good

#sorry i used the word drool so much #author regrets nothing #cw infantilization #infantilism #cw forced intox #forced intox #spn #supernatural #wincest #sam winchester #samdean #dean winchester #sam/dean #weirdcest #dean/sam

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pomefioredove · 2 hours ago

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Can I have a chocolate cookie, #1, with frosting and chestnuts? :3

HEHE ofc! actually the first thing I've written in ages that I actually really like :3

order #1, chocolate with frosting, chestnuts

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in sickness and in health

summary: just a little cold tropes: only one bed, sic fic characters: rollo additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu, cuddling

Infernal cold.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Rollo coughs into the sleeve of his student council robes, snot and spit darkening the fabric.

He can't remember the last time he's been such a mess.

It must have been one of those Night Raven College devils. He hasn't been this sick since-

"President, you look unwell," his vice president says, hand on his hip. "Are you ill?"

"Absolutely not. I'm perfectly well,"

His voice is hoarse and scratchy. Each breath of cold air stings the back of his throat, and yet he can't breathe through his nose...

"You were up all night clearing the school of fire lotuses. You're exhausted," says his aide.

"I'm fine,"

"President,"

It's a losing battle (he just cannot win any, lately), and his defeat is spelled in the embers of the dying fire in his room.

The door is locked from the outside, a chair placed under its handle. To keep him in, as if he were an animal... though, it wasn't without reason. Rollo would work himself to death if he were allowed. Temperance has never been kind to him.

"Rollo?"

He jolts at the sound. Surprise is an odd look on the council president, but he's had a lot of it, lately.

Especially from you.

"What are you- who let you in here?" he asks. You look just miserable- tired and dull, sniffling and coughing just like...

...Well, him.

But, (and this is what Rollo was truly fixated on), you are miserable in his room. In his bed.

"Your, um... vice president put me in here. Quarantine. It's the only dorm room with a fireplace, for warmth, he said..."

Damn it.

"I see," Rollo sniffles, and dabs his handkerchief under his nose. "I'm sorry to hear that you're feeling unwell."

"You don't sound too good, either,"

True enough. Rollo allows himself the indulgence of sitting close to you, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

"I seem to have come down with a cold, yes. Do your... friends know you're here?"

"I don't know,"

Good, he thinks. The last thing he needs is to be accused of holding their beloved pet prisoner in-

Rollo stiffens. He feels you tug at his sleeve again, thrice more, like a small child, or a petulant goat...

"What is it?" he asks, voice almost trembling, "Can I get you something?"

Another tug. You pull his hand out of his lap. You're asking him to come closer.

Rollo feels his body still.

If he weren't already so pale from sickness, he certainly would have gone white.

"...Is that truly what you want?"

You nod.

"What would your friends think?"

"They aren't here,"

Rollo's heart thrums in his chest. There's something so... satisfying about that. He wants to hear you say it again...

"Are you certain?"

"They won't know," you insist. "I think you need it, too."

Rollo would, in health and the right state of mind, dislike having such assumptions made about him. Even if they're entirely correct.

Luckily, he's not exactly lucid, and your offer is almost as tempting as the sight of the blankets over your body.

"Very well," he concedes, as if it were a chore, and he removes his shoes and hat and lies beside you.

It's as if you were never strangers. Or, perhaps, as if you were- as if you had just forgotten about all that he'd done and said in the past two days. Your arms come around his waist, holding him to you, your head on his shoulder.

His head on yours.

You're warm. So is he. It's the sickness, he tells himself, but he does allow himself this one fantasy, that your warmth is from each other.

"Comfortable?" he mutters. You nod against him.

"Hm. Then I'm pleased. I did say that I would make sure you enjoyed your time here, after all- in sickness and in health."

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #queued #rollo flamme x reader

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wonubby · 2 days ago

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fell in luv - itoshi rin

CHAPTER 02: HOMEWORK SUCKS!

SYPNOSIS Rin Itoshi thought life was all about football—until Y/N L/N and their chaotic group of friends proved otherwise. Now, he’s stuck navigating late-night hangouts, dumb arguments, and way too much teasing—all while somehow being hopelessly in love. It’s a story of laughter, love, and Rin just trying (and failing) to keep his cool.

a/n: HI GUYS please ignore the "prankshit" watermark.. im on laptop so making these are pretty hard

written part after all the pics!

< prev masterlist next >

as the door to rin itoshi's room burst open, four teens stood frozen, mouths agape in shock.

there, in the dim light, was rin—shirtless—locked in a kiss with a fully clothed y/n. at the sudden intrusion, the love-struck pair jolted apart, scrambling in a flustered mess to compose themselves.

eita let out an exasperated sigh, crossing his arms. "and what did i fucking say, riya?" he muttered, clearly salty that no one had listened to him.

riya side-eyed the boy beside her. "okay, eita, congrats. you were right this one time and, for once, not thinking with your dick—no one cares." she turned to y/n. "you promised to help me with my homework, which is why we're here. get up."

without hesitation, riya shoved rin off y/n, earning herself a sharp glare from the irritated striker.

"i thought i told you we were busy," rin grumbled, clearly annoyed that their date had been so rudely interrupted.

y/n, ever the peacemaker, gave him a reassuring smile. "it's fine, rin. i really did promise to help her. once we're done, they'll leave, and we can pick up where we left off."

naomi scratched her neck, glancing awkwardly to the side. "about that... your mom insisted we stay over since it's pretty late. we tried to say no, but she wouldn't let up."

a pillow smacked her straight in the face.

"rin, what the fuck!" naomi screamed, ready to lunge at him if she wasn’t being held back.

"deserved," rin muttered.

eita, watching the chaos unfold, grinned from ear to ear. "this is more entertaining than a movie."

"yeah, and we're the ones stuck in the middle of it," riya shot back, clearly unimpressed by the situation. "thanks, rin."

naomi, now fuming, rubbed her cheek where the pillow had hit. "you guys are unbelievable."

"you were the one who knocked on my door," rin retorted, leaning back on the couch.

"right, and you couldn't just act normal for once?" naomi grumbled.

yukimiya kenyu, who had been quietly observing the drama from the corner, finally spoke up, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "this is why i don't do sleepovers. too much drama."

y/n rolled her eyes from where she was sitting, barely looking up. "yeah, because we all love being dragged into this shitshow," she muttered, taking a swig from her drink. "honestly, i just want to go to sleep."

riya shot her a glare but didn't respond.

"well, we're here now, might as well make it fun, right?" kenyu suggested with a grin, flopping down beside y/n.

y/n shot him a deadpan look. "fun? really? because this feels more like a disaster waiting to happen."

"you're such a buzzkill," eita laughed.

"i'm just being honest," y/n shrugged, clearly uninterested in the idea of any fun.

"so... not even a little fun?" naomi pushed, trying to lighten the mood.

y/n raised an eyebrow. "fun for you guys, maybe."

"oh, come on, y/n," eita whined, nudging her with his elbow. "you gotta admit, this is pretty hilarious."

"i'll admit that you are pretty annoying," y/n shot back, not missing a beat. "but hey, that's nothing new."

riya, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolled her eyes. "please don’t start with your crap, y/n. we already have enough chaos without you adding to it."

"chaos?" y/n snorted, raising her glass. "this is a disaster. i don’t know what you’re all on about."

"it's fun in its own way," yukimiya said, finally showing a hint of amusement. "no one's getting hurt. just... loudly inconvenienced."

rin, who had been watching the back-and-forth with mild annoyance, groaned. "i'm literally right here, and you're all treating this like some kind of sitcom."

"you're just mad 'cause we ruined your romantic evening," eita teased, flashing him a smirk. "shoulda locked the door, man."

"next time, maybe i will," rin muttered, sinking back into the couch.

y/n, still leaning back and sipping her drink, shot a look at riya. "so, homework? wanna get it over with so i can leave and pretend this nightmare never happened?"

riya nodded quickly, relief spreading across her face. "finally! thank you!"

the group had somehow made it through the night without any more major drama—though the tension still lingered in the air. the homework was finished (with plenty of y/n’s sarcastic commentary along the way), and now everyone was scattered around the room, occupying the floor or leaning against the walls.

y/n, sprawled out on rin's bed, shot a glance at him, who had finally relaxed. "well, that wasn’t so bad. you can go back to sulking now."

rin raised an eyebrow but said nothing, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

otoya, leaning against the wall, grinned. "i think we've survived the worst of it. unless rin decides to start throwing stuff again."

"i could. don’t tempt me," rin muttered, his eyes half-closed as he joined y/n on the bed.

naomi, sitting on the floor near the door, raised her head from her phone with a sigh. "so, is this how it’s gonna be now? just... awkward silence until someone explodes?" she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "because i’m already over this whole 'sleepover' vibe."

"you think we’re gonna explode? i think we’re already there," eita said, his voice dry as he kicked his feet up onto a nearby chair. "too many personalities in one room."

"you can always leave, naomi," yukimiya added lazily, glancing up from his phone, a bored look on his face. "not like you’re forced to stay."

naomi shot him a side-eye. "i tried to leave earlier, but someone’s mom insisted we stay over." she shot a look at rin, who only shrugged in response.

y/n let out a loud groan, slumping further into the bed. "this night is like a car crash that just keeps going. i can’t wait for it to end."

"tell me about it," naomi muttered, leaning back against the doorframe. "who knew spending time with you guys would be worse than studying for finals?"

rin sighed. "so this is how it’s gonna be, huh? a bunch of loud idiots trying to make something out of nothing." he shot a glance at y/n. "i mean, i’d prefer some peace too, but this isn’t really the vibe i was expecting."

"well, we’re here now, so suck it up," y/n shot back, not bothering to sit up.

naomi looked at rin, then at y/n, and shook her head. "you two are impossible. you know that, right?"

"impossible?" rin smirked. "you guys were the ones who walked in here uninvited. i wasn’t expecting anything but chaos."

"no kidding," eita chimed in, kicking back in the corner. "next time, let’s not follow y/n’s ‘invite,’ huh?"

yukimiya, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up, his voice bored but tinged with amusement. "honestly, i’m just waiting for someone to do something interesting. this is too much talking, not enough action."

otoya snickered. "you’re just waiting for a pillow fight, aren’t you?"

y/n snorted from the bed. "if anyone starts a pillow fight, i’m out. i’m not that desperate for entertainment."

"and there’s the real y/n," riya muttered with a roll of her eyes. "always a pain in the ass."

"thank you, i try," y/n replied sarcastically, finally propping herself up on one elbow.

rin gave her a smirk, clearly used to her attitude. "you really know how to kill the mood, huh?"

"someone’s got to do it," she muttered, smirking back at him. "besides, this whole ‘sleepover’ thing was never my idea of fun."

rin leaned closer, his voice softer, more affectionate. "but you’re stuck with me now."

y/n met his gaze, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "guess i’ll survive," she replied, her tone a mix of sarcasm and something a little sweeter.

rin’s smirk softened into a real smile as he nudged her gently. "you say that now, but i think you’re secretly enjoying it."

y/n rolled her eyes but leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder as the room fell back into a quiet, comfortable lull. despite the chaos, this was somehow the most peaceful moment of the night.

taglist: @levihanmyotp @x3nafix @@yourlocaleffy

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orieriee · 2 days ago

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Chapter 13 ✦ Three years

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Sypnosis: Y/N L/N is a special shaman from a jujutsu family. Y/N was sent to Tokyo to go on missions to prove their worth as the next heir. With the ability of 'flow', a cursed technique that allows its user to see and manipulate forces of energy freely. Y/N stumbled across Geto Suguru amidst a dark aura, carrying a weight of chaotic and dark energy. Will Y/N be able to help Geto overcome his turmoil? Will Y/N fulfill the lifelong anticipation and succeed in becoming the next heir?

Time setting: 2007, a year after Amanai Riko's death, before Geto Suguru's breaking point. gn!reader. I use they/them pronounce for neutrality.

Disclaimer: This will be a slight crossover with chainsaw man because I needed a mentor figure who is not known in Jujutsu Kaisen. I do not own any of the characters from Jujutsu Kaisen or Chainsaw Man. The characters belong to Gege Akutami as the creator of Jujutsu Kaisen and Tatsuki Fujimoto as the creator of Chainsaw Man. I only own the story plot of this work of fiction. I will also mix in a written story for the plot so it's not just the SMAU story. Also english isn't my first language so excuse any grammar errors in the story (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

"Geto..."

You arrived at the park near the shrine to find Geto sitting on one of the swings. It was late and night and the quiet atmosphere felt heavy with unspoken words and lingering emotions.

You sensed that he's a bit agitated, and you offered your hand in front of him, trying to lift up his mood through physical contact with your cursed technique.

"Geto?"

"Don't try to lift up my mood now Y/N. Let me... Stay this way for a bit." Geto's voice came out in a weary whisper, his eyes fixed on the ground, avoiding the comfort you offered. You retrieved back your hand and sighed as you sat down on the swing next to him.

"I'm here for you if you want to... Talk your feelings out. I'm listening." you reassured him, "I'm not going anywhere."

"... But you are." Geto spoke up in a somber tone.

"I just... don’t understand why you can’t let me visit. I mean, I thought... At least we're getting closer.” Geto looked away.

The tension tightened in the air as you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his frustration seep into you.

“It’s not that simple, Geto. It's not that I don't trust you...” the words caught in your throat as were unable to continue and think of a fair excuse for him.

"Is it because I'm not strong enough? Are people after you? Is it because I failed in protecting someone else?" His grip tightened on the swing’s ropes, the weight of past failures gripped around him like chains.

"No, no! That's not the case Geto!" you rised to squat in front of him.

"Geto, look at me."

Reluctantly, Geto shifted his gaze slightly, the walls he built flickering under the warmth of your expression, as if trying not to give in to your kindness and hold on to his pain that was evident in his expression.

"Suguru." the gentle calling of his first name pushed him to look at you. His gaze softened at you, but you could tell he was shaking inside.

"... I'm just... Scared that I'm going to lose you." his voice softened, vulnerability seeping in, "I have already lost someone right in front of my eyes... And if I lose you too, I don't know if I can stay sane... I’d rather face the danger with you than be left all alone again in the dark waiting for you to come back.".

His words hung in the air, a mixture of hope and desperation swirling between them like the cool night breeze.

"Oh Geto." your eyes searched for his, and when he finally met yours, you can read him like an open book.

"I'm really sorry for the things that has happened in the past... But please, don't blame yourself for everything that had happened... I believe you've always fought for what you believe in, and it's not because you're not strong enough." you slowly wrapped your arms around him, giving him a warm embrace as you calm him down,

"I know you’re doing your best to stick to your principles, and you are trying your best to protect those you can protect. And I'm so proud of you, Geto.".

Geto held you closer as he burried his face into your embrace, as if to hide his expression. You always knew the right thing to say to calm his anxiety. No cursed technique could soothe him quite like the sound of your voice wrapped around him, your unwavering support grounding him through dark nights.

In that moment, it became clear—he needed you, and he hoped that the need was mutual.

"I promise I'll talk to my grandpa about visiting. I'll let you know when you can visit." you circled his back, "I'll also let you know when I'm visiting Tokyo."

Your embrace lingered just a moment longer before you released Geto, allowing him to breathe beneath the weight of unspoken thoughts still lingering in his mind.

"... I appreciate you being here, more than you understand, Y/N." Geto mumbled, a hint of yearning and vulnerability that made your heart ache for him.

You smiled, returning to your swing, "I'm glad I can help.".

"Sometimes, I wonder if I deserve to have someone like you in my life," Geto continued, his tone filled with sincerity but also uncertainty.

“Maybe this—whatever this is between us—will find a better time to grow.” he let out a small bittersweet chuckle, the ambiguity in his words tugged at your heart, leaving a fluttering feeling of nervousness.

"You don’t have to think like that," you replied gently, searching his eyes for clarity. “You deserve happiness, and I want you to know you’re more than enough.”.

Geto nodded slowly, his expression darkening slightly as he looked away. You sensed that he's contemplating, opening his mouth as if words are stuck in his mouth.

"I'll wait for you." almost a whisper, "I want to be there when the time comes. I think that’s how I see my future." Something in his tone hinted at a deeper commitment that made your heart flutter.

"Geto..." you understand his implications, one that seemed to resonate beyond mere friendship. "I..."

"You don't have to answer now... I just... Wanted to let you know." Geto's expression fell slightly, maybe it's because he was afraid of your rejection. You could see the hope mingled with fear in his expression, and it tugged at your heartstrings.

"Come on, it's getting late. I'll walk you back," he said, his tone shifting to a more casual demeanor, carefully distracting the topic that made the atmosphere awkward just now.

As you two started to walk, you were gathering your thoughts. A part of you wanted to reach out, to pull him back and confront the feelings but the other part understood what responsibilities you have lays ahead.

The two of you walked side by side, each step felt heavier with the tension lingering in the silence.

"Geto," you finally broke the quiet, your voice soft yet steady. "What you said… it means a lot to me. I just need time to think about it."

He glanced at you, a flicker of understanding and sorrow passing through his eyes. "I get it. I don’t want to rush you into anything. I just wanted you to know where I stand."

"But..." you continued, "You deserve someone who can fully be there for you, someone. I don’t want you to risk losing it while waiting for something that might not come. Three years is a long time to wait, and I don’t want to lead you on, making promises that might not hold true."

"... Three years?" his tone catching you off guard. Geto turned to you, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and hope.

It was an accidental slip, the words spilling out before you could catch them. You hadn’t meant to suggest that there was a possibility of something more after that time frame.

“Um... I mean, after you graduate from high school, I mean! maybe…” You stumbled over your words, trying to navigate the implications of what you had just blurted out. “I didn’t mean to imply that you should wait specifically for me or anything!! It’s just… it’s a long time, and I mean...”

Geto's expression shifted, "So you mean... there’s a shot at this after three years?”

“Three years,” he repeated, a thoughtful smile creeping onto his face. “That’s not so bad. I can handle waiting even if it’s just a sliver of hope for the future.”

"No! I want you to have a life that’s not waiting for something that may not be certain. I-" you trailed off when Geto's gaze softened at you, a slight blush crept into your cheeks.

"Well... I didn't... mean it like that..." you stammered, your heart racing as you tried to recover, "I just meant that once you have graduated, maybe then we'll be ready to think about…"

"About us?" the tension became lighter, almost playful as Geto smirked, teasing you along the way.

"Maybe! Just maybe. It’s just a thought. I don’t want you to set your sights on something that may not happen.” you said, trying to stop this conversation before it spiraled into something bigger.

"Alright. I won't." he mused, a smile breaking across his face as he mumbled "Three years... "

"Alright then, thanks for walking me back," you said, trying to lighten the mood.

Geto smiled, a hint of his usual warmth returning. "That’s what friends are for, right? Besides, I’d never let you walk home alone at night. It’s too dangerous out here."

His protective nature stirred something within you, a reminder of just how much he cared.

"Good night, Geto." you said softly, offering a small smile, hoping to convey the warmth you felt despite the complexity of the situation.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, his voice in a lighter tone.

As you turned to enter your home, the reality of the moment settled into the silence. Maybe, just maybe, three years could lead to something beautiful, and until then, the bond you shared would continue to grow in unexpected ways.

taglist: @inthedarkshadows000

author's note: 2 more chapters to go!

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