#if you want to do it too just say I tagged you ^^

[sixeyesonathiel]

diet pepsi

pairing — brother’s bsf!satoru x fem reader

synopsis : satoru always saw you as suguru’s little sister—until you came back different, and dangerous to want. fighting it should be easy, but summer has a way of breaking rules. and some mistakes feel too good to stop making.

tags — childhood friends au, mutual pining, summer romance, beach setting, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend trope, fluff, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, public sex (car), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy drunk satoru, overstimulation, virgin reader if u squint, unprotected piv sex, pull out method, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use, 13.9k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i tried dialogue heavy writing instead of my usual sensory and internalization on one bit and all i can say is im never doing it again it felt so icky im so sorry TvT art is not mine, i am in the middle of finding the source ><

five years vanish like smoke, curling into nothing.

summer presses heavy on the cracked asphalt, heatwaves shimmering like ghosts rising from the dunes. the pop-up ice cream stand sags under the sun’s relentless weight, its faded awning flapping lazily in the salty breeze.

satoru leans against suguru’s rusted truck, sunglasses slipping down his nose, a greasy bag of fries teetering on his knee. they’re parked beside the shack, the lull in customers letting them sink into idle chatter, cheap food, and the sticky rhythm of a beachside summer.

he’s mid-bite—salt and vinegar stinging his tongue, sweat trickling down his neck—when he hears it.

a laugh.

not just any laugh.

bright and sharp, it cuts through the cicadas’ drone and the surf’s restless crash like a blade through silk.

he looks up, annoyed first—who’s that fucking loud?—then stunned, breath punched out of him like he’s taken a fist to the chest.

you step into view like you’ve walked out of a dream he didn’t know he was having, framed by the blazing sky and the ocean’s glitter. alone, you drag a beat-up duffel bag, its strap slung over your shoulder, sneakers kicking up little clouds of sand. the sundress you wear—white, gauzy, catching the breeze—clings to your thighs, the hem flirting with every step. 

a wide-brimmed beach hat sits tilted on your head, casting dappled shadows across your face, and your hair, sun-lightened and wild, spills down your back like it’s daring the wind to tame it.

you’re older. taller. you move with a confidence that scrapes at satoru’s ribs, leaves them raw and aching. you’re gorgeous in a way that feels like a hazard, like a spark too close to dry tinder. you shine, bright and untouchable, and he’s caught, staring, helpless.

his fry drops to the pavement, forgotten.

“yo,” suguru says, elbow jabbing satoru’s side, hard enough to rattle the truck. “you good, or did the sun fry your brain?”

satoru can’t answer. his tongue’s too thick, his heart’s lodged somewhere near his ankles. all he can do is watch you, the way your dress shifts with each step, the way your hat tilts as you turn your head, scanning the beach.

then you see them.

your face splits into a grin so bright it dims the sky, and satoru feels the ground tilt beneath him.

“satoru!” you shout, waving with a reckless joy that cracks the world open.

he pushes off the truck, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free, shoving his sunglasses up to hide the way his eyes are drinking you in. he hopes suguru doesn’t notice, hopes the heat crawling up his neck doesn’t betray him.

he saunters over, all false swagger, pretending his knees aren’t loose, pretending he’s still the same satoru who used to tease you mercilessly. “long time no see, squirt,” he drawls, flicking the brim of your hat. it’s a mistake—the hat makes you look too fucking cute, the way it frames your face, the way it dares him to keep looking.

you laugh, breathless and bright, and before he can brace himself, you throw your arms around his neck.

he freezes, arms caught mid-air, your warmth slamming into him like a wave. your body presses close—soft, real, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. your scent, something sweet and sun-warmed, wraps around him, and he’s drowning, his hands hovering before instinct takes over.

he wraps you up, too tight, too desperate, your curves fitting against him like you were made for it. your fingers fist into the back of his shirt, a brief, greedy clutch, and he feels the tremor in your grip, the way it lingers one second too long.

then you pull away, leaving him blinking, bereft, his skin tingling where you touched.

suguru joins a moment later, his lazy grin in place, oblivious to the storm raging in satoru’s chest. “didn’t know you were back today,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug. “would’ve picked you up from the station.”

he ruffles your hair, that annoying big-brother move, and you swat at him, your hat tilting precariously. “someone needs extra hands at the stand,” suguru continues, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fondness clear in the crinkle of his eyes. “and since you’re back in town with nothing better to do…”

he’s teasing, but there’s warmth there, a quiet pride in having you close again. satoru watches, jaw tight, as you lean into suguru’s side, your ease with him sparking something sharp and ugly in his chest. it’s not jealousy—not of suguru, never that—but something else, something that claws at him, hot and restless.

“figured you’d be perfect,” suguru adds, smirking at satoru now, like he knows something’s off. “plus, toru here was whining about being bored.”

“was not,” satoru mutters, kicking at the sand, heat climbing his neck. he’s lying, and suguru knows it—satoru’s been restless all summer, chasing distractions to fill the hollow in his gut.

you laugh again, sweet and effortless, sweeter than the cotton candy sold at the stand. it’s a sound that hooks into satoru’s ribs, pulls tight, leaves him aching.

“c’mon,” suguru says, already turning toward the road. “my treat. diner time?”

it’s tradition.

that shitty little diner down the road, with its cracked vinyl booths and milkshakes so thick you need a spoon. the three of you used to haunt it every summer, sprawled across a booth, stealing fries, laughing until your sides hurt. nostalgia hits satoru like a fist, sharp and sudden. he’s fourteen again, all knees and elbows, stomach hollow with a hunger he couldn’t name.

“last one there buys dessert,” you chirp, already jogging ahead, duffel bag bouncing against your hip, sneakers flashing white against the sand. your sundress flutters, catching the light, and satoru’s eyes linger too long on the curve of your calves, the sway of your hips.

he tells himself you’re off-limits, a mantra he’s worn thin over the years. you’re suguru’s little sister, untouchable, a line he’d never cross. but the air smells like salt and possibility, and you feel like a second chance he didn’t know he needed.

he’s marching after you before he can stop himself, pretending he’s still just satoru—your brother’s idiot friend, the guy who used to pull your pigtails and sneak you extra ice cream. pretending he’s not burning up inside, pretending the rules still hold when you’re close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

pretending he’s not already, irreversibly, fucked.

the diner sits like a time capsule at the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like a trapped firefly, its pink and blue glow flickering against the dusk. same warped menu boards, same cracked vinyl booths, same sticky linoleum floor that clings to your sneakers.

nothing ever changes here, and satoru both loves and hates it—loves the way it holds you in its amber, hates how it reminds him of everything he’s tried to outrun. it’s the backdrop to a thousand memories, all of them sharp with you and suguru.

you slide into the booth across from him, your sundress whispering against your thighs, beach hat tossed beside you like an afterthought. satoru’s hyperaware of his knees brushing the air just shy of yours under the chipped formica table, the space between you electric, too small.

suguru slips in next to you, casual as ever, but there’s a protective edge in the way his arm drapes across the booth’s back, fingers grazing the vinyl an inch from your shoulder.

“so,” suguru says, sliding a laminated menu your way, its edges curling like old paper, “college treating you okay?”

you shrug, lips curving into a half-smile that catches the diner’s dim light. “it’s just school. nothing as exciting as the beach.”

“she’s being modest,” satoru teases, forcing his voice to stay light while his pulse hammers, your nearness a live wire under his skin. “probably acing everything.”

your eyes flick to his, a hint of pink blooming high on your cheeks, soft and fleeting like a sunset. “hardly. nearly failed calculus last semester.”

“you? fail math?” satoru grins, leaning forward, the memory of you hunched over graph paper, explaining equations to him and suguru, vivid as yesterday. “impossible.”

“college math is different,” you protest, but you’re smiling, holding his gaze a second too long, your lashes casting faint shadows.

suguru glances between you, eyebrow twitching upward before he grabs a menu, oblivious to the way satoru’s heart stumbles. “food’s still exactly the same here. bet they haven’t cleaned the grill since we were kids.”

“that’s what makes it good,” you say, laughing, the sound bright and warm, like the clink of sea glass against the shore. “nothing beats greasy diner food after a day at the beach.”

the waitress appears, pen poised, her gaze lingering on satoru, lips curving in a way that’s too sweet, too practiced. “what can i get for you folks?” she asks, voice syrupy when it lands on him.

you straighten in your seat, fingers tightening on the menu’s edge, a flicker of something sharp in your eyes. “i’ll have a chocolate shake and fries,” you say, voice clear, pulling her attention like you meant to.

“double cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate shake thick enough for a spoon,” satoru orders, not glancing at the menu or the waitress. some things never change—his order, this booth, the way his chest tightens when you’re close.

“you still get the same thing?” you ask, smile soft with nostalgia, like you’re seeing him for the first time in years. “you used to make such a mess with those shakes.”

“remember when he got chocolate all over your new white shirt?” suguru chimes in, grinning, leaning back with an ease satoru envies. “you cried for like an hour.”

“i did not cry for an hour,” you protest, cheeks flushing, a spark of indignation in your eyes. “maybe ten minutes. tops.”

“and then satoru gave you his hoodie,” suguru continues, smirk sharp now, “and suddenly the tears magically stopped.”

“shut up,” you mutter, kicking suguru under the table, your gaze skittering away from satoru’s.

he remembers that day like it’s burned into him—you, twelve, small and devastated, tears streaking your face over a ruined shirt. him, awkward and too tall, draping his oversized hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes lighting up like he’d given you something precious. the memory sits heavy in his chest, warm and aching.

“you kept that hoodie for years,” suguru adds, ignoring your glare, voice teasing but fond. “pretty sure i saw you packing it for college.”

“oh my god, can we talk about anything else?” you plead, face scarlet, fingers twisting the straw wrapper into a knot.

satoru’s heart lurches. you kept his hoodie? all these years? the thought blooms inside him, dangerous and warm, like a spark he can’t smother. he wants to ask, wants to know if it still smells like him, if you ever wore it and thought of him, but he swallows it down, terrified of what his face might give away.

“what brought you back this summer?” he asks, voice steadier than he feels, desperate to shift the focus before he betrays himself. “just break, or…?”

“internship fell through,” you admit, shrugging, the motion small, almost apologetic. “figured i’d come home, make some money at the stand if you guys needed help.”

“always need help,” suguru nods, stealing a sugar packet from the caddy, spinning it between his fingers. “tourist season’s crazy this year.”

“plus satoru’s been whining about needing days off,” he adds, smirking, tossing the packet at satoru.

“i have not been whining,” satoru protests, catching the packet mid-air, his grin masking the way his pulse spikes at your laugh.

“you literally said yesterday that if one more kid dropped their ice cream and cried, you were going to walk straight into the ocean,” suguru deadpans, folding his arms.

you laugh, bright and clear, and satoru’s heart does a stupid, reckless flip. god, he missed that sound—missed it like air, like something vital he didn’t know he’d lost until it’s here again, filling the hollow in his chest.

“sounds like you need me to save you,” you tease, eyes locking with his across the table, a flicker of softness there, warm and unguarded.

“maybe i do,” he says, too honest, voice low, watching the pink deepen on your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly.

the food arrives, breaking the moment like a wave against the shore. you take a bite of a fry, eyes fluttering shut, a small hum of contentment slipping out that has satoru gripping his glass so tight he’s surprised it doesn’t crack. the sound’s innocent, but it lands like a spark, igniting something restless in him.

“god, i missed real food,” you sigh, dipping another fry in ketchup, the motion careless, perfect. “dining hall stuff is awful.”

“that fancy school doesn’t feed you right?” suguru teases, stealing a fry from your plate, dodging your swat with a grin.

“hey!” you protest, brandishing your fork like a weapon. “and no, it’s all kale and quinoa and weird vegan options.”

“poor baby,” satoru mocks, but his voice is soft, and when suguru’s not looking, he slides a few of his fries onto your plate, a quiet offering.

you catch it, eyes warming, lips curving into a private smile that feels like a secret stitched between you. your fingers brush the table’s edge, inches from his, and he wonders what it’d be like to close that gap, to feel your skin against his.

“remember that summer we practically lived here?” you ask, stirring your shake, the spoon clinking softly against the glass. “after suguru got his license?”

“and dad’s old pickup,” suguru adds, nodding, his eyes distant with memory. “we’d come every day after the beach.”

“you two would eat your weight in fries,” you laugh, the sound wrapping around satoru like a tide, pulling him under. “and then race each other back to the water like idiots.”

“while you timed us,” satoru recalls, grin tugging at his lips, the memory vivid—your small hands clutching a cheap stopwatch, shouting times as he and suguru sprinted, sand flying. “always the competitive one.”

“says the guy who insisted on best of three every single time he lost,” you counter, eyebrow raised, a challenge in your gaze.

“which was most times,” suguru adds, smirking.

“i let you win,” satoru protests, clutching his chest like he’s wounded, but his eyes are on you, drinking in the way you laugh.

“sure you did,” you say, not buying it, your eyes bright with that old, familiar spark.

suguru’s phone buzzes, shattering the moment. he checks it, sighs, and pushes his plate aside. “dad needs me to pick up stuff from the hardware store. you two good here? i can come back.”

“we’re fine,” you say quickly, waving him off, your hat slipping slightly as you turn. “i remember the way home.”

suguru hesitates, eyes narrowing as he glances between you, like he senses the shift in the air. “behave yourselves.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, voice too innocent, lips twitching.

“it means don’t let satoru convince you to do something stupid like that time he talked you into jumping off the pier,” suguru says, sliding out of the booth, his sneakers scuffing the floor.

“that was one time,” satoru defends, spreading his hands. “and she wanted to do it!”

“i was twelve and you told me it was totally safe,” you remind him, but you’re smiling, no bite behind it, just warmth.

“and it was safe,” he insists, leaning back. “you just can’t dive.”

suguru rolls his eyes, already halfway to the door. “i’ll be back in twenty. try not to burn the place down.”

the door jingles as he leaves, and the air shifts, charged, heavy with the weight of being alone with you for the first time in five years. the diner feels smaller, the hum of the neon sign louder, the space between you crackling like static.

“so,” you say, twirling your straw in your shake, eyes meeting his through your lashes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the tease. “did you miss me at all while i was gone?”

the question lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through him. he wants to say everything—how the stand felt empty, how summers dragged without your laugh, how he’s been chasing pieces of you in every distraction. but he can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, soft and expectant.

“nah,” he says, breezy, then grins at your mock outrage, the way you puff out your cheeks. “maybe a little. the stand was too quiet without you dropping things.”

“i was not that clumsy!” you protest, laughing, the sound bright enough to drown out the diner’s hum.

“you knocked over an entire display of sunglasses trying to reach the top shelf,” he reminds you, smirking, the memory sharp—you, sixteen, stretching on tiptoes, cursing under your breath as plastic frames clattered to the ground. “twice.”

“because you and suguru kept putting things where i couldn’t reach them,” you counter, pointing a fry at him, your eyes narrowing playfully.

“it was funny watching you try,” he admits, smile softening, remembering the determined set of your jaw, the little huff you’d let out. “you’d get this wrinkle right here.” he taps between his brows, his finger lingering in the air too long.

your cheeks color, and you drop your gaze to your plate, lips twitching. “i can reach the top shelf now,” you say quietly, almost a challenge.

“i noticed,” he replies, the words slipping out, low and warm. too much, he thinks, but your smile—pleased, a little shy—makes it worth the risk.

“college has some perks,” you say, glancing up, your eyes catching his, holding them.

“like sukuna?” he asks, the name sour on his tongue, suguru’s earlier comment gnawing at him. he hates himself for it, for the way it slips out, sharp and unfiltered.

your smile falters, just for a second. “sukuna was just a friend.”

“a persistent friend,” satoru presses, leaning forward, unable to stop the edge in his voice.

“jealous?” you challenge, but there’s a hopeful spark in your eyes, a crack in your teasing that makes his pulse race.

“maybe,” he admits, surprising himself, the honesty raw, reckless. “or just protective. like suguru.”

“you’re not my brother,” you say softly, holding his gaze, the words heavy, deliberate.

“no,” he agrees, throat dry, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free. “i’m not.”

something shifts, a dangerous possibility curling in the air like smoke. you look away first, tucking hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. your smile stays, small and secret, like you’re holding onto something fragile.

“anyway,” you say, voice lighter, “suguru mentioned you’ve been working on games?”

he grabs the lifeline, grateful for the shift. “yeah, indie stuff. nothing major yet, but i’ve got a few things published.”

“that’s amazing!” you say, eyes lighting up, genuine excitement in your voice. “you always were crazy talented with that stuff.”

“says the college girl,” he teases, but your praise sinks into him, warm and heavy, like a touch he can still feel.

“it’s just school,” you shrug, stirring your shake again, the spoon clinking softly. “nothing special.”

“it is special,” he insists, leaning forward, needing you to hear it. “you always were the smart one.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s pleased, soft. “says the guy who helped me pass physics senior year.”

“only because you helped me through lit,” he counters, grinning, the memory of late-night study sessions—your patience, your quiet focus—stirring something tender in him.

you laugh, the sound wrapping around him like the sun’s warmth. “we made a good team.”

“we still could,” he says, the words escaping before he can catch them, heavy with meaning he didn’t intend.

your eyes widen, lips parting, a flicker of hope crossing your face before you mask it with a laugh. “well, we’ll see how we do at the stand first,” you say lightly. “might get sick of me.”

“not possible,” he replies, too quick, too honest, his voice low enough to feel like a confession.

your smile turns shy, fingers fidgeting with your straw, twisting it into a knot. “you might be surprised. i sing in the mornings now,” you admit. “really loud, really off-key.”

“that’s not new,” he teases, leaning back, grateful for the lighter ground. “you used to screech taylor swift at the top of your lungs while restocking.”

“i did not screech,” you protest, laughing, your indignation bright and perfect.

“you absolutely did,” he insists, smirking. “scared away customers.”

“you’re such a liar,” you accuse, grinning, eyes sparkling like the ocean at noon. “you told me i had a nice voice.”

“maybe i lied then,” he suggests, voice dropping, playful but edged with something softer.

“or maybe you’re lying now,” you counter, leaning forward, your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you.

“guess you’ll have to sing for me again so i can decide,” he says, voice low, the words a dare, a pull.

your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, challenge sparking in your eyes. “maybe i will.”

the air crackles, five years of distance collapsing into this moment, this booth, this look. you’re not a kid anymore, and satoru can’t pretend he doesn’t see it—the way you’ve grown into yourself, confident, bright, a fire he can’t look away from.

“we should probably head back,” you say finally, glancing at your phone, your voice softer, like you’re reluctant to break the spell. “before suguru sends out a search party.”

“race you to the truck?” satoru suggests, grinning, a callback to countless summer days, his heart lighter than it’s been in years.

your eyes light up, competitive spark flaring. “loser buys ice cream tomorrow?”

“deal,” he says, already sliding out of the booth, his pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running.

you grab your hat, fingers brushing the brim, eyes gleaming with mischief. “ready?”

and then you’re off, dashing through the diner, sundress fluttering like a sail, laughter trailing behind you like a melody. satoru follows, heart pounding, knowing suguru might kill him for the thoughts burning through his mind—your smile, your voice, the way you feel like home—but right now, watching you run ahead, he thinks it might just be worth it.

summer melts over the beach in thick, sticky waves, clinging to the chipped paint of the pop-up stand, to the sweat-damp curls at the nape of your neck.

you work the stand with suguru and satoru, slinging snow cones that bleed syrup, fries that glisten with grease, and cheap sunglasses that tourists snap up despite their complaints about the prices. they wilt under the sun’s brutal glare, faces flushed and shiny, while you move through the chaos with an ease that twists something in satoru’s chest.

it’s only been a week since you started helping out.

satoru tries to be normal. he swears he does.

but then there’s you, stretching on tiptoes to grab a stack of napkins from the top shelf, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of soft stomach, a tiny mole just above your hip that he’s never seen before. it’s a punch to the gut, that small mark, and he ducks behind the register, fumbling with keychains, pretending to sort them while his pulse hammers.

he’s not staring, he tells himself, but his eyes keep dragging back to you, to the way your skin catches the light, warm and alive.

there’s you, perched on a stool, slurping a cherry popsicle that’s melting faster than you can keep up with, your tongue darting out to catch the drips, lips stained red.

your eyes are half-lidded, lazy with heat, and your sandal taps a restless rhythm against the counter’s edge. every tap is a countdown, every slick of your tongue a slow execution, and satoru’s dying, his hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching out, from doing something stupid.

he’s fucking dying.

“dude,” suguru says one afternoon, lobbing a wadded-up receipt at satoru’s head, the paper bouncing off his temple. “your math is shit today.”

satoru startles, blinking at the till where he’s been staring for god knows how long, a customer’s change still clutched in his fist, coins biting into his palm. the tourist in front of him shifts impatiently, fanning herself with a crumpled map.

“whatever,” he mutters, shoving the coins across the counter, his voice rough. “it’s hot. i’m fried.”

“sure,” suguru drawls, slow and amused, leaning against the freezer, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. not suspicious, thank god, just teasing.

you laugh, swinging your legs where you’re perched on the counter, your denim shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of your thighs, gleaming under the flickering neon “open” sign. you’re flipping through a gossip magazine, the pages crinkling under your fingers, your nails painted a chipped sky blue.

satoru nearly trips over his own feet grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, the cold glass slipping in his sweaty grip.

“earth to satoru,” you tease, crumpling a napkin into a ball and tossing it at his head, your aim perfect.

he catches it one-handed, tosses it back with a grin that feels too tight, too sharp, because you’re a fucking hazard, a loaded gun with your finger brushing the trigger, and you don’t even know it. your smile is lazy, your eyes bright with mischief, and he’s drowning in the heat of you, in the way you’re everywhere—your laugh, your scent, your warmth.

suguru cackles from the back room, sorting straws, oblivious to the storm in satoru’s chest.

“bet you can’t make another shot,” you taunt, grin wicked, leaning forward so your tank top dips just enough to make his throat dry.

“bet you i can,” he fires back, because it’s you, and he’s an idiot who can’t say no to you, not ever.

he grabs a plastic spoon, flicks it with a practiced snap of his wrist—it arcs across the stand, bounces off the freezer’s handle, and lands neatly in the trash can with a soft thud.

you whistle low, impressed, your lips pursing in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “show-off,” you say, but your smile softens, warm around the edges, like you’re proud of him.

later, you’re all sprawled in the sand behind the stand after closing, the air cooler but still thick, heavy with the day’s lingering heat. suguru strums a beat-up guitar he dug out of his garage, the strings twanging softly, his voice humming off-key to some old song.

you and satoru lie side by side, close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift, the contact sending sparks skittering across his skin. the sand is cool under his back, but he’s burning, every nerve attuned to you.

you doodle nonsense shapes into the sand with a stick, biting your lip in concentration, your brows furrowing just slightly. satoru watches from the corner of his eye, heart aching like it’s been bruised, the sight of you so close and so untouchable carving something raw inside him.

“wanna play chicken fights in the water tomorrow?” you ask suddenly, looking up at him, your eyes catching the last of the sunset, bright and alive.

“only if i get to be your ride,” he says without thinking, voice rougher than he means, the words heavy with want he can’t voice.

you grin, wide and blinding, and it’s like the sun never set, like you’re carrying it inside you. he almost blacks out, his breath catching, his world narrowing to the curve of your mouth.

“deal,” you say, offering your pinky, the gesture so familiar it hurts. he hooks his around yours, the brief press of your skin a vow he feels in his bones, sacred and binding.

he starts inventing excuses to stay after closing. restocking chips that don’t need restocking. double-checking the cash register he balanced hours ago. making sure you get home safe, as if the quiet streets of this town could ever hurt you. and you let him, every single time, your presence pulling him like gravity.

you let him linger, let him stand too close when you count the till, your fingers brushing his as you pass a bill, the contact fleeting but electric. you bump shoulders when you sweep sand off the counters, your laughter spilling into the night, loud and easy, hooking into his ribs and tugging until he aches. the string lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft glow over your face, tangling in your hair like a halo.

sometimes suguru’s there, tossing keys, joking about “kids these days” before bailing early to meet some girl at the pier, his footsteps fading into the dark. sometimes it’s just you and satoru, alone under the lights, the salty breeze stirring your hair, the beach stretching out endless and shadowed behind you, waves whispering secrets to the shore.

one night, after suguru ditches early, you and satoru ride home together. you slide into the cab of his truck, knees knocking against his in the cramped space, the scent of your sunscreen—coconut and sea salt—and the faint sweetness of sugar from the snow cones you snuck filling the air.

it’s suffocating, intoxicating, and he grips the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

the windows are down, the radio humming a low, dreamy song, its melody weaving through the warm night. the wind whips your hair across your face, and you laugh, batting it away with a careless hand, your fingers catching the light from passing streetlamps.

he thinks about crashing the truck just to have an excuse to feel your hands on him, to pull you close and never let go.

at a red light, you turn to him, voice soft, lilting, like you’re sharing a secret. “you’re staring.”

he jerks his eyes back to the road, ears burning scarlet, heart thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. “am not,” he says, voice cracking, betraying him.

you hum, unconvinced, leaning your head against the window, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. “liar,” you murmur, so soft it’s almost lost to the music, but it lands like a dart, sharp and precise.

“whatever,” he mutters, flustered, his usual swagger crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

the drive stretches on, every stoplight a torture, every bump in the road vibrating through the cab, tightening the tension until it’s a living thing, thick and heavy.

you hum along to the radio, voice low and sweet, your fingers tapping the dashboard in time, a rhythm that syncs with his pulse. every so often, you sneak glances at him, quick flicks of your eyes that burn, that make him want to pull over and confess everything.

you point out a diner glowing neon against the dark, its sign buzzing faintly. “we should go sometime,” you say, casual, but there’s a thread of hope woven into your voice, delicate and bright.

“yeah,” he says, too fast, too eager. “yeah, totally.”

your smile breaks over him like dawn, warm and inevitable, and he’s helpless, caught in its light.

when he drops you off, you linger by the truck’s door, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. “thanks for the ride,” you say, voice feather-light, your eyes catching the moonlight.

he nods, swallowing hard, his throat tight with everything he can’t say.

you lean in, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusting your nose, smell the sweet trace of your lip balm—strawberry, he thinks, dizzy with it. for one wild, reckless second, he thinks you’re going to kiss him, and his heart stops, his world narrowing to you.

but you just tap his chest with two fingers, right over his racing heart, the touch light but searing, like a brand. “see you tomorrow, toru.”

you bounce up the porch steps, pausing to throw him a wink over your shoulder, quick and playful, before slipping inside. the door clicks shut, and he’s left staring after you, the engine ticking softly in the warm night air, the ghost of your touch burning against his skin.

he slumps back in the seat, groaning into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. “off-limits,” he mutters, thudding his head against the steering wheel, each word a knife. “off. fucking. limits.”

he drives home on autopilot, your laugh echoing in his ears, the memory of your fingers against his chest a pulse he can’t shake. he dreams of you that night—soft, warm, impossibly close, your breath against his skin—and wakes up aching, the line between want and need blurred beyond recognition.

the next evening, satoru offers you a ride home again, his voice casual but his pulse anything but. suguru waves you off, barely glancing up from his phone, thumbs flying as he texts his latest fling about meeting at the bonfire later.

“don’t wait up,” he calls, a smirk in his voice, and satoru nearly stumbles, cheeks flushing despite the evening’s cool bite, the implication landing like a spark in dry grass.

outside, the sky bleeds watercolor—orange and gold streaking into deep lavender, fading to dusky indigo at the horizon. the air carries salt, the smoky tang of distant bonfires, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the dunes.

you slide into the passenger seat, kicking off your flip-flops with a clatter, the soles dusted with sand. you prop your bare feet on the dashboard, toes flexing, a silver anklet glinting in the fading light, and satoru’s chest tightens at how easily you claim the space, like the truck’s always been yours.

“air conditioning’s broken,” he says, wrestling with the crank windows, the handle sticking under his grip.

“who needs it?” you shrug, a carefree grin spreading across your face, bright as the last sliver of sun. you lean your head out the window, letting the sea breeze whip your hair into a wild halo, strands dancing like they’re alive.

the truck rattles down the coastal road, tires kicking up clouds of sand that drift in the orange glow. you fiddle with the radio, twisting the dial past static until a slow, dreamy track hums through the speakers, its bass vibrating deep in satoru’s bones, syncing with the thud of his heart.

your fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your bare thigh, the hem of your shorts frayed and soft, and he’s dangerously distracted, his eyes flicking to you when he should be watching the road.

“pull over,” you say suddenly, sitting bolt upright, pointing to a dirt path half-hidden by seagrass.

“what?” he blinks, hands tightening on the wheel.

“there. pull over. trust me.”

your excitement is a current, electric and contagious, and he’s turning the truck before he can think, tires bumping over the uneven path. the clearing opens to a view that steals his breath—an endless ocean, molten and shimmering, the sun sinking into it like a dying ember. the horizon burns, fierce and fleeting.

before he can ask what’s next, you’re halfway out the door, tugging your tank top over your head, the motion fluid, careless. “swimming, obviously,” you call over your shoulder, voice bright with mischief.

he stares, heart slamming against his ribs, the air in his lungs gone. you shimmy out of your shorts, revealing a plain black bikini—simple, unadorned, but devastating, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you. his throat goes dry, words dissolving on his tongue.

“we don’t have—” he starts, but you cut him off, flashing a cheeky grin.

“i always wear it under my clothes,” you say, winking. “just in case.”

just in case you decide to unravel him, to turn his world inside out with a smile and a strip of fabric.

“well?” you challenge, standing in the sand, barefoot and fearless, like a siren born from the waves. “you coming or what?”

common sense is a faint echo, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. he yanks his shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his hair, and follows you, helpless.

the water is warm, lapping at his skin, the tide playful, salt stinging his lips. you dive under a wave, your body sleek and sure, cutting through the current like you belong to it. you surface with a triumphant laugh, hair plastered to your forehead, water streaming down your face, and satoru’s caught, staring, the world narrowing to you.

“chicken?” you tease, flicking water at him, your grin sharp and daring.

he pushes deeper into the surf, muscles burning, fighting the urge to just float there, to watch you move. “race you to the buoy,” you say, pointing to a marker bobbing in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.

“you’re on,” he grins, teeth flashing, adrenaline spiking.

you take off, a blur of motion, and he has to push to keep up, slicing through the water with long, powerful strokes, the ocean dragging at his limbs. by the time he reaches the buoy, you’re there, clinging to it, laughing breathless, your chest heaving. “not bad,” you concede, splashing water in his face, the droplets cool against his flushed skin. “for an old man.”

“old?” he splutters, feigning outrage, lunging for you.

you shriek, twisting away, but he’s faster, catching you around the waist, his fingers slipping against your slick skin. he dunks you under, the water swallowing your laughter, and you surface, sputtering, eyes blazing with mock fury.

you launch yourself at him, crashing into his chest, and the momentum sends you both tumbling under the next wave, limbs tangling, breathless and weightless.

when you surface, you’re wrapped around him, legs locked at his hips, arms looped around his neck, your body pressed so close he can feel the heat of you through the water. the ocean rocks you gently, the sunset bathing you in fire and velvet, your faces inches apart. he can see the flecks in your eyes, the faint salt clinging to your lashes, and his heart stutters, a painful, desperate thing.

“i win,” you murmur, voice low, triumphant, your breath warm against his lips.

his hands steady you at your waist, fingers splaying over your skin, slick and warm, and he’s drowning, every nerve alight. “cheater,” he rasps, the word barely audible, his throat tight.

your smile is slow, dangerous, your eyes flickering to his mouth for a heartbeat, and satoru feels the world tilt, gravity slipping away. he leans in, instinct overriding reason, drawn to you like a tide to the shore—

a wave crashes over you, tearing you apart with a roar of laughter and salt spray. you’re both gasping, grinning, the moment shattered but still humming between you.

you beat him back to shore, stumbling through the shallows, your laughter ringing like bells. by the time he catches up, you’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, the first stars blinking awake overhead, faint against the deepening indigo.

without a word, he grabs his hoodie from the truck, the fabric soft and worn, and drapes it over your shoulders. it swallows you, sleeves dangling past your hands, but you tug it tight, burying your face in the collar, and the sight of you in his clothes does something vicious to his chest.

“thanks,” you whisper, voice soft, nearly lost to the wind, your eyes catching his, warm and unguarded.

neither of you moves. the moment stretches, fragile as glass, strung between the stars and the restless waves, the air thick with salt and unspoken things. satoru’s heart hammers, every beat a confession he can’t voice.

“suguru would kill me,” he blurts, the words rough, desperate, a lifeline to keep him grounded.

you tilt your head, studying him, the wind tugging at your hair. “for what?”

for wanting you. for almost kissing you. for dreaming of you every night since you came back.

“for keeping you out too late,” he lies, voice scraping, hating how weak it sounds.

you laugh, soft and knowing, like you see through him, like you always have. “i’m not a kid, toru.”

he swallows, throat burning. “you’ve always been… different. special.” the words slip out, raw and unguarded, and he regrets them instantly, but your eyes soften, something tender flickering there.

you step closer, close enough that he can smell the salt on your skin, the faint coconut of your sunscreen lingering. “maybe i’m tougher than you think,” you say, brushing sand off his shoulder with fingers so light they feel like a dream, your touch lingering a second too long.

“maybe,” he croaks, voice breaking, his hands twitching to pull you closer.

you hold his gaze, long and steady, then sigh, stepping back, the space between you cold and sudden. “we should go,” you murmur, voice laced with something heavy, something he can’t name.

he drives you home slowly, windows down, the radio murmuring a low, slow song that weaves through the night. you curl up in the passenger seat, still in his hoodie, humming softly, your voice a thread he wants to chase forever. the road stretches, quiet and dark, the ocean a shadow to your left, its rhythm steady against the chaos in his chest.

at your house, the porch light glows, a soft amber pool, but suguru’s truck is gone, the driveway empty. “thanks for the swim,” you say, lingering with your hand on the door, your fingers brushing the handle like you’re reluctant to leave.

“anytime,” he says, meaning it too much, his voice low, heavy with everything he’s holding back.

you lean across the console, and his breath catches, time slowing as you press a kiss to his cheek—soft, quick, a fleeting devastation. your lips are warm, barely there, but they burn, a spark that could set him ablaze. then you’re gone, darting up the steps, pausing to throw him a wink, bright and teasing, before slipping inside.

he sits there, hand pressed to his cheek, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. the engine ticks, the night presses in, and he’s alone with the ghost of your kiss, the weight of it heavier than the ocean.

“you’re fucked,” he tells his reflection in the rearview mirror, voice rough, eyes wide and stunned.

his reflection doesn’t argue, just stares back, helpless.

the next morning at the stand, suguru’s quiet, frowning over inventory lists, his pen scratching too hard against the clipboard. “you okay?” satoru asks, dread curling in his gut, the memory of last night still burning.

“late night,” suguru mutters, scribbling a note, his voice clipped.

relief floods satoru, sharp and dizzying, nearly knocking him off balance. “the bonfire girl?” he asks, forcing a grin.

suguru smirks, a glint in his eyes. “very flexible.”

normal. it’s normal. nothing’s changed.

then you appear, hair twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, wearing cutoff shorts and—satoru’s breath catches, a punch to the chest—his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the fabric loose but claiming you in a way that makes his head spin. “morning!” you chirp, dropping your bag behind the counter, the zipper jingling softly.

“you’re late,” suguru grumbles, mock stern, tossing you an apron.

“by like, five minutes,” you protest, rolling your eyes, your lips twitching with a smile.

“still late,” he insists, but there’s no heat in it, just the easy rhythm of family.

you catch the apron one-handed, sticking your tongue out at him when he turns away. satoru pretends to fiddle with the register, fingers clumsy on the keys, trying not to stare at you, at the way his hoodie looks on you, at the way it feels like a claim he didn’t mean to make.

but when you catch his eye across the stand, your smile slows, turns secret, full of promises he’s not sure he can survive. it’s a look that says you remember last night—the swim, the almost-kiss, the kiss that was—and his heart lurches, knowing he’s lost, knowing he doesn’t want to fight it, not with the annual bonfire party looming, its heat and chaos waiting to pull him under.

the bonfire party pulses against the darkening sky, flames clawing upward, casting amber and gold across faces slick with sweat and laughter. satoru nurses a beer, the bottle cool and slick in his palm, half-listening to a friend drone on about swell patterns and reef breaks. his attention frays, eyes slicing through the crowd, searching for you, a reflex he can’t tame.

when you appear, the world collapses to a single, searing point.

you step from the beach path, a peach sundress clinging to your curves, thin straps shimmering like liquid firelight, the hem teasing high on your thighs. your hair’s loose, wild from the salt air, curling against your shoulders like it’s daring the wind to try harder. you look shy at first, eyes darting through the chaos of bodies, searching for an anchor.

then you find him.

your eyes lock across the fire, and your smile—small, devastating, a curve of lips that’s both invitation and blade—cuts through him. it steals his breath, roots him to the sand, the beer bottle nearly slipping from his grip. his heart’s a traitor, pounding loud enough to drown out the music, and he’s terrified suguru’s nearby, that his best friend’s sharp eyes will catch the way satoru’s unraveling.

“dude, you even listening?” his friend asks, waving a hand in front of his face, voice tinged with annoyance.

“what? yeah,” satoru mumbles, not hearing a damn thing, unable to tear himself from you, from the way the firelight dances across your face.

a shadow moves beside him, and suguru’s there, beer in hand, leaning back against a driftwood log. “you’re zoning out,” he says, voice neutral, taking a slow sip. his eyes flick to the crowd, casual, but satoru’s stomach lurches—suguru knows him too well, reads him like a book, and satoru’s been anything but subtle tonight.

“just hot,” satoru mutters, tipping his beer back, the bitter fizz doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck. he forces his gaze to the fire, to the sparks spiraling into the night, praying suguru doesn’t push.

suguru hums, noncommittal, and says nothing more, but the silence feels heavy, like he’s waiting for satoru to crack. satoru tries to play it cool—laughs at a half-heard joke, tosses a stick into the flames, watches it catch and burn. but you’re a tide, pulling at him, relentless.

the way your dress shifts with the breeze, tracing the dip of your waist; the bare slope of your shoulders, kissed by firelight; the glint of your anklet, a silver thread against your ankle. it’s torture, and he’s burning, every nerve alight with want he’s desperate to hide.

you drift through the party, a fleeting spark, never staying long. you laugh with girls from the rival stand, their voices sharp and bright, then pause to chat with a guy satoru half-remembers from high school—tanned, smug, standing too close.

you tilt your head back, laughing, throat bared, and satoru’s grip dents his beer can, the metal creaking under his fingers. the urge to cross the sand, to shove the guy back, is a live wire in his veins, but he stays put, jaw tight, because suguru’s right there, watching the fire, and one wrong move could betray him.

“you’re gonna break that,” suguru says, voice low, nodding at the can, his tone too even to be safe.

satoru sets it down, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “i’m fine,” he says, too sharp, and regrets it instantly, the words too defensive.

suguru raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push, just takes another sip, his gaze drifting to the crowd. satoru follows it, and there you are, catching his eye again, your stare steady, unflinching. you take a slow sip of your beer, tongue flicking out to catch a drop on your bottom lip, and desire coils in satoru’s stomach, hot and heavy, his mouth dry as the ash at his feet.

he shifts, crossing his arms, trying to ground himself, to look anywhere but at you. suguru’s too close, too perceptive, and satoru’s walking a tightrope, every glance a risk. he forces a laugh at something his friend says, but it’s hollow, his focus fractured by the way you move, the way you exist, like you’re pulling the air from his lungs.

you’re there suddenly, standing before them, your sundress glowing orange in the firelight, sand dusting your bare ankles, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone. “hey,” you say, voice soft, a little breathless, like the crowd’s worn you thin, like you’re seeking refuge.

suguru shifts, patting the space on the log between them. “plenty of room,” he says, easy, tossing you a chip from the bag at his feet. “hungry?”

“i’m your only sister,” you point out, rolling your eyes as you settle onto the log, careful with the short hem of your dress, thighs brushing the rough wood.

you’re too close—satoru can smell your shampoo, coconut and sweet, weaving through the smoky air. your knee presses against his, a steady heat through his jeans, and he shifts, angling away, terrified of leaning into it, of suguru noticing the way his hands twitch.

you slip into easy talk, the three of you passing the chip bag, laughing at suguru’s tales of tourists losing sunglasses to the waves. but there’s a charge humming under it all, a current satoru can’t ignore.

he’s hyperaware of you—the way your fingers tuck a stray curl behind your ear, the soft hitch of your breath when you laugh, the way your eyes find his in the firelight, each glance a spark that could ignite him. suguru’s right there, sprawled and relaxed, but satoru’s nerves are a live wire, every moment a test of his restraint.

the speaker blasts a new song, bass thumping across the sand, and couples start dancing near the fire, shadows twisting against the flames. a guy approaches you—tall, cocky, hand outstretched, all easy charm. “dance with me?” he asks, grinning like he’s already won.

satoru’s jaw clenches, a spike of something hot and reckless surging in his chest, but you just smile, polite, shaking your head. “maybe later,” you say, voice light, and relief crashes through satoru, sharp and unearned, loosening the knot in his gut.

the guy shrugs, moving on, and suguru watches, finishing his beer in a long gulp, the bottle glinting in the firelight. he stands, stretching, his shadow long across the sand. “gonna grab another,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes linger on you for a beat, then flick to satoru, unreadable. “you two want anything?”

“i’m good,” satoru says, too fast, his pulse still settling, his hands gripping his knees to keep still.

“i’ll take another,” you say, holding up your empty can, fingers brushing the rim, a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge.

suguru nods, then heads off, weaving through the crowd, his absence leaving a void that hums with possibility. the fire crackles, music pulses low, and the silence between you and satoru stretches, thick with smoke and want, the air heavy with everything he’s fighting to hide.

“having fun?” he asks, voice rougher than he means, cringing at how weak it sounds, like a kid fumbling for words.

you smile, eyes on the fire, flames dancing in your gaze like they’re part of you. “yeah. it’s nice being back for the summer.” you turn to him, face half-shadowed, half-glowing, your expression soft, open. “better than i expected.”

“yeah?” he asks, heart hammering, the sound too loud in his ears, terrified suguru’s watching from the drink table, catching every slip.

you nod, holding his gaze, steady, unflinching. “yeah.”

the silence deepens, heavy as the tide, pulling at him. you take a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress, tugging it down, and he can’t look away from the nervous bite of your lip, the way it shines, wet with beer and firelight. he’s drowning, and suguru’s absence is a dangerous freedom, every second a chance to break.

“actually, i’m feeling a little…” you trail off, glancing at the crowd, the laughter and chaos swelling around you. “it’s kinda loud. kinda crowded.”

“we can move down the beach,” satoru offers, instant, eager, desperate to keep this moment. “if you want quiet.”

you shake your head, lip caught between your teeth, a gesture that’s a fucking dart to his chest. “i was thinking… maybe you could drive me home?”

his brain stutters, blanks. “home?” he echoes, keys already burning in his pocket, his hands itching to move.

“if you don’t mind,” you add, quick, a blush blooming across your cheeks, soft and real, like you’re offering more than you’re saying. “i’m just… tired.”

he knows you’re not tired. knows it like he knows the pull of the ocean, the sting of salt. your eyes are too bright, too awake, the lie a fragile veil over something bolder. he’s nodding, fumbling for his keys, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the fire’s crackle. “yeah, of course. let me just tell suguru—”

“already texted him,” you say, holding up your phone, a shy smile curving your lips. “he says it’s fine.”

satoru’s pulse spikes, panic and want twisting together. suguru’s out there, somewhere, and satoru’s terrified he’s watching, that he’ll see the truth in his face, the way he’s crumbling under your gaze. but he stands, offering his hand, voice rough. “let’s go.”

you take it, fingers warm, slightly sticky from the beer, letting him pull you up. you sway, bumping his chest, and he steadies you, hands on your waist, the thin fabric of your dress no barrier to the heat of your skin. “sorry,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes, not stepping back, your breath a soft tease against his jaw.

“that’s okay,” he says, voice raw, barely holding it together. “i’ve got you.”

you weave through the crowd to the parking lot, your hand still in his, a tether he’s terrified to break. satoru spots suguru by the drink table, their eyes meeting across the sand. suguru’s gaze is steady, a small nod passing between them, no words, just an acknowledgment that feels like a warning: don’t cross the line.

satoru nods back, a silent promise he’s not sure he can keep, and guides you to his truck.

the drive’s quiet at first, just the engine’s low growl and the distant rhythm of waves. satoru grips the wheel, knuckles white, hyperaware of you in the passenger seat—your bare legs catching moonlight, the way your dress rides up, revealing the soft curve of your thigh.

you turn the radio on low, a sultry summer song with a bassline that matches his pulse, heavy and slow. your knee brushes his, stays there, a deliberate heat that sets him ablaze, and he’s fighting every instinct to keep his hands where they belong, to keep suguru’s trust intact.

“thank you,” you say, voice soft, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse beam. “for the ride.”

“anytime,” he says, and it’s a vow, heavy with everything he’s burying, everything he’s too afraid to let suguru see.

another mile hums by, the radio crackling low, a sultry bassline weaving through the dark. tires whisper against cracked asphalt, a secret shared between the truck and the night. the windows are cracked, letting in slivers of humid, salt-heavy air, thick with the scent of seaweed and distant bonfires. it does nothing to ease the heat coiling inside the cab, a fever that clings to your skin, makes every breath feel flushed, electric, like the world’s poised on a knife’s edge.

satoru feels it before he sees it—your gaze, molten and heavy, searing into the side of his face. the air shifts, sharp, trembling, a wire stretched to snapping. weeks of want, maybe years, spill over, uncontainable, a tide breaking against a crumbling dam.

“satoru,” you whisper, voice catching, raw with a need that slices through him. “pull over. please.”

he glances at you, and it’s a fucking mistake. your eyes glitter in the dashboard’s dim glow, wild and wide, lips parted, hands fisting the hem of your peach sundress, knuckles pale like you’re clinging to sanity. “what?” he asks, voice fraying, teetering on wrecked.

“please,” you say again, lip quivering, voice splintering under the weight of desperation. “i can’t hold it anymore.”

he doesn’t hesitate. the blinker clicks, sharp and urgent, the truck veering onto the sandy shoulder, ocean roaring below the cliffs, a primal pulse in the dark. he shifts into park, and the world catches fire.

“i can’t,” you whisper, eyes wide, pleading, like you’re unraveling. “i can’t pretend like you’re not everything anymore.”

he freezes, waiting for you to laugh, to take it back, but your hands are on him, yanking him across the console, your mouth crashing into his. you taste like desperation, strawberry lip gloss, and something achingly sweet, a heartbreak he can’t name. he moans, low and stunned, hands flying to your hips as you pour into him, a wave finally breaking, relentless and all-consuming.

your kiss is frantic, messy, teeth catching his lip, tongue sliding against his in a clumsy, starving dance. he’s drowning, your body pressing closer, like you could meld into him, erase every inch of space. “wait,” he gasps, pulling back, forehead knocking against yours, breath jagged, the air between you steaming. “baby, you’ve been drinking. i can’t—”

“satoru,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shirt, nails biting through cotton, dragging him back. “i know what i’m doing. i’ve wanted you since i was sixteen. please. just tonight. let me have you.”

the raw truth in your voice shatters him, every defense crumbling like sand. “oh, sweetheart,” he coos, teasing but hungry, kissing you again, deep and reckless, tongue chasing yours like he’s been starved for you. “we should—shit, we should find a bed, somewhere better—”

“no,” you cut him off, voice fierce, climbing over the console, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. your dress rides up, thighs bare and warm against his jeans, and he chokes, breath hitching at the heat of you. “here. now. i can’t wait.”

he’s trying to be good, trying to think of suguru, of the lines he shouldn’t cross, but you’re too much—too pretty, too desperate, grinding against him, the friction making his vision blur. “backseat,” he murmurs, voice low, fraying with impatience, hands gripping your waist to lift you. “more room, pretty girl.”

you nod, frantic, and you both tumble out into the humid dark, clumsy with need, the night thick with the buzz of cicadas and the ocean’s restless crash. he catches you when your sandal snags on the doorframe, your laugh breathless, a sound that hooks into his ribs and pulls tight.

he shoves open the back door, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, firm but gentle, the leather seats gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

the backseat’s a tight cocoon, windows fogging, the air steaming with heat and lust. you climb in, pulling him after you, straddling him again, knees bracketing his hips, the seat creaking under your weight. your sundress is a crumpled mess, straps slipping off your shoulders, and he’s lost, staring at you like you’re a fucking vision, eyes glinting with want, skin flushed and alive.

“c’mere, gorgeous,” he coos, voice dripping with tease, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a hunger he can’t hide. he drags you closer, hands sliding under your dress, palms worshipping the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft dip of your waist.

you gasp, grinding against him, and he feels himself, thick and aching, pressed against your core through his jeans, every roll of your hips a sweet kind of torture.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he murmurs, breath hitching, hands trembling as he pushes your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate lace of your panties. his voice is all tease, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown, betraying the impatience clawing at him.

you giggle, wrecked and sweet, and he grits his teeth, your laugh a spark to his fraying control. “lemme touch you,” he pleads, voice low, edged with a need that’s almost painful, fingers itching to claim every inch of you.

“yes,” you breathe, thighs parting, a flower opening to the sun, offering him everything.

he traces slow, maddening patterns up your inner thighs, savoring every twitch, every shiver, the way your breath catches when his knuckles graze too close. his fingers brush the damp lace of your panties, and he curses, soft and reverent, the heat of you undoing him.

“soaked already,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear, voice thick with awe, a teasing lilt masking the way his hands shake. “such a good girl for me.”

he slips beneath the lace, and you choke on a cry, biting your knuckles, head falling back against the seat. “nuh-uh,” he teases, nipping your neck, a playful bite that stings just enough to make you gasp. “no hiding, baby. i want every sound. lemme hear you.”

he tugs your hand away, pinning it against the seat, his other hand working slow, deliberate circles over your clit, featherlight and cruel.

you whimper, high and broken, hips bucking into his touch, chasing the friction. he’s methodical, a tease—circling your clit with barely-there pressure, dipping lower to trace your entrance, then back up, dragging out every sensation until you’re writhing, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

“satoru,” you pant, nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt, leaving crescent marks he’ll trace later, proof of you.

“patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips dragging wet down your throat, teeth grazing the frantic pulse at your neck. “gonna savor you. make you forget anyone else ever touched you.” his voice is a promise, teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his own impatience, and you shudder, thighs trembling under his hands.

he shoves your panties aside, tossing them into the backseat’s shadows, and spreads you open, pressing you back against the seat, the leather sticking to your sweat-slick skin. the angle’s awkward, the space cramped, but he makes it work, one knee braced against the floorboard, shoulders hunching to fit, his breath hot against your core.

“prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” he murmurs, eyes dark, pupils swallowing the blue, staring at you like you’re a banquet and he’s been starving for years.

he kisses up your thigh, slow, messy, lips smearing wet trails, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, the faint musk of you driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, holding you still as he edges closer, breath fanning hot over your core, making you squirm. when his tongue drags a long, languid stripe up your folds, you sob, arching off the seat, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard enough to sting.

he moans, the sound eager, vibrating through you, and dives in, ravenous. he’s messy, relentless—tongue lapping broad, greedy strokes, then sharp, teasing flicks against your clit, nose nudging you with every movement.

his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly, and you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, a vise he welcomes. he pries your legs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and keeps going, tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive inch, like he’s mapping you.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mumbles, words slurred, muffled against your core, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance, and he slides a finger inside, curling it slow, deliberate, searching for that spot that makes your breath hitch. you keen, high and desperate, and he adds another finger, stretching you, pumping in time with the sharp flicks of his tongue, the rhythm maddening.

“satoru,” you wail, overwhelmed, hips bucking, chasing the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. his eyes flick up, meeting yours, and they’re wild—lids heavy, face flushed, glistening with your slick, utterly lost in you.

he’s trying to hold back, to keep some control, because you’re suguru’s sister, because he shouldn’t, but you’re too fucking perfect, grinding against his face, and he’s unraveling, impatient for more.

he shifts, the backseat too small, his shoulder bumping the fogged window, smearing the condensation. one hand braces against the door, keeping him steady, the other working you deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs shake.

his tongue traces patterns—lazy circles, sharp figure-eights, quick flicks that have you gasping, trembling. he pulls back for a moment, just to spit on you, the wet heat mixing with your slick, making everything filthier, then dives back in, lapping it up, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, the wet sounds lewd and intoxicating.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he coos, voice teasing, lips brushing your clit, but the undercurrent of hunger is undeniable, his patience fraying. “dripping all over me, baby. gonna scream for me soon.” he dives back in, tongue relentless, fingers twisting, and you’re a mess, thighs quivering, chest heaving, the leather creaking under your restless movements.

“please,” you whimper, voice breaking, hands yanking his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. “faster, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, but he obliges, tongue flicking quicker, fingers pumping deeper, curling sharper. “love it when you beg. makes me wanna tie you up, keep you like this all night.” his voice is playful, but the idea’s a spark, and you shudder, the image of you bound and spread for him making you clench around his fingers.

he groans, feeling it, and sucks your clit hard, tongue swirling, fingers relentless. you’re close, he knows it—the way you tighten around him, the way your hips stutter, the way your cries turn hoarse, desperate. he doubles down, tongue sloppy, lips smacking wetly, fingers driving into you, chasing every gasp, every shudder. “c’mon, pretty girl,” he coos, words muffled, dripping with want. “cum for me. let me taste it. fuckin’ paint me.”

you shatter, a hoarse, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as you come undone, convulsing under him, waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body arching off the seat. he doesn’t stop, lips moving, tongue lapping, fingers pumping, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, greedy for every drop.

you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders, but he’s too far gone, chasing the last of your release, his mouth slick and shining.

“satoru, fuck,” you gasp, voice broken, hands shoving at him, but there’s no strength, just a plea he ignores. he grins against you, sloppy and drunk, and licks another slow, deliberate stripe, making you jolt, a fresh whimper spilling out.

“one more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost pleading, lips brushing your clit, teasing and soft. “you’ve got another for me, don’t you? know you do.” his fingers slide deeper, curling slow, coaxing, tongue flicking light, playful, drawing you back to the edge with a patience that’s more about his hunger than your comfort.

you’re a wreck, thighs trembling, breath hitching, but you can’t resist him, not when he’s like this—teasing, hungry, cooing like you’re his to unravel.

he adjusts, cramped knees creaking, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread, hooking your leg over his shoulder to open you wider. his tongue circles your clit, soft and teasing, fingers pumping slow, deep, dragging out every sensation until you’re whining, high and needy, hands tugging his hair again.

“look at you,” he purrs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his face a mess—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, chin dripping with you. “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me. bet you’d let me do anything, huh?” he nips your inner thigh, a quick, sharp bite, and you gasp, hips jerking.

“satoru,” you plead, voice fraying, “too much.”

“too much?” he teases, tongue flicking your clit, light and quick, making you twitch. “thought you wanted me, baby. thought you couldn’t wait.” his fingers curl, slow and wicked, and you arch, a fresh cry spilling out. “that’s it, give me everything. love watching you break.”

he dives back in, tongue tracing lazy patterns, lips sucking soft, then hard, alternating to keep you guessing, keep you trembling. his fingers work deeper, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur, the wet sounds filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

he’s relentless, messy, eating you like he’s been denied for years, like every lick is a claim. his free hand slides up, cupping your breast through your dress, thumb circling your nipple, teasing until it’s hard, until you’re gasping, overwhelmed.

“wanna see you ride my face,” he murmurs, voice slurred, drunk on you, pulling back to catch his breath, his lips slick and shining. “wanna feel you grind, baby. c’mon, use me.” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just shifts, lying back on the seat, pulling you up, guiding your hips over his face, his hands firm but coaxing.

you hesitate, oversensitive, but he’s insistent, tugging you down, and when his tongue flicks your clit again, you’re gone, grinding against him, chasing the heat.

he groans, eager, hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements, his tongue relentless, flicking, circling, sucking. you’re a vision, dress hiked up, straps falling, hair a wild mess, and he’s lost, watching you use him, watching you fall apart again.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, voice muffled, vibrating through you. “fuck my face, c’mon, give it to me.” his words are filthy, teasing, but the hunger’s raw, impatient, and you’re too far gone to care, hips rolling, chasing the edge again.

he sucks hard, fingers digging into your hips, and you shatter a second time, weaker but sharper, a cry ripping from you as you convulse, thighs shaking, his tongue still moving, still greedy.

he laps you through it, slow, deliberate, not stopping until you’re limp, gasping, hands falling loose in his hair. his lips are swollen, face glistening, eyes hazy, utterly wrecked. he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft, almost worshipful, before pulling back, panting, staring at you like you’ve rewritten his world.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice raw, teasing but frayed with want, his hands still roaming your thighs, like he can’t let go. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“want you,” you whisper, dragging satoru up from where he’s still panting between your thighs, lips slick and swollen, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as you crash into him.

the kiss is filthy, all teeth and hunger, a clash of desperation and need. your hands claw at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt, pulling him so close it’s like you’re trying to carve yourself into him.

he moans, a low, wrecked sound, hands frantic as he helps you tear his shirt off. the fabric snags, rips at the seam, and you both laugh—breathless, wild, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the backseat.

you pause, hands splaying over his chest, fingers tracing the lean muscle under flushed skin, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone like stars he never noticed. he’s beautiful, carved but human, chest heaving under your touch, eyes dark with a want that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, you’re staring,” he teases, voice rough but laced with a shy edge, a flush creeping up his neck that’s got nothing to do with the heat.

“can’t help it,” you murmur, tracing the sharp line of his abs, feeling the shudder that ripples through him. “you’re too damn pretty, toru.”

he curses, soft and reverent, a quiet “shit” that’s more prayer than profanity, and shoves his jeans down, kicking them into the backseat’s shadows with a clumsy thud.

his cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and you whimper, thighs clenching, a fresh wave of heat pooling low. he’s big, bigger than you’d imagined in your wildest, most reckless dreams, and the sight of him sends a thrill through you, sharp and electric.

he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, the air between you steaming with sweat and want. “baby, i don’t have a condom,” he says, voice tight, the words dragged out like they’re killing him, his hands trembling on your hips.

“don’t care,” you whisper, desperate, hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer until his cock brushes your thigh, hot and heavy. “want you. all of you. please, satoru.”

he curses again, louder, a broken “fuck” as he drags his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit and making you gasp, hips jerking.

“last chance, sweetheart,” he coos, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide the blue’s a thin ring, a man teetering on the edge of control. “you sure?”

“please,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. “need you inside me. now.”

he groans, a sound that’s all need, and pushes in slow, careful, watching your face with a focus that makes your heart stutter. the stretch is intense, a delicious burn that has you clutching his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, leaving marks he’ll trace later with a grin. he buries his face in your shoulder, moaning, the sound low and frayed, like he’s coming apart.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he whimpers, voice shaking, a teasing lilt undercut by raw hunger. “squeezin’ me so good, pretty girl.”

he moves slow, rocking into you, letting you adjust to the fullness, each shallow thrust stealing your breath. it stings, but it’s perfect—the way he fills you, the way he’s careful but desperate, holding back just enough to keep from breaking you. “more,” you beg, rolling your hips, greedy, chasing the friction, the pressure. “harder, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, a chuckle that’s all heat, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise, a possessive edge to his touch as he pulls back, then fucks into you deeper, harder, the truck creaking with the force. you gasp, head falling back, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like a trophy.

“satoru,” you sob, overwhelmed by the fullness, the way he hits every spot, splitting you open in the best way. the backseat’s too small, his knees bumping the door, your elbow grazing the fogged window, but it’s raw, filthy—the cramped space forcing you closer, bodies tangled, slick with sweat.

the air’s thick, heavy with the scent of sex, salt, and the faint coconut of your skin, windows fogged so tight you’re a secret hidden from the world.

“feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he pants, finding a rhythm, deep and steady, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, the wet sounds obscene, filling the cab.

the distant crash of waves below weaves through your gasps, his groans, the leather creaking under you. his hands roam, possessive, one sliding up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb teasing your nipple until it’s hard, making you whimper.

“look at you, baby,” he coos, voice teasing but frayed with impatience, “taking me so well.”

“let me ride you,” you gasp, pushing at his chest, desperate to feel him deeper, to take control, to make him unravel. your voice is a plea, high and needy, and his eyes flash, something feral sparking in them.

“fuck yes,” he murmurs, wild and breathless, a grin splitting his face. “come take it, gorgeous.” he flips you in one fluid motion, maneuvering in the tight space with a grace that’s almost unfair, pulling you on top as he settles back against the seat, the leather sticking to his sweat-slick back. his hands tug at your dress, impatient, a low growl in his throat. “off. now. wanna see every inch of you.”

you nod, frantic, yanking the sundress over your head, the fabric catching in your hair before you toss it aside. your breasts spill free, no bra—because of course, you fucking minx—and satoru moans, loud and broken, hands flying to cup them, thumbs brushing your nipples, sending jolts through you.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arch, grinding against him, a whine slipping from your lips. he leans up, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with wet, messy attention, his lips leaving a trail of heat. his hands roam—one squeezing your ass, urging you to move, the other pinching your nipple, making you shudder, your core clenching around nothing.

“ride me, baby,” he pants, pulling back, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark and hazy, pupils swallowing the blue. “take what’s yours. lemme see you fall apart.”

you sink down on him, trembling, the stretch deeper at this angle, a sharp, perfect ache that has you whimpering, pausing to adjust, your breath hitching. he fills you completely, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding yourself.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, hands steadying your hips, guiding you gently, his voice teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his impatience. “fuck, you feel so good. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you move, hips rolling, clumsy at first, finding a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. the leather sticks to your thighs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the windows fogged so tight you’re a world unto yourselves. his hands help, guiding your hips, but his eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear into you, slick and glistening, a low groan spilling from his lips.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, a teasing edge fraying with need. “so fuckin’ gorgeous, taking me like that.”

every roll of your hips is electric, your thighs quivering, the effort making your muscles burn, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at you—like you’re a goddess, like he’s worshiping you with every thrust.

he meets you halfway, thrusting up, matching your pace, the truck rocking with the force, creaking and swaying like it’s barely holding together. his hands slide to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs teasing your nipples until you’re moaning, loud and shameless, lost in the heat of him.

“mine,” he murmurs, pulling you down for a rough kiss, teeth catching your lip, biting just enough to make you gasp. “fuck, you’re mine, baby. always have been.”

“yours,” you sob, collapsing against his chest, hips still grinding, chasing the pressure building inside you, a coil winding tighter with every move. his hands are everywhere—gripping your ass, cupping your breasts, sliding to your clit, rubbing messy, desperate circles that have you shaking, so close you can taste it.

he shifts, adjusting the angle, one hand braced against the door to keep his balance, the other guiding your hips faster, harder.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on yours, a teasing grin fading into raw hunger. “gimme another. wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

his thrusts turn brutal, deep, hitting that spot over and over, and you’re gone, shattering around him, walls clenching tight, dragging a low, desperate moan from his throat as he feels you pulse, hot and wet. but he’s not done. you’re still trembling, riding out the aftershocks, when he grows impatient, his cock throbbing, the need to cum clawing at him.

“fuck, baby, you’re too slow,” he teases, but his voice is strained, fraying with lust, a man on the edge. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he lifts you, bouncing you on his lap with a strength that makes you gasp, the truck shaking with every movement.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he sets a relentless pace, thrusting up into you, each slam of your hips against his sending shocks through you. the angle’s deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every bounce, and you’re helpless, a ragdoll in his hands, your breasts bouncing, your moans spilling out, loud and broken.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, but it’s dark, impatient, his eyes wild as he watches you, watches himself disappear into you, slick and messy. “fuck, you feel so good. gonna—shit, gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like that.” his hands tighten, bouncing you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

“please,” you beg, voice fracturing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the way he’s taking you apart again. “want it, satoru. want you.”

“fuck, say that again,” he groans, thrusting up harder, his voice teetering on desperate, the teasing gone, replaced by raw need. “tell me you want me.”

“want you,” you gasp, clinging to him, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, as he bounces you, the friction driving you to the edge again. “want you so bad, toru. always have.”

he’s unraveling, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his breath hitching as he chases his release. “fuck, baby, you’re too much,” he pants, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you down onto him one last time. “gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

he pulls out just in time, groaning loud and broken, spilling across your thighs, hot and thick, painting your skin as he slumps against you, panting into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling, spent.

for a long moment, it’s just the ocean’s roar below, the frantic thud of your hearts, the sticky heat wrapping you tight, the air heavy with the scent of sex and salt. he grabs his discarded shirt, cleaning you up with slow, careful swipes, his touch soft now, almost reverent, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“you okay, pretty girl?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, his lips warm, lingering, like he’s memorizing you.

“perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling into him, your body loose, sated, still buzzing with aftershocks, the leather creaking under you as you shift closer.

he helps you tug your dress back on, hands trailing soft, teasing paths over your shoulders, your collarbone, stealing kisses between every adjustment, his lips brushing your skin like he can’t bear to stop.

you’re curled together in the sticky heat, limbs tangled, the backseat too small but perfect for this—pressed close, hearts still racing, the fogged windows shielding you from the world. he checks his phone, and there’s one message from suguru:

you suck at hiding it. don’t get her pregnant, dumbass.

satoru groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, a laugh bubbling up despite the mortification. “busted,” he mutters, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable lecture.

“worth it,” you giggle, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, your lips brushing his temple, soft and warm, a promise in the touch.

tangled together under the heavy night, the world slipping out of focus—it’s just you and him, caught up in something quiet and reckless, something that feels too big to name.

a/n : ew i cant believe i had to mention sukuna but dw he got hit by a ten wheeler truck while the ending was happening. i scrapped the sorta aftermath of this which is one week later because it included risky beach sex.. lmk if y'all would want to see it ^_^

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star- chap three preview

Pornstar Gojo WILL be out tomorrow!!! One more preview <3 Do NOT read if you haven't read part two!

Pairings- Pornstar! Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings - NSFW- oral sex (m recieving) mentions of cum, Gojo's dick is broken bc of reader poor baby! Mentions of sex, filming porn, dom/sub undertones -taglist closed but everyone on it will get tagged in the update! rough draft and not edited so excuse any typos!

It's here

“Fuck, I’ve made a mess, need someone to clean me all up.” Satoru whispers, while you barely are able to hold up the camera any longer, the livestream is avid with questions, namely - who is filming Satoru Gojo? And offers from many viewers to lick every bit of him up.

Satoru should stare at the camera, but he’s looking up into your eyes instead, stroking his cum soaked length slowly, just pumping more cum out of his tip, so much it’s ridiculous, dripped down to his balls and inner thighs. You swallow nervously, tummy clenched with desire, knowing you needed to stay quiet for the stream of curious viewers.

Satoru murmurs cut then, and  you do just that, shutting off the feed, and setting down the phone with a shaky hand, clearing your throat. “They loved it I think.”

“C’mere.” He crooks two fingers, and you eagerly obey, walking up to him now, tempting him to no end with the way your eyes drink him in. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

You obey again, eagerly in fact, looking up at him under lowered lashes as his clean hand slips up the side of your pretty neck, then around to the nape of it, entangling in your locks. Your soft whine and shift of your hips are all he needs to know you’re enjoying it, your hands obediently on your thighs, as if waiting for his every order, so sexy he feels his cock twitch back to life.

“Do you want to clean me up?” He asks softly, but the command in his tone is there, you nod and he exhales, tugging you towards him then. “Then do a really good job, sweets. Lick every bit clean like a good girl, and I’ll reward you.”

“I’ll do a good job.” Your whisper wrecks him, as he guides your head down, and you suck him, still hard, into your hot, eager mouth. Your soft whine vibrates around him, his head falling back as your mouth moves.

He can’t help but think of earlier.

A date, you were gonna go on a date, and he hates the idea, no, he fucking detests the idea in fact, the rage alone making him fuck your throat deeper, harder, feeling you gag and choke on him instead of anyone else. He shouldn’t feel possessive over his friend, a friend who’s sucking his cum, who’s swallowing him up, all he can think is his, his, his.

But you weren’t his.

How could you ever be?

Satoru’s never felt anything better than your throat, except he’s a million percent sure your cunt is better, he knows it would suck him up so greedy. When tears fall from your pretty eyes, it’s hotter than any blow job he’s had on set, the eagerness and desperate need to please far surpasses experience, your glasses fogging up when you pull back to take a breath then.

Satoru looks at his slick, spit covered cock, to thin trails of saliva disintegrating between your lips as you pull back, swiping at your lower lip. “How did I do?”

“Perfect.” His whisper is genuine, the words feel too good, you know you should stop, that you already wish he was yours, but you’re too addicted to how those blue eyes make you feel like you’re the only girl there is.

Even if it’s an illusion, a trick of your brain, or a practiced look.

The feeling is too euphoric not to be corrupted by it.

“You did such a good job, look at it, not any cum left. You sucked it all down, so greedy huh?” His hand comes under your chin, squeezing your neck gently yet so possessive, he wants to say it - his - but he knows he can’t. But it’s too easy to teeter off the edge, when your breaths come faster, breasts pressed up in that dress, rising and falling with each one.

“Satoru… I can keep going.” Your soft voice nearly ends him, little hand stroking his cock again.

“I was thinking of something, but if you don’t want to, it's okay.” You blink a bit then, tilting your head, tendrils falling against your bare shoulders.

“What is it?”

“A scene with me, but not showing your face at all,” your gasp and pull back makes him sigh. “It’d be like me eating your pussy, we could have it zoomed so no one sees your face.”

The thought, along with Satoru's sweet cum down your throat makes your tummy clench, while he brings out more and more of you that you did not know existed. Your hands tense on his thighs now, taking a shaky breath, fingers along the downy hair on his thighs. “I don’t… Satoru you have a million options for costars-”

“I want yours. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“Satoru…”

“It is. Wanna argue about my expertise here?” You just get more flustered and flushed, looking down nervously, but he tilts your chin with his big hand, angling your gaze upward. “I’ll split all the pay, you get eaten out, and anonymously. I’d never tell anyone, I’d never risk your career or anything. But I do need to do one, and I hate the thought of it not…” Satoru trails off now, the words sinking in.

“You like eating me out that much?” Your whisper makes him chuckle then, nodding and swallowing nervously.

“That pussy is perfect. How about we film it, and you watch it, and if you don’t want to, I just keep it to jerk off to…” Shit, he said that.

He’s so desperate and pathetic.

I'm exciteddd, it's almost done bbs <3 It's gonna be angsty, smutty and MESSY

perm tagsss- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[wosospacegirl]

Nice try - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Alexia thinks buying Y/N clothes is a love language.

Word count: 1.9k

..

Y/n was on a mission.

A quiet, stealthy, slightly ridiculous mission that involved tiptoeing out of their house in a hoodie three sizes too big–Alexia’s, obviously–wearing the one pair of jeans she had left, which was now very much ripped across the knee and suspiciously breezy in the back.

She couldn’t let Alexia see her like this. 

If Alexia so much as sensed that Y/n needed new clothes, she would materialise out of thin air with a platinum credit card and the entire spring collection of three different Spanish designers. 

She had done it before. Alba had mentioned once that she liked a certain purse, and boom: three purses, delivered, and a casual “I thought this one looked better on you” from Alexia like she hadn’t just dropped €2,000 for fun.

So no. Y/n was not about to become the next victim.

She waited until Alexia left for training, counted five extra minutes–just in case she forgot her water bottle and came back, because that had happened before, too–, and then bolted.

Half an hour later, she was crouched behind a rack of trousers in a little boutique downtown, trying to decide between two identical pairs of black pants. Y/n could only afford one, and god forbid she buy two- otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to treat herself at the super overpriced coffee shop near her university."

She pulled out her phone to check her bank balance. She looked at the number and sighed. Maybe she could give some tutoring? She could make some extra money off of that.

Just as she was about to put her phone away, a text appeared.

Alexia: Where are you?

Y/n blinked. Hesitated.

Y/n: uni

Alexia: You don’t have any classes on Wednesdays.

Y/n: I do

That was weak. She knew it. Alexia definitely knew it.

Alexia: You left your location on, amor.

Y/n froze, eyes wide. Her thumb hovered uselessly above her screen. God, she was so bad at lying. She needed to delete Life360 or whatever tracker Alexia had installed under the guise of “safety.”

Then another text:

Alexia: I love buying things. Why didn’t you wait for me? I wanted to go too.

“Shit,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder like Alexia might already be walking in, designer sunglasses and euro bills in hand.

..

Y/n stood in the fitting room, staring at the two pairs of pants and two shirts draped over her arm like they weighed a thousand kilos. 

It felt indulgent. Excessive. Reckless, even. 

She’d been holding out for months–mending ripped seams, rotating the same three outfits, saying it was trying to create a minimalist approach to life–but now her last decent pair of pants had betrayed her with a dramatic rip, and here she was. 

Four items. Four. Her chest tightened like she had just maxed out a credit card. It didn’t matter that they were basics or on sale…Just the idea of buying more than one thing made her skin crawl with guilt. 

Alexia would’ve walked in and cleared a whole rack without blinking, but Y/n wasn’t like that. She could already hear her own voice in her head: 

This is too much. You don’t need all this. Put one back. Put two back. Hell, put all of it back and make peace with your tragic wardrobe.

Still locked in that mental spiral, Y/n approached the register like she was walking into a courtroom, bracing for judgment. The cashier scanned the tags with a chirpy rhythm that made her stomach twist, and then, just as she reached for her card, he smiled brightly.

“Looks like you’re all set. Mrs. Putellas already paid for everything.”

Y/n stared at him like he’d just slapped her.

“Excuse me?” she asked, blinking slowly.

The man at the counter, mid-30s, smiley, clearly unaware of the emotional warfare he had just triggered, tilted his head. 

“Mrs. Putellas has already paid.” He said louder, as if Yn didn’t hear him the first time.  “Isn’t that sweet?”

Y/n’s right eye twitched.

“She what?” she asked, her voice flat, her soul leaving her body.

He grinned, still clearly thinking this was a romantic surprise moment.

“She paid remotely. It happens all the time- oh, and she left a note! Said to tell you ‘nice try, amor.’”

Y/n’s mouth dropped open.

“I...” she muttered, absolutely seething. “Fuck Alexia.”

“Would you like me to pack it as a gift?” he offered weakly, now aware he may have stepped into a silent couple war.

Y/n took a deep, cleansing breath. Then she smiled, the type of smile that would have made Alexia very nervous had she been present.

“No,” Y/n said sweetly. “But do you sell running shoes? Mrs. Putellas gonna need them.”

..

Y/n didn’t slam the front door, but only because she knew Alexia had expensive taste in hinges.

Storming into the living room with her shopping bags like they were the physical manifestation of betrayal, she found Alexia exactly where she expected her to be: lounged on the sofa, one leg tucked under her, hair in a clip, and eyes glued to the TV where a replay of Barça’s last match played in glorious 4K.

Alexia barely glanced away from the screen as Y/n stepped in front of it, blocking the entire view. 

Her response? A contented little sigh and the casual press of a warm hand to Y/n’s waist.

“Hola, amor,” she murmured, gently leaning over and kissing Y/n’s belly over her shirt. “Can you just take one tiny step to the side so I can see Patri’s goal again? It was so clean–”

“No,” Y/n said, not moving an inch. “Alexia. What the hell?”

Alexia blinked up at her, all wide-eyed and falsely innocent. “What?”

Y/n lifted a shopping bag and shook it gently. “How many times have I asked you not to buy me things?”

“I didn’t buy you anything,” Alexia replied, with the slow, smug calm of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. “I just paid for them. It’s different.”

Y/n gaped. “It’s not different!”

“It is in my heart.” Alexia gave her a cheeky smile and tugged gently at her waist to try and coax her aside. “Also, you picked them yourself. So technically, I just… assisted.”

“You hacked the store’s payment system.”

“I used Apple Pay.”

“Same thing,” Y/n muttered, flopping dramatically onto the sofa beside her, pout on her face.

Alexia leaned in, voice low and teasing. “You really think pouting is going to stop me?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re welcome, amor”

Y/n buried her face in a throw pillow to muffle the sound, leaving her body.

The game carried on, with Y/n begrudgingly sinking into the sofa next to Alexia.

Every now and then, Alexia’s eyes would flicker over to Y/n, a smug little grin tugging at her lips, especially when she could feel the weight of Y/n’s tension beside her. 

But for the most part, they watched the game in comfortable silence–well, as comfortable as it could be with Y/n trying not to think about how Alexia had yet again spent her money on her.

As the final whistle blew and the game wrapped up, Y/n sighed deeply, finally leaning back into the sofa. 

She didn’t look at Alexia, didn’t even glance at her. The silence was only broken when Alexia’s grin widened.

“Amor,” Alexia whispered, urging Y/n to sit on her lap, which she did. 

Alexia’s hand naturally found its place at Y/n’s waist, then slowly moved up to her ribs, her thumb gently brushing over the soft fabric of Y/n’s shirt before it lingered on her breast.

Y/n gently took Alexia’s hand and placed it on her own lap, giving her a tired look. “No.”

Alexia’s grin faltered, her hand staying still on Y/n’s lap as she tilted her head in confusion. 

“No? Por que?”

Y/n sighed, shifting to face her, a soft but serious look in her eyes. 

“I don’t like it when you buy me things. I don’t want you throwing money at me like that. I don’t want you to do that, Alexia.”

Alexia’s eyes softened, brows knitting together as she reached out again, this time brushing a lock of hair from Y/n’s face. 

“Amor, I don’t… I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I just love you, and I want you to be comfortable. To have things you like. To have what you deserve.”

Y/n looked at her, her chest tightening, feeling the warmth of Alexia’s hand on her face.

“I know you do,” she whispered. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep doing this for me. I don’t need it. I just want you.”

Alexia leaned forward and kissed her–just a soft, grounding peck on the lips. Nothing flashy. Just presence.

“I hear you,” Alexia murmured as she pulled back slightly, eyes scanning Y/n’s face. “I will ease up on it”

“Ease up?”

“Yes,” Alexia nodded, ever-so-slightly proud. “I will not buy as many things.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Good.”

There was a beat of silence.

“But what if…” Alexia started, tone far too casual, “We settle on an amount of money?”

Y/n stared at her. “What?”

Alexia’s fingers danced lightly against Y/n’s side, like that might distract her. “Like, I’m allowed to spend up to a certain amount on you. Weekly.”

“…Are you giving yourself an allowance to spoil me?”

“Sí,” Alexia replied with a completely straight face.

Y/n groaned. “Alexia. That is not how allowances work.”

“It is now,” Alexia said brightly. “Like a budget. Very responsible.”

Y/n slumped forward and buried her face in her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Alexia! How can you be so stubborn!”

“Not stubborn, just full of love,” Alexia whispered, pressing a kiss to Y/n’s temple.

Y/n didn’t move. “What’s the allowance, then?”

“€1000.”

Y/n pulled back, eyes wide. “That’s a weekly allowance?!”

Alexia shrugged, totally unfazed. “It used to be unlimited.”

Y/n stared at her in exhausted silence.

“Would you like to negotiate?” Alexia offered sweetly.

“I’d like to remove myself from this financial arrangement.”

“You can’t, mi amor. I used my allowance to buy exclusive rights.”

“Alexia.”

Alexia grinned. “I like spoiling you. Not my fault.”

“It’s totally your fault,” Y/n said deadpanned.

“You’re like…my spoiled puppy,” Alexia teased, gently cupping Y/n’s jaw.

“No. No puppies, no allowances, no—stop looking at me like that.” Y/n pointed an accusatory finger as Alexia batted her lashes and tilted her head. 

“This is serious.” Y/n insisted. “You’re literally bribing me with clothes.”

“I’m investing in your happiness,” Alexia corrected smoothly.

Y/n squinted at her, voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to make you regret this.”

Alexia just smiled. “You’re so pretty when you’re mad, bebé.”

“You will regret this,” Y/n muttered as she stood, snatching one of the shopping bags. “Every time you see me wearing these, I want you to remember I almost bought them myself.”

Alexia watched her go, the proudest smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s my girl.”

Y/n turned back just long enough to glare. “And no sending me shoes to match!”

“I already pressed 'order,'” Alexia called sweetly.

Y/n’s groan could be heard from three rooms away.

Alexia just chuckled to herself, collapsing back onto the sofa.

“Worth every euro.”

[magicaloneandmystery]

crush

pairing: tfatws!Bucky x fem!reader

summary: Bucky was just trying to live as normally as he could given his history. he never thought a teenage-like crush would be part of that normalcy.

tags: idiots in love, sorta friends to lovers, fluff, slightly ooc Bucky? this is not proofread

masterlist

he was in deep shit, he concluded. that, or he was going insane. out of his mind. schizophrenic, even.

Bucky was on his bike, reflecting back on his evening with you. specifically, the way his heart had raced when the two of you were lounging with you just a little closer than friends were supposed to. or maybe, he was reading too much into it? had you meant to sit that close?

I mean, it wasn't even that close, actually... he thought.

that wasn't the concerning part, though. the concerning part was that he wanted you to sit closer.

in fact, much closer.

the characters in the movie they had been watching, in a particular scene one of them was sitting on the lap of the other, and he remembered thinking, "wish that was y/n on me."

he had immediately choked on air at realising the insanity of that thought.

so, Bucky's only two conclusions were:

a) he was undergoing a psychotic episode.

b) he was developing a crush on you.

option b was, frankly, just as insane as option a.

because Bucky was over a century old, for fuck's sake. how ludicrous would it be if he starts developin crushes like he was in high school?

and, lastly, he cannot ruin the friendship he has with you. nope. that was not allowed.

you were the light in his dark life, the thread that holds him to normalcy of adjusting to 21st century life, the sun to his gloomy sky-

yeah, he was in deep shit.

so, naturally, he was left with no other option than to knock on Sam"s door to ask for some advice. he wasn't about to fuck this up and he had no idea how these things worked anymore. the last time he went out with a woman was 80 years ago.

that was another horrible, horrible idea, Bucky realised, when Sam started wheezing and laughing and sputtering out his water at the words, "I think I have a crush on y/n."

"Bucky Barnes... developing a crush?" Sam had raised his eyebrows, before he descended into his laughing fit.

"are you done?" Bucky sighed after a while. "I came here for real advice, you know."

"sorry, sorry," Sam wiped some tears from his eyes. "what do you want my advice on? I think I can contact my nephew for some advice on crushes with girls..."

"if you're gonna be an ass about this I'm just gonna leave," Bucky grumbled.

"okay okay," Sam raised his hands. "I'll behave. for now."

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and looked back at Sam. "how do I... tell her? uh. should I tell her?"

"you think she might like you back?"

Bucky told him about last night, the way you curled on the couch next to him, your fingers almost touching his, both of your hands splayed between you two. he told Sam about the shy smile you held around him whenever he was flirting with you - as a friend, of course - or the way she had almost cancelled a date because Bucky said he was feeling bored and wanted to know if she was free.

"she what?" Sam asked at the last one.

"yeah, I called her up one day when I had nothing to do and thought we could hang out. she was ready to blow off this guy she was seeing to hang out with me until I told her that I would find something to do, she needs to go out." Bucky must say, the warmth in his chest felt quite pleasant when he said those words out.

"and?" Sam pressed. "is she seeing anyone, then?" presently?"

"not that I'm aware of."

"we have good intel to work on," Sam nodded. "I have a plan."

✿✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠

Bucky was acting... weird.

good weird.

incredible weird.

weird in a way that made your heart flutter and the butterflies in your stomach flap around wildly.

he has been flirting a lot with you recently. small remarks about your beauty, hair, voice coupled with that charming smile? yeah, you didn't stand a chance.

you didn't understand how to interpret his behaviour. was he just opening up to you more, letting his charming side out? or was he flirting to...

you didn't let yourself complete the sentence. you couldn't let yourself hope that your feelings were reciprocated. that sort of hope could ruin your friendship with him.

all of those thoughts went out the window when Bucky put his arm on the couch behind you, his fingers almost - but not really - touching your shoulders. you could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne even better. it was becoming hard to focus on the weekly movie you had picked out, a classic to help Bucky catch up to the world slowly.

after a while, your breathing evened out and you could move, so you opted to pretend and move just an inch closer. test out the waters, and all that.

it was a really slow night, but by the time the climax was nearing, you were pressed into his side, his hands resting on your shoulders and your thighs pressed to each other.

something shifted that night.

the two of you became bolder with your physical affection.

longer hugs, more cuddles on the couch, casual hand holding while walking through crowds or crossing streets.

that went on for about two weeks before your friends had encouraged you to do something more, take a risk. they swore they were 100% sure he liked you back. said it would be a 'calculated risk' bound to end in success. so you obliged them.

because maybe, just maybe, you believed Bucky really did like you back, too.

"would you want to go out tonight?" you asked him. "I was thinking how we've been hanging out too much at the apartment lately. let's go out! have some fun. what do you say?"

"yeah, sure. where do you want to go, doll?" Bucky leaned back, the phone pressed to his ears while he shot a confused look at Sam, who raised his eyebrows in return.

"have you been to the cafe near my place, the one with the best cheesecake ever?"

✿✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠

so here you were.

on Bucky's motorcycle, your arms wrapped around his waist, while he took you to all the cafes that you swore he needed to try.

you were wearing a simple, long dress that had Bucky staring at your frame for a while longer than usual, while he was wearing a dark leather jacket and faded jeans, looking handsome as ever.

after a night of cafe hopping and good food, the two of you were returning home.

"I had a good time," you hummed when he stopped his bike in front of your apartment.

"me too," he replied, kicking out the stand and parking his bike while he walked you to your door.

"you know," you said, nerves overtaking you, your hands wringing together. "I had a much better time with you than with any of my dates in the last six months."

"yeah?" Bucky breathed out, stepping closer to you. he took a deep inhale before saying, "maybe you shouldn't go on any other dates."

your mind went in an overdrive at his words. did he just-?

"maybe we should have more of these nights," he continued, leaning his face closer to yours to catch your eye. "I know I would love that."

you stared in his eyes, their waves shining brightly in the moonlight. "I- I would love that too." you said.

"yeah?" he cupped your cheek with one hand, his other one resting on your waist. "can I kiss you, doll?"

"please."

and that's how you shared your first kiss with Bucky Barnes. your hands on his shoulders, his holding your face gently. it started out as a hesitant brush of the lips, until you pressed closer, wanting more. it was slow, a lazy tango of your lips as you two explored each other with racing hearts.

you separated for a quick breath before diving back in, another kiss that felt more passionate, holding each other closer, his hands now around your back, pulling you closer to him, yours around his neck, playing with his soft hair. that one left you breathless in a whole different way than just lack of oxygen.

after a quick and final peck, he stepped back a little. your head was swimming with thoughts of Bucky and all you could do was bring your hands back to his shoulders, keeping him close.

an awkward tension descended upon the pair, neither knowing what to say.

"so are we... dating?" you immediately panicked, wondering if this was the right question to ask right after you kissed a guy.

but it isn't any guy. it's Bucky, your heart whispered.

"I guess so," he chuckled. "would you like... that?"

"I would love that." a grin spread across the two of you.

he nodded. "I should go," he said, though he tightened his hold on you for a second. "a good night kiss?"

"yes please," you didn't wait, kissing him once more.

"have a good night, doll," he spoke afterwards, lips just inches apart.

"you too, Bucky," you said, staring at his lips then eyes.

"I'll call you tomorrow?" he asked, not knowing what dating today looked like. he'll have to ask Sam about that.

"okay," you said.

"bye," he said.

"you know you actually have to move away from me and to your bike to leave?" you teased.

"what if I don't want to leave?" he retorted with a roll of his eyes.

you laughed, slapping his shoulder lightly. "go, Bucky. we'll talk tomorrow?"

"yes." he said, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheeks one last time before he walked towards his bike.

you entered your apartment, waving to him as he sat on his bike, looking at you. he waved back with a grin.

after he rode away, you closed and locked the door, leaning against it as you touched your lips and cheeks, all the places his lips had touched you. your heart was racing wildly, the butterflies in your stomach refusing to slow down, the memories of the night replaying in your head. Bucky Barnes might be the death of you, you thought.

you were in deep shit, you concluded.

this was longer than I usually write but thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same — sometimes with a fresh coat of paint — and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive—you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit—big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right — you’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body—from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster—or Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard—it sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you — because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent — but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down — from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Orgasm of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry — it’s your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear — loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private — that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i’ll make you lose

pairing: lee felix x reader

word count: 10.6k

summary: you wanted to tease your cute nerdy tutor. how could you not? he looked like he short circuited whenever you both made eye contact. well, as it turns out, untouched nerds do it best.

tags: flustered felix. university au. implied friends to lovers. flirting, teasing. unprotected sex, dry humping, oral (f recieving). enjoy

this is my longest work yet. safe to say i got carried away lol.

You sat at the long, rectangular desk in the lecture hall, your fingers lightly tapping against the surface as the professor’s voice floated in the background. Your mind wandered, the jumble of equations and formulas in front of you blurring into abstract shapes. The announcement that your professor had just made, however, cut through the fog in your thoughts, and it was only then that the full meaning of their words sank in.

Felix. Lee Felix.

He was going to be your tutor. You had heard the rumors. Felix was brilliant. His grades were flawless, and his understanding of the material was unparalleled. He had the kind of intellect that earned him respect from professors and peers alike. The kind of intellect that made people expect perfection from him in everything he did.

But as much as Felix was known for his academic prowess, there was another side to him that never failed to catch your attention. He had this nerdy charm that was impossible to ignore. The way his tousled hair always seemed to fall into his eyes no matter how much he tried to push it back, the way his shy smile made him look both endearing and just a little out of place in the sea of confident university students. He was smart, yes, but there was something almost adorably awkward about him that always made you want to push his buttons.

“Felix will meet you in the library after class,” the professor continued, oblivious to the mischief stirring in your mind. “He is more than capable of helping you grasp these concepts, so please do not hesitate to reach out if you need assistance.”

You had to bite back the grin threatening to spread across your face. Felix would be your tutor? Oh, you could already imagine how it would go. You would be sitting there in the quiet, academic setting of the library, surrounded by endless shelves of books, and all you would need to do was drop a few playful comments and watch him squirm. Felix was too polite, too aware of how smart he was, and you knew that his discomfort would only make him more adorable.

He would try so hard to keep the focus on the subject, to make sure you understood every little detail. But you? You would make it impossible for him to stay composed. You could already hear his voice wavering, see the flush creeping up his neck when your teasing got to him.

You were going to enjoy every second of it.

With a sly grin, you gathered your things and headed out of class. Your mind was already turning, plotting exactly how to push his buttons in all the right ways. He was going to be your tutor, but that didn’t mean you were unallowed have a little fun while you learned, right?

The library was, as usual, a quiet sanctuary, with the scent of paper and ink filling the air as students hunched over their textbooks. Your ears were filled with the distant clicking of keyboard keys as other students desperately attempted to finish their assignments on time. You found an empty table by the window, settled into a chair, and waited. Your heart beat a little faster than usual, not from nerves, but from the anticipation of what was about to unfold. You were going to have Felix all to yourself, and the idea was enough to make you smile to yourself, just a little.

Minutes later, Felix entered, his presence immediately drawing your attention. He had a large backpack slung over one shoulder, and his eyes scanned the room, moving quickly over the rows of tables. When his line of sight finally landed on you, he froze, looking just a little startled, like he hadn’t expected you to be so... ready.

“Hi,” he said, his voice soft and careful as he made his way over. “Sorry I’m late, I—uh—had to finish something for another class.”

You nodded slowly, watching him as he set his things down on the table, arranging them with a precision that made you wonder how long he had spent perfecting the art of being neat. “No problem,” you said, your voice light, casual. “I was just looking forward to some... expert tutoring.”

Felix blinked at you, a faint frown tugging at the corner of his lips. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his fingers fumbling with the straps of his bag. “I—I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I just know the material,” he said quickly, glancing down at his notes, avoiding your sharp eyes.

You leaned forward just slightly, watching him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Felix. They say you have all the answers.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes flickering nervously as he finally looked at you, a little too long this time. “Well... I try to. But, um... math is... you know, it’s not—uh—difficult once you understand it. It’s not subjective.” He trailed off, almost as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.

You tilted your head, your smile widening just a fraction. “Hmm... so you are saying it is easy for you?”

Felix looked like he might crumble under the weight of your gaze. His fingers twitched, reaching for his pencil as if to busy himself, but his hand stopped just shy of it, his posture growing even more tense. “It’s... I mean, it’s not hard. Once you—”

“Once you focus,” you interrupted, your voice casual, but there was an undercurrent of something more. “And make sure your student focuses too, right?”

Felix cleared his throat, visibly flustered now. He nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes, exactly. If we just focus, it’s really easy to get through it.” His voice wavered slightly, but he quickly recovered, trying to mask the nervousness that was slowly creeping in. “So, um... let’s get started with this first problem. It’s all about understanding the process.”

You rested your chin in your hand, leaning slightly forward again. “Of course. But... I'm curious. What do you do in your free time, Felix? When you’re not, you know, tutoring, being cute, and getting perfect grades?”

Felix blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I... uh...” He hesitated, his face turning a deeper shade of pink. “I just... I like to study more. Or... play some video games. Just to relax.”

You grinned, sensing the opportunity for more teasing. “Video games, huh? That’s... interesting. I would have never pegged you as the type.”

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly unsure how to respond. His fingers drummed nervously on the desk, and you could see the tiny tremble in his hand. “I—uh—it’s just a hobby,” he said, the words coming out much faster than he intended. “It helps me unwind.”

“Mmm,” you murmured, eyes glinting. “I can imagine. You must get really into it. I bet you lose track of time... just focusing on the game.”

Felix was trying so hard not to react, but it was obvious he was flustered. His shoulders were tight, his cheeks flushed, and he avoided looking at you for a moment. “I mean, yeah... sometimes. But that’s not the point right now,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

You leaned back, still smiling. “No, of course not. You’re here to tutor me. I get it.”

But the way his voice cracked slightly when he spoke—that was definitely the point.

Felix took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. His fingers slid over his notebook as he adjusted his glasses again, the motion a bit more frantic this time. The uncertainty was still there, evident in the way his shoulders stiffened as he tried to get his thoughts together. He focused on the material, but it was clear that the presence in front of him made it harder to stay on track.

“Alright,” he began, his voice more confident than before, though there was a slight edge to it. “This problem is about differential equations. First, we isolate the variable—”

You interrupted him, your voice light and teasing. “Mm, sure, but are you sure you want to go straight into all that? I mean, you’re looking awfully cute trying to explain this.”

Felix froze mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat. His hand, still gripping his pencil, trembled slightly. He glanced up at you, flustered. “I... I’m just trying to make sure you get it.” His voice was tight, but there was an unmistakable vulnerability to it, like he was unsure whether you were joking or being serious.

You leaned back in your chair, letting your eyes trace over his flustered expression. “I know, I know. You’re just so diligent,” you said with a smirk, your inspective eyes never leaving his face. “It’s kinda adorable, to be honest.”

Felix’s cheeks turned a shade darker. He cleared his throat, awkwardly glancing at the notebook, his focus now split between the problem in front of him and the teasing grin on your face. “Okay, well,” he stammered, his voice faltering. “Let’s just get through this first part, okay? The first thing you do is... uh, you isolate the variable, and then...”

“You know,” you interrupted again, raising an eyebrow, “you’re really good at this. I don’t even need to take notes. I’ll just watch you talk about math. You’re cute when you get all serious.”

Felix’s eyes darted up to meet yours, then quickly flicked back down, his face growing hotter. “I—uh—I think it’s better if you take notes. You’ll remember it better that way.”

You grinned, enjoying how much you were making him squirm. “Oh, but it’s more fun this way. You’re cute when you’re flustered. Besides,” you leaned forward slightly, “I think I’d rather pay attention to you than whatever’s on the page.”

Felix opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He swallowed thickly, his fingers nervously tapping the pencil against the desk. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on the equations now, not when you were looking at him like that. “I... I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he finally managed, his voice sounding almost strained. “We need to focus.”

“Focus, huh?” you mused, eyes sparkling. “Well, I’m sure I could focus... if you weren’t so intriguing.”

He was clearly struggling to maintain his composure. His gaze flickered between his notes and you, like he was unable to decide which was more important. “I—I’m trying to stay on track here,” he said, voice a little more forceful this time, though it was still laced with uncertainty. “But, uh... just, just try to take notes. Please?”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair with a teasing glint in your eye. “Alright, alright, Felix. You’re the boss. But I’ll admit, it’s hard to take notes when my tutor is so... distracting.”

Felix’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around his pencil. “I—uh—I’m not trying to distract you. I just... I want you to understand this,” he said quickly, his tone a little more defensive now.

You nodded slowly, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you were still in control of the situation. “Sure, Felix. Go ahead,” you said, your voice almost too sweet, too calm. “I’ll listen, I promise.”

But there was no mistaking the underlying amusement in your voice, the way you were watching him with that knowing smile, making it almost impossible for him to keep his focus. Felix’s pencil shook slightly as he attempted to continue, but his words came out stilted and unsure. “Okay, so... when you—uh, when you solve for the variable, you—”

You leaned forward just a little, your voice soft but pointed. “You’re so good at this, Felix. Really. But I’ve got to wonder...” You let the words trail off, watching the way he stiffened under your gaze. “Do you get this flustered all the time? Or is it just me?”

Felix froze, his face turning even redder as he quickly tried to look away. “I’m—uh—I’m not flustered,” he muttered, but his voice was weak, lacking the usual certainty.

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something else in his eyes—an edge, maybe, or a challenge. His hand gripped his pencil more firmly as he looked down at the page, his voice quieter but still undeniably more confident. “I can focus,” he said, his tone sharper than before. “Let’s just... finish this.”

“Alright,” you said, your voice softer now, almost intrigued. “Let’s finish it, then.”

“Okay,” he began again, though his voice was steadier than before, still tinged with that edge of determination. “Let’s go over it again. After we’ve isolated the variable, you need to—”

You interrupted him again, this time leaning forward, just slightly. “Felix,” you said, your tone laced with playful mischief, “do you always look this serious when you’re teaching? I mean, you’re making me think you have a secret life as a super serious tutor.”

Felix blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in your tone. He adjusted his glasses with a nervous gesture, but this time, the flush creeping up his neck wasn’t as obvious. “I—I’m just trying to make sure you understand,” he said, though there was an almost defensive quality in his voice now. “It’s not easy to explain this stuff if you’re distracted.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting a small smirk play on your lips. “Distracted? Me?” you asked, feigning innocence. “I’m completely focused on you, Felix. But you know, your whole ‘serious tutor’ vibe is... kinda working for me. It’s almost too cute.”

Felix’s eyes flicked to you, then quickly away, a small breath escaping his lips. His hands clenched around the pencil, a slight tremor running through him. “It’s not cute,” he said quickly, his voice sounding a little more forced now. “This is important. I need you to take this seriously.”

“Of course, Felix,” you purred, leaning back in your chair as you watched the way he shifted in his seat. “I am very serious. I’m just wondering... do you always get this uptight when you talk to girls? Or is it just me that gets under your skin?”

Felix’s eyes widened, a flicker of something almost daring in his eye before he quickly looked back down at his notes. The flush deepened in his cheeks, but there was a shift in his posture—a subtle but noticeable one. “I’m not uptight,” he said firmly, though the force behind his words caught you by surprise. “I’m just focused on making sure you understand the content. That’s all.”

You smiled knowingly, pushing your luck a little further. “Hmm, is that what it is? You’re not uptight at all? Because it sure looks like I’m getting to you, Felix.”

Felix’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might snap at you. But then, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the pencil. “It’s just that... I know this stuff inside and out,” he said, his tone a little quieter but still confident. “I don’t want you to struggle with it, okay?”

You tilted your head, your smile softer now, though your eyes never left his. “I’m sure you don’t want me to struggle,” you said, your voice low, “but maybe... just maybe... you’re a little more interested in making me struggle in other ways.”

Felix’s face flushed, his expression faltering for a split second before he regained his composure. His gaze flicked to yours again, but this time, it lingered a fraction longer than before. “I... that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, his voice betraying him. “I just... want you to do well. Is that so hard to believe?”

You smirked, enjoying the way he was floundering just a bit. “No, Felix. It’s not hard to believe at all,” you said, your voice dripping with amusement. “I just find it interesting that you’re so focused on me doing well. What about you? You’re doing a great job. I’d say you're pretty good at this whole tutoring thing.”

Felix shifted, clearly flustered. His usual calm demeanor was beginning to crack, and he was no longer avoiding your line of sight. The hesitation was still there, but it was starting to feel like he wasn’t as afraid to face you anymore. “It’s... it’s not about me,” he said, voice still uncertain, but no longer as shy. “It’s about you learning, okay?”

There was a brief moment of silence, and you noticed the change in his posture—how he sat up straighter now, shoulders back, a subtle shift in his body language. His attempt at maintaining composure was no longer about simply getting through the tutoring session—it was about something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him closely. “Alright, Felix,” you said, your voice softening just a little, “I’ll let you get back to the problem. But I’m starting to think that you’re not just tutoring me anymore. There’s a little something else going on, huh?”

Felix cleared his throat, his staring flicking to his notes for a second before he straightened up, more resolute this time. “Just focus on the material, alright?” His voice had a firmness now, an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. He now carried a commanding energy that you would be lying if you said you hated it.

For the first time, you felt a shift in the dynamic. The shift in the air was palpable—subtle yet undeniable. Felix was no longer just the shy, uncertain tutor, fumbling through every explanation with a nervousness that was, at first, endearing but now seemed out of place. No, there was something different in his demeanor now—something almost challenging. The softness he had shown earlier, the gentle hesitation, was slowly being replaced with a quiet firmness, and you could feel it in the way his eyes met yours. Steady. Calculated. Unwavering.

You couldn’t resist pushing just a little further. It's just so fun!

“So, Felix,” you said, a teasing tone slipping into your voice, “is this how you always talk? All serious, no fun? Because I think you'd be a lot more interesting if you let go a little, you know. Just a thought."

Felix didn't even flinch this time. His gaze held steady, the faintest spark of something deeper hiding behind those eyes. There was an edge to his voice, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift that you had not noticed before. “I can be fun when it matters,” he replied, his tone surprisingly assured. “But I’m not here to entertain you. I’m here to help you get it. If that means I need to stay focused, then so be it.”

You raised an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by the calm intensity of his words. “Oh, I know,” you said with a feigned innocence, leaning back slightly in your chair. “But it’s funny, don’t you think? How you try so hard to keep it all together. Makes me wonder... if you’re trying to impress someone with all that focus.”

Felix’s posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His fingers, still gripping the pencil, twitched as if he was about to speak, but instead, he cleared his throat, and a brief silence settled between you.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” he said, the words deliberate, slower this time. “I’m here to do my job. To help you. Nothing more.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you studied him. “Mm. Sure. But I can’t help but wonder, Felix,” you said, leaning in just a little closer, “does all this effort to be so... perfect make you feel better? Or is it just the way you think people expect you to be?”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you could see Felix’s jaw tighten. His eyes, previously avoiding your peering ones, now locked with them. There was something different in the way he held himself now, something new in the way he stood his ground.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice low but strong, a subtle challenge laced in every syllable. “And I don’t need you to think I am. I’m just doing what I have to do.”

Your gaze softened, the teasing edge still present but now tempered with something else. Felix’s composure was beginning to shift, the walls he had built starting to crack, revealing something more—a strength, a quiet assertiveness that had previously been hidden.

“Alright, Felix,” you said, your tone slipping into something more genuine, less playful. “But I have to admit, this... side of you? Didn’t see it coming. I like it.”

Felix inhaled slowly, his eyes still fixed on you, but now there was a quiet confidence in his aura. He set his pencil down, his movements deliberate, and you watched as he leaned forward just slightly.

“I’m not the nervous guy you think I am,” he said, his voice steady, no longer stumbling over his words. “And I’m not here to let you get away with everything, either.”

The change in his tone caught you off guard. There was no hesitation now, no nervous stammering. Felix, the tutor you had been teasing so relentlessly, was looking at you with the kind of quiet authority that made your pulse race.

Your smile faltered for a second, a small surprise flickering in your chest. “Well,” you said, your voice softer now, “guess I’ve been underestimating you.”

Felix’s deep eyes never wavered, and the corner of his lips curled into the faintest of smirks. “Maybe you should stop,” he said, his tone teasing now, but there was an undeniable edge to it. His voice dropped low, firing quick heat straight to your chest, “You might just find out that I’m not so easy to read.”

You swallowed, your heart picking up its pace at the challenge in his voice. There was a new tension in the air now, a quiet storm brewing between the two of you. And for the first time, you wondered just how far this teasing game could go.

The study session had dragged on, the numbers blurring into a haze that you could no longer focus on. Felix’s voice was a calm cadence, his explanations intricate yet smooth, but your mind had long since wandered. The air between you had thickened, a subtle charge building, lingering just below the surface. You stretched your arms overhead, an exaggerated motion that only further fueled the unspoken tension between you.

“Felix,” you drawled, your voice languid as you settled back into your chair, letting your eyes settle on him. “I think I’ve earned a break, don’t you think?”

Felix glanced up, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he smoothed it over with a quick smile. “A break?” he repeated, his tone light but the gleam in his eyes betraying the small flicker of interest. “For what exactly?”

You leaned back, the chair creaking beneath you as you tilted your head, assessing him in that way that made him uncomfortable without him even realising it. “I’ve been listening, Felix. Really listening. And you’ve been talking non-stop about equations. It’s only fair I get a little reward for being so studious.”

Felix’s lips twitched at the corner, but he didn’t break. “Reward? I didn’t realise listening was an activity worthy of prizes.” There was a playful bite to his words now, as if he were starting to realise just how much you were enjoying this.

You let your smile linger. “Oh, but it is,” you replied, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you two. “I’m being patient. I’m being good. And that, Felix, deserves something in return.”

The words came out with just enough sweetness that it almost sounded genuine, though the challenge behind them was unmistakable. Felix blinked once, twice, his brow furrowing as he processed it, before he straightened slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “And what exactly would you want as a reward? Another lecture on algebra?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, rolling your eyes. “Nah, I think I’ve had my fill of that for the evening. Maybe you could entertain me instead?” You let the word entertain hang in the air between you, casual but heavy with implication.

Felix hesitated, a momentary falter before he regained his composure. “Entertain you?” He leaned forward, now more intrigued than flustered. “I think you’re the one who’s been doing the distracting here.”

Your lips quirked at that. “Oh? You think so?” You shifted slightly, your body angling toward him in a way that felt just a touch too close. “I’m just sitting here, Felix. But it seems like you’re the one who can’t quite keep his mind on the equations.”

Felix’s gaze sharpened, though there was a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “I’m focused,” he said, his voice even, though the tension in it was palpable. “And I’m not the one who’s been looking at the clock every five minutes.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m just trying to learn, Felix. I can’t help it if your genius is just... so distracting.”

His eyes flickered at the word genius, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Distracting, huh?��� He paused, then leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make your heart race. “Maybe you’re the one who’s distracting me. You’ve been distracting me from the very beginning.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. Felix wasn’t just playing along anymore. He was starting to push back, and it felt different—more deliberate, more confident.

“Oh really?” you murmured, the words slipping from your lips with a mix of amusement and challenge. “How exactly am I distracting you, Felix?”

Felix’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the self-assurance growing in him like a steady wave. “Well, for one, you won’t stop trying to flirt with me. I’ve been trying to focus on these problems,” he gestured to the scattered equations on the table, “but all I can think about is how much you enjoy messing with me.”

The words were out before you could stop them, a laugh escaping you. “Flirting? Me? I’m just being friendly, Felix.”

“Friendly?” he repeated, eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, so close that you could feel the heat from his body. His voice lowered, edged with something darker. “You’ve been pushing me ever since we started. Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You swallowed, but the smile never left your lips. You weren’t expecting him to bite back this hard, but you liked it. “So, what?” you teased. “Am I a little too much for you?”

Felix didn’t flinch, not this time. He matched your gaze, leaning in just enough to close the gap, his voice a low murmur. “Maybe you are. But maybe I like it that way.”

Your breath caught, his words hanging in the air like a promise you were unsure if you wanted to acknowledge it just yet. Felix, the shy, smart tutor, was not so shy anymore. He was unafraid to meet you head-on, and that shift was more intoxicating than you would like to admit.

“Well,” you said, your voice breathy, the teasing edge still there but softer now, “I’m starting to think you might like the distraction, Felix.”

He paused, and for the first time, you saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Then, with a smirk that was all confidence, he leaned back, his posture changing entirely. “Maybe I do,” he said, his voice even, his gaze still holding yours, “but I’m not sure you’re ready for it. You think you've got me all figured out, hm?”

You couldn’t help the subconcious reaction in you—your smile widened, and the challenge grew thicker in your chest. “Oh, I don’t need to figure you out. I already know what buttons to press. It’s just you're a little more... unpredictable than I thought.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed, his expression now a perfect mixture of amusement and something else—something sharper. “Unpredictable?” he repeated, his tone lowering. “I think you’re the unpredictable one here. You’ve been pushing my buttons from the start. But now...”

His voice took on a teasing, almost dangerous edge. “Now I’m starting to wonder how far you’re willing to push before you realise you might’ve gone too far.”

“You think I’ve gone too far?” you asked, your voice soft and mocking, and not doing very well at disguising how your heart skips beats when his voice drops in the way it has. “I’m just getting started, Felix.”

He leaned even closer, his voice now a near-whisper. “Then you’d better be careful,” he said, the words so close to a challenge that you couldn’t quite tell where the game ended and something else began. “Because if you keep pushing me, I might just let you go too far.”

For a moment, you both stared at each other, the air thick with a tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

“Well,” you said, leaning back, your voice back to that teasing edge, “looks like you’re the one distracting me now, huh?”

Felix smirked, leaning back in his own chair, but there was something in his posture now—something that made you realise he hadn’t been flustered at all. “You’ve been distracting me all this time,” he said, his voice steady. “But I think you’re right about one thing—you’re just getting started.”

You blinked, caught by surprise at the intensity in his voice. You were uncertain what had just shifted, but something between you had changed—Felix wasn’t just the shy, nervous tutor anymore. He was playing the game, and he was playing it well.

You barely made it through another page. Felix had resumed his explanation, something about polynomial division, but your thoughts were no longer tethered to the textbook. They wandered—to the way his fingers drummed lightly against the table, to the slight rasp in his voice when he became too focused to notice. He had not looked flustered since that last retort. In fact, it felt as though you were the one squirming now, each shift in his gaze a little too assured, each silence weighted with implication.

“You done spacing out again?” he asked, lifting his eyes just as yours trailed down the slope of his jaw.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Was not spacing out. I was contemplating the deeper meaning of poly-whatever division.”

Felix gave a slow nod, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Right. Deep. Like a spiritual experience.”

You exhaled a light laugh, chin propped in your hand. “You know, for someone who spends his nights talking to himself on Discord, you’re getting real confident.”

He blinked. “Wait—how do you know I—”

“I have ears,” you said simply. “And the guys talk. You all aren't exactly quiet.”

Felix stared at you, momentarily thrown. Then, in a move that felt strangely bold, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Okay. If you’re gonna mock the way I unwind, you’ve gotta at least try one of my games.”

“Try one?”

“Yeah. Come to my place. Pick a game. Let’s see if you’re any good.”

You raised a brow, amused by the casual offer—more amused by the confident glint in his eyes. “Is this a trap?”

“No,” he said, standing and stretching, his shirt riding up just slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin. “But if you lose, you have to stop pretending you’re not interested.”

“And if I win?”

Felix paused at that, considering you with a gaze that lingered too long to be platonic. Then, with a crooked grin: “You won’t.”

You followed him out, the air charged in that low-simmer kind of way, the silence between you growing more alive with each step. His apartment was only a few minutes’ walk off campus, small and cozy, the kind of place that smelled faintly like cologne, old textbooks, and lavender laundry sheets.

“Shoes off,” he called as he moved toward the living room, kicking his own beside the door. “And no cheating.”

You stepped inside, eyes sweeping the space—books stacked on shelves and windowsills, a mess of cables near the desk, and, of course, a massive monitor glowing faintly in the dim light.

You turned toward him slowly, lips curling. “This is... alarmingly nerdy.”

He handed you a controller. “I know. You gonna keep talking or you gonna lose?”

"Put your money where your mouth is, Felix. Try me and find out."

You sat on the edge of his low couch, controller in hand, your knees drawn close and posture too poised for someone allegedly ready to relax. Felix, in contrast, looked perfectly at home—hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one leg tucked under the other as he navigated the menus with muscle memory. His jaw was set, eyes flicking over the screen, the pale glow catching on his cheekbones, that singular beauty which softened every time he forgot to guard it.

“Alright,” he said, voice casual as though he had not just invited you into his domain. “Simple practice match first. No stakes. You just gotta learn the controls.”

“I know what a joystick is,” you replied, shifting beside him, your shoulder brushing against his lightly. “I’m not a caveman.”

“No,” he said, glancing sidelong at you. “Just an academic liability.”

You made a sound of mock offense, elbow nudging his arm. “Wow. The ego on you.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Oh, so I taught you arrogance?”

Felix smirked, his eyes not tearing from the screen. “You’re an excellent role model.”

You were not entirely paying attention to the tutorial. Your fingers moved, but your thoughts trailed elsewhere—the rise and fall of his breath beside you, how his hands moved on the plastic controller with such nimbleness, the way his voice dipped low when explaining something technical, the subtle rasp that crept in the longer he talked.

“Here—hold A and rotate here. Like this.” He shifted, his hand coming over yours before you could react, guiding your fingers carefully. His touch was light, but deliberate, and far too warm.

You glanced at him.

He didn't move away.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So... this is your master plan? Lure girls into your apartment and seduce them with thumb placement?”

Felix’s ears flushed red immediately. “What? No—no. That is not—”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, feigning deep thought. “Honestly, it is kind of working. But you should pace yourself, you know? Not every girl likes it rough on the joystick.”

He sputtered. Actually sputtered. “That is not—You—God—”

You grinned, victorious.

“I knew you were a menace,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

You tilted your head toward him, gaze lingering. “Still think you can handle tutoring me twice a week?”

Felix exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable now—focused, perhaps, or maybe just attempting not to combust. He turned his attention back to the screen, but not before murmuring under his breath:

“Barely.”

The practice round ticked down to its final seconds, the countdown flashing across the screen like a warning bell. The room around you was thick with warmth and shadow, your shared laughter from earlier settling into something quieter now—something edged.

Felix sat forward with that same focus as before, fingers loose on the controller, brow furrowed, jaw taut with effort. You watched the light flicker across his features—the soft glow of the monitor catching in his lashes, gilding the curve of his cheekbone. He hadn't even noticed how close you were.

But you had.

You tilted your body just enough that your thigh brushed his. “So intense,” you murmured. “Bet your heart rate goes up when your health bar drops.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You talk too much when you're losing.”

“You're cute when you pretend this game matters.”

He finally looked at you. Not a glance, not a flicker—looked, head turning toward you fully, slow and unreadable.

“I'm cute?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.

You leaned in, feigning casual, letting your lips hover just near his ear. “Adorably so. Like a sweet little overachiever who's never had anyone play dirty with him before.”

Felix’s breath hitched. You felt it more than heard it.

He turned back to the screen, but his voice had shifted—lower now, smoother, each word curling with quiet intent. “Let's make this interesting.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “Go on.”

He pressed a button—your character flailed helplessly on-screen.

“If I win…” he said slowly, “you have to tell me exactly what kind of thoughts you have when you look at me, when you listen to me.”

Your grip on the controller tightened and your heart lurched, were you that obvious?

“What do I get if I win?” you asked, trying not to sound too breathless, too flustered.

Felix’s smirk curved like something dangerous. “Then I want to hear the same thing. Just... slower.”

“Alright, fine. But one more warm-up. Need to level the playing field.”

He answered with a chuckle and a soft shake of his head. The 'rematch' button was selected.

Competitive silence hovered in the air longer than it should have.

Your character lay defeated on the screen, the soft flicker of pixelated flames the only movement in the room. Felix had not moved either—still leaned forward, still watching you, though his gaze had shifted. Less playful now. More precise. Like he had studied the moment, found the crack in your composure, and was waiting to press into it.

You shifted where you sat, suddenly aware of the heat in the room, of how close his knee was to yours, how low his voice had gone and how it still echoed in your skin. His eyes dropped—briefly—to your mouth. Then rose again.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “That was a warm-up, right?”

His lips curved, slow and wolfish. Not a smile. A promise.

“Practice,” he corrected. “That was just practice.”

And then—he sat back.

Not away from you. Into himself. Like something in him had settled. His posture eased, but his presence intensified, like the air between you had suddenly thickened.

He resumed the game, eyes still on the screen, voice low and smooth. “Ready to actually play?”

You blinked. “What was I doing before?”

He clicked a button. The screen glowed. “Losing. Distracted. Making it too easy.”

“You're—”

“Still winning,” he cut in, and this time the look he gave you was direct, calculated. “But now… now I want to see what you're like when you stop pretending that you 'don't care'.”

You felt your stomach drop and flutter all at once.

Felix shifted again, closer this time—close enough that you could feel the press of his thigh against yours, the heat of him radiating through the minimal space between you. And then his voice came again—just behind your ear, thick as honey and impossible to block out.

“No more practice,” he murmured, the lowness of his voice shooting heat straight to your gut. “Show me how good you really are.”

You exhaled slowly and reset your grip on the controller, forcing your shoulders to loosen, your jaw to unclench. You had teased him first. This was just payback. You could handle it. It was still just a game.

But Felix was no longer playing the same one.

He didn't fill the silence between rounds with jokes or quips anymore. He didn't glance at your screen. He didn't need to.

He stayed close. Still and aware and quiet—except for that voice.

Not even a full sentence. Just fragments, murmured in that devastating octave, as if they slipped out of him without effort. Too casual. Too effective.

“Focus,” he whispered, as your thumb slipped on the analog stick again.

You swallowed hard.

“You're holding your breath,” he said next, voice lilting downward like a slow descent into something dangerous. “Is it me?”

You turned your head toward him—your mistake.

Because his eyes were already on you. Lazy, unreadable, and far too warm. His gaze flicked to your lips for half a second before he leaned in, so close you could feel the shape of his breath against your cheek when he spoke again.

“Tell me what you hear.”

Your pulse kicked hard against your throat.

“My voice,” he murmured, lips barely moving, “or your thoughts?”

You blinked, rapidly turning to look back at the screen, face burning. He had guessed. Or no—known. Felt it in the way you tensed. The way your thighs pressed together, just slightly, when he got close enough to speak low.

He smiled, soft and dangerous. “Thought so.”

You fumbled a combo. He leaned back, hands never leaving his controller, the heat of him still very much present.

“You keep teasing like you want me to lose,” he said. “But I think you want me to win.”

“I do not,” you said too quickly, too sharply, and he laughed—quiet, deep, the sound dragging along your spine.

“Then concentrate,” he said. “You're about to lose again.”

And that would be right, you did.

He paused the screen.

This time, he did not gloat. He set the controller down and turned toward you with a steady, almost clinical curiosity—like you were a riddle he was determined to solve.

“So,” he said, voice gentled back into a hush, “what exactly is it?”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned in again, this time letting his mouth hover near your ear, not touching, just close enough that your breath hitched.

“The pitch?” he asked. “The rasp? Or is it just knowing I'm using it on purpose?”

You could not answer. Not right away. He waited.

Still.

Quiet.

Patient.

And then, softly—“Tell me everything. You lost the bet. You owe me that much.”

You hesitated—just a moment, but it was enough. The truth sat heavy in your chest, and you could feel it like a secret you had tried to keep hidden. You knew why he made your breath catch. It wasn’t just the voice. It was how it wrapped around you, how it hit those places you tried not to think about.

But now that he had cornered you—his eyes steady, voice calm, as if he knew—you could hardly breathe without him seeing right through you.

You blinked quickly, trying to steady yourself, but it did not work.

“I think,” you started, your voice a little too tight, “I think it’s the way you speak when you’re not... trying.”

Felix’s lips quirked, like a secret he had not expected you to admit.

“You mean when I’m casual?”

“Not casual,” you forced out, your heartbeat picking up. “When you’re—” You tried to think of the word, but it was impossible. “When you’re barely trying at all. Like you're not even aware of how much you're—" You stopped yourself, eyes narrowing. “You're affecting me. You’re just… too good at it.”

Felix leaned back, lips curling in amusement, eyes locked on you like a challenge. He wasn’t going to let you off easy. You were playing this game now.

“So, you like it, then? My voice?”

You shot him a look, half-rolling your eyes. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Mm. But I think you can say it louder.”

“You’re pushing it,” you warned, voice low, but Felix knew—he knew exactly what he was doing. You could see the way he leaned closer, just enough to make your pulse spike, his eyes twinkling like he was the cat and you were the mouse.

And then he spoke again, his voice darker this time—sweeter in its low rumble.

“You like it when I’m casual, right? When I don’t even try to make it sound like I’m saying it for you. That’s the part you’re not telling me, isn’t it?”

You swallowed, trying to look away, but you couldn’t. He had you in his grip now—his voice, his words, everything about the way he knew. And he was right. You couldn’t stop yourself from reacting to it.

But he had no plans of letting up.

“Or is it something else, hmm?” Felix’s voice lowered even further, an almost unbearable, husky murmur. “Do you like it when I speak just like this? Like I’m giving you everything you don’t want, but you can’t pull away.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to maintain some sense of control. “You really think you know that much about me?”

He grinned, that teasing flicker in his eyes returning. “I do now.”

And then—he did it again. His voice, barely above a whisper—“Focus. You’re still distracted.”

You flinched, shifting uncomfortably, and then—just to push back—you threw him a glance, daring him.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping in challenge, “I think you like knowing how much it gets to me.”

Felix froze, his gaze sharpening. The edge of something dangerous settled between you both.

“Is that so?”

You didn’t flinch this time. You met him, eye for eye. “You’re not the only one who can play this game.”

“Prove it,” he said, his voice lowering to the kind of hunger that made your breath hitch. “Let me hear it. Let me hear what really gets you worked up.”

And that—that was the final challenge.

You leaned in, close enough that your words came out soft, teasing, barely more than a whisper.

“You really want to know?” You paused just a beat. “I think it’s the way you think you have all the answers, but you’re about to lose.”

Felix laughed, dark and quiet, but there was something heavier in it now. His fingers, light and steady, brushed the edge of your knee. “Is that so? Somehow you still think you’ve got the upper hand. That's bold of you.”

You tried—you really tried—to stay focused, to force your eyes on the controller, the animations of the pause window, anything. But every second, Felix’s voice seeped into your skin, his words curling around your senses like smoke. It was intoxicating, heavy, and too much.

You could feel your pulse quicken, the rhythm of your breath growing shallow. His voice, so warm, so rich, pressed against your ear, vibrating through your bones. Each word he murmured was like a wave, pulling you deeper into his orbit.

"Felix," you whispered, barely able to contain the way your breath hitched in your throat. “Stop... teasing."

A grin tugged at his lips. He knew. God, he knew how much he was getting to you. The bastard knew exactly how his words made you tremble inside, the way his voice curled around you, making it impossible to think about anything else.

“I’m not teasing, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice a lazy drawl, thick with satisfaction. “I’m just making sure you’re paying attention.”

You couldn’t deny it. You weren’t focused on the game anymore—not even close. Every syllable that slipped from his lips was a distraction, a pull, a magnet that made your body feel like it was on fire. It was as if his words had their own gravity, pulling you under, drowning you in the sound of him.

“Focus,” he whispered again, his breath ghosting over your ear, making your skin prickle, your whole body flush. He was so close now, too close, and yet it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

You felt his fingers brush over your wrist, light and teasing, sending jolts of electricity shooting up your arm. He knew exactly how to touch you, knew exactly how to get you to react. His fingers were like fire against your skin—deliberate, slow, dragging out the tension.

“You’ve already lost,” Felix murmured, his voice thick with a kind of wicked amusement. The words sank into your chest, heavy and final, but there was something in his tone—something low and dangerous—that made your stomach flip. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Your throat went dry as the heat in your body intensified. The screen was just a blur now. Your eyes could barely focus on it. Your whole world was Felix—his presence, his scent, his voice dripping with authority. His words, coated in that delicious, teasing edge, twisted in your mind and made your body react before you could even think about it.

And then—finally—you gave in.

“Okay,” you breathed out, voice barely a whisper, but it was enough. “I lost. You won.”

Felix’s breath shuddered out, a soft exhale of satisfaction. He didn’t move right away, didn’t rush to claim his rightful victory. No, he took his time—because he knew, and you knew, he didn’t need to rush. He had you exactly where he wanted you.

His fingers traced the line of your wrist, slow and deliberate, his touch sending shivers across your skin. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him. The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on you, and you could feel the heat between you building, curling in your gut.

Felix’s voice dropped even lower, a velvet murmur that practically slid under your skin. “I knew that was coming, I told you you wouldn't win, remember?” he said, his lips close enough that you could feel the breath against your ear. The words were a command, wrapped in satisfaction and something darker—something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing over your ear in the most maddening way, his voice practically dripping into your ear. “But it’s not over yet, sweetheart. You’re still here. Still with me.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You were lost in the sound of him, the way his voice felt like a touch, like a caress. You wanted him to stop, wanted him to give you space, but the truth was—you didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want to fight it anymore. Every inch of you screamed for him to keep going, to make you lose again, because losing meant he’d take more, and you’d give him more.

He took his time, waiting. Watching you squirm. Watching the way your chest rose and fell, the flush on your face. He was savoring this—savoring the way he had you wrapped around his finger without even touching you.

Felix’s lips brushed your ear one last time. “Do you want me to stop?” he murmured, his voice laced with that same wicked teasing. “Or do you want me to make you lose all over again?”

Your body was trembling in desire, the answer so close to your lips that it nearly slipped out on its own, but you were still holding back. You still wanted to fight. But when his fingers brushed down your arm again, slow and deliberate, the touch igniting your skin, you knew.

This was no longer a game. This was something else.

And you were far too gone to turn back.

“Yes,” you breathed, unable to hold back any longer, the word slipping out in a breathless rush. “I want you to win.”

Felix let out a low, satisfied chuckle, the sound dripping with so much pleasure you could barely stand it.

“Good, then let’s see just how much you can handle," Felix chuckled darkly, and in that moment, everything changed. The teasing was gone. The games were over. He moved with purpose, his lips crashed against yours, the kiss hungry and desperate, as if he had been waiting for this moment. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you as he pulled you into his lap, not once breaking away from your lips.

His body was firm, hard, and you felt every inch of him pressed against you, his desire unmistakable. It was like electricity crackling between you, sparking the need, the hunger you’d been trying so desperately to control.

Your thighs bracketed his, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline as you subconciously rocked your hips down against him. The thick, hard length of him pressed up between your legs, and even with both of you still clothed, it felt obscene—too good, too much. Every movement dragged your against your aching core, the rough texture of denim making you gasp, tremble.

Felix’s hands gripped your hips tight, fingers digging in like he needed to ground himself. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice dark and wrecked, like gravel dragged across velvet. “Do you feel what you’re doing to me?”

You nodded, breathless, hips rolling down again just to hear that sound leave him. His head dropped back against the couch for a moment, jaw clenched, lips parted. You could see how hard he was beneath you, how much effort it took to let you keep control.

But you never really had it—not with the way he looked up at you now, eyes dark, mouth curling into something hungry. “Move for me, baby,” he said, voice dropping even lower, like a secret whispered straight to your spine. “Let me feel you.”

You obeyed without thinking, grinding down against him in slow, aching circles, chasing friction, chasing heat. His breath caught, hands tightening as he guided your rhythm—deliberate, delicious. Every roll of your hips dragged a new sound from him, low and broken, and it made you feel powerful—until he growled.

“Enough teasing,” he muttered, and before you could blink, he sat up, chest flush to yours, arms locking around your waist.

Now it was him rocking up into you, grinding hard enough to make your breath stutter, your back arch. You clung to him, whimpering at the new angle, the intensity.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he hissed against your throat, voice cracking with restraint. “Keep grinding like that, and I’ll come just like this. With you on top of me, clothes on, moaning my name.”

He buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you could barely hold on. There was no air, no room, nothing but the heat of him, the way his hips met yours again and again, perfectly, mercilessly.

You were soaked. Shaking. Seconds away from shattering.

He whispered in that wrecked, perfect voice—“I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

You could feel your pulse racing, your body betraying you with each passing second. You wanted more—wanted him to take you, claim you, make you lose all over again. You needed him to show you just how far you could go with him.

“Then take me,” you breathed out, the words slipping from your lips without thought. You wanted him, wanted everything he was offering. “I’m already yours, Felix. Do what you want with me.”

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam flashing in them as he heard your words. The smirk on his lips deepened, as if he had been waiting for you to finally admit it—to finally give him the green light to take control completely.

Without a word, Felix flipped you both, placing you beneath him with a precision that sent a rush of heat through your body. The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only him—his touch, his voice, his body against yours.

He paused, hovering above you for just a moment, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes searched yours, a silent question in them—one you didn’t need to answer. You had already given him every word he needed in the moment. He was in control now, and you were more than willing to let him have it.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice a velvet growl that made your skin prickle. His lips crashed down on yours again, this time with an intensity that stole your breath away, the kiss hard, demanding, as if he needed you just as badly as you needed him. After he had stripped you down to your panties, his hands roamed freely, touching you with a hunger that made you ache.

His lips trailed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin there, then trailing down to your chest, where he focused his mouth on your breast, rolling his tongue around your nipple, and his left hand attending to your other breast, kneading the supple skin.

His right hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your panties to trace his fingertips ever so lightly through your folds.

"Look at you, so eager. This wet for me, already?" He murmured against your skin, moving away to stare at your pussy, to which he dragged his tongue across his lip. If you weren't embarassed yet, you certainly were by now. "All I've really done is talk to you. You want this that badly? Where did all that biting confidence from this afternoon go, hm?"

You barely managed to muster a reply before his hands fled their posts to lift your hips, to allow for his teeth to catch the elastic of your panties and drag them down to your ankles and tossed to who knows where. He tossed them with his mouth. That image would be engraved in your brain forever.

Wordlessly, he dove straight in.

His tongue moved with a slow, devastating precision—savoring every inch of you as though you were a delicacy he had waited lifetimes to taste. Each stroke was skillful, hungry, and maddeningly thorough, his mouth worshipping you with an unrelenting hunger that bordered on reverence. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the softness as he spread you wide for him, holding you open as though he couldn't bear to lose a single moment of access.

When he moaned against you—low, rough, trembling with need—it reverberated straight through your core. The sound alone nearly broke you.

You shamelessly let out moans, huffs, and groans as needed, you were helpless beneath the weight of his mouth, and he only smiled proudly against you—tongue flicking over your clit with wicked precision, then sucking hard enough to make your vision go white. You cried out, hips jolting, thighs beginning to close around his head in a desperate, overwhelmed instinct.

You shattered with a sob, your release tearing through you fast and violent, your body trembling as the orgasm overtook you—but he did not stop.

He held you in place, relentless and devoted, licking you through it with obscene focus, tongue fucking you slowly, deeply, while your body broke apart beneath him. You were unraveling in his hands, and still—he kept going until your twitching had slowed to a stop.

When he finally pulled away, his chin was slick, his lips glistening. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

You moaned, your hands clutching at his hoodie before he leant up so he could strip it off, revealing smooth, pale skin stretched over lean muscle, his chest heaving with restraint. His eyes were molten, locked on yours as he tugged your thighs apart with strong hands, settling between them once again like he belonged there—because he did.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his fingers replaced his tongue—two of them sliding deep inside you, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot that made you cry out. He worked you open with smooth, steady strokes, watching you unravel under his touch, his thumb drawing slow, tight circles around your clit while his free hand pushed your shirt up to bare your chest.

"You’ve been so good for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "But I want to hear you say it again. I want you to beg me."

Your heart raced, your mind spinning with the control he had over you. You could feel the fire building inside you, your breath shallow and fast as you fought to keep yourself from completely losing it.

“Felix, please,” you gasped, eyes glassy with need. “I want your cock inside me. I need it.”

"That's it, who am I to deny such a pretty plea like that?"

He pulled back, his fingers slipping from you, wet and glistening as he reached down to undo his belt. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick, veins prominent along the shaft. You reached for him, but he caught your wrist, pinning it beside your head.

He lined himself up, nudging at your entrance, dragging the head through your slick folds until you were trembling with anticipation. Then, with one slow, merciless thrust, he filled you.

You gasped, nails digging into his back as your walls stretched to accommodate him, the pressure overwhelming in the best way. He paused only a moment, letting you adjust to the size of him, before drawing his hips back and slamming into you again.

“Relax, breathe,” he murmured, pulling back slightly, only to thrust deeper, his breath ragged against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

He groaned as he buried his face in your neck and set a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, the angle perfect, the drag of his cock inside you enough to make your vision blur. His hand snaked up to your throat, fingers curling there—not tight, just enough to remind you who was in control.

“You’re mine,” he growled into your ear, biting the lobe. “All of you. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “God, Felix, I’m—”

And when the words finally slipped from your lips, breathless and raw, Felix’s eyes darkened with triumph. “Good girl,” he muttered. “I knew you were mine.”

He shifted, hips grinding against yours as he fucked into you, stroking that sweet, devastating spot again and again until you were sobbing with the need to come. His thumb found your clit again, circling fast and merciless now, pushing you to the brink.

And then you were falling—your body clenching around him, stars exploding behind your eyes as your second orgasm ran through you like fire. Felix didn't stop, chasing his own high, thrusting into you through your climax until his rhythm broke and he spilled inside you with a shudder and a curse.

He collapsed onto you, both of you panting, slick with sweat and trembling from the aftershocks. The tension had finally broken, but you could feel it lingering, the heat between you not quite fading. Felix didn’t seem in a rush to pull away. His gaze lingered on you, and you could see the soft smile tugging at his lips, the same man who had been bold, teasing, and oh so confident moments ago, now softened by the shared intimacy.

“You lost, by the way,” Felix murmured with a playful smile, his fingers tracing over your lips. “And I’m going to make sure you remember that. You were so embarrassed under me.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one flustering you,” you said softly, voice not quite steady, betraying the remnants of your earlier surrender.

He tilted his head, curls falling over his brow. “You do. Constantly.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, but you like it now.”

“I liked it before,” he murmured. Then, quieter, as though it startled even him, “I liked you before.”

The air shifted.

You blinked up at him, smile faltering—not in discomfort, but in the way something deep in your chest tugged, slow and aching. “You… mean that?”

Felix looked at you like he had studied you for days, like you were an answer to something he never wanted to say aloud. “I'm not very good at pretending,” he confessed. “Not with you.”

There was no teasing in that. Just truthful, soft, and raw tenderness.

Your hands found his cheeks, thumbs brushing the warmth of his flushed skin. “You really have the worst timing,” you whispered, trying to smile. “Saying stupid sweet things when I'm still technically trying to beat you.”

Felix smiled back—crooked, lopsided, unfairly boyish. “Then lose. Again. On purpose this time.”

You leaned upward, just close enough to feel his breath catch against your lips. “And if I do?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Then let me make it worth your while.”

You kissed him slowly, like the match had burned down, like the game had ended, and only the wanting remained.

guys pls lmk if the long stuff is too much,,,,, i keep getting carried away LOL thx for reading allat

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[dipperpepper77]

Arranged Marriage AU LADS Men

Dipper's Delusions

TAGS: Fluff, AFAB reader, children, men who yearn... ARE MEN WHO EARN.

Intro: Your kingdom reeked of smoke and burnt produce. The heat was so palpable that it seemed to stick to everyone's skin. Leaving yours to always be damp with soft sweat. The war was taking far too long to end. Your parents, the king and queen, opting for more drastic measures. Securing your hand to a foreign kingdom could provide aid and stability to your tiny kingdom. You weren't one for dramatics. Only nodding hesitantly as the documents were filled and signed over. Whilst, you didn't want to marry out of convenience... you also didn't want to see your people starve or succumb to the war.

The resources and power of the foreign kingdom would be enough to end the war and establish your own as one of the greats. One to not be messed with. Your people could now live in peace for your sacrifice. It would help that he was easy on the eyes.

It wasn't hard to convince him for your hand. He knew you. From prior balls were you didn't even spare him a passing glance. Now it was relatively the same. You still didn't grant him a passing glance in your shared castle. But, oh... how he longed for you. You were completely unaware of his sentiments for you. However, you'd soon find out.

Sea god Rafayel: You picked at your food with the gold plated fork. Your lips parting to make a comment but stopping halfway. Rafayel cleared his throat, "something's on your mind. Say it". You gave a curt nod before speaking "I thought it would be highly inappropriate to eat one's own kind". He let out an amused laugh. "Seafood? It's the circle of life, my dear. Eat or be eaten. Humans truly know nothing.. do they?" You shook your head a bit. Feeling more comfortable to take a bite of the seafood. It was rich and buttery. Light with the slight taste of the ocean. His hand grazed yours, picking it up in his soft delicate palm. "May I?" You nod. He places kisses to your knuckles. You felt a burning feeling in your throat. A lump forming as he nuzzled against your hand. "You don't need to feel the same... just know one thing. You will always have a place in my heart."

You found yourself easing into Rafayel. Gradually picking up with his steps. Finding yourself nuzzled in his embrace as he showed you his art pieces. More often than not you just found that... you couldn't be apart from him. His head laid on your lap as you fixed up his hair. You held golden shears as you cut small bits of his violet strands. "Raf... I think I'll do this wrong." He only smiled up at you. "You could never do wrong in my eyes. I trust you." He bit back a smirk. "Besides, If I look awful I'll tell everyone it's because my dear wife is possessive."

The kingdom was pushing for an heir after the anniversary of your marriage. You sat on the bed. The lump crawling back into your throat. You loved Rafayel. But, you were afraid. What if he changed? What if all he was doing was wooing you for an heir?

Rafayel kissed behind your ear. "Listen to me. We go at your pace.. okay?" You nod gently. Breathing out gently. "I'm scared.." His gaze softened. Looking at you like you were a wet trembling animal he needed to protect. He pushed a strand of hair out of your face. "Have I ever told you... you always happen to be the most beautiful woman in the room?" He got up. Extending his hand for you to take. He lead you to the garden. You looked at it in awe. You. Paintings full of your face. Painted in a way that showed you how utterly devoted he was.

(Skip forward) Rafayel was a proud dad of twins. One girl and one boy. Both had your hair and his face. Oh, how he doted on them. Kissing their cheeks constantly. The kingdom was quick to choose the boy as the heir. Leading to constant protests from a moody Rafayel. "No. Whoever shows they are ready for the throne gets it." He will NOT back down when it comes to showing equality to your children.

Crown of Light Xavier: A man beyond his age. When you heard of him at first, you thought he was an old man. But, when you saw him... it was another story. He was beautiful. You averted your gaze away from him. The side of your face seemed to be cradled by the candlelight. He smiled softly. "Do you like the light?" Your eyebrows furrowed but you decided to indulge him with a soft nod. His palm extended, a bead of light appeared only to transform to a bunny.

As soon as the precious moment occurred, it seemed to fleet just as fast. News of the kingdom awaiting an heir seemed to strike Xavier down. He hardly spoke to you. Leaving you to go into the bed chambers and sleeping. Dozing off as if he didn't have a wife.

You sat on the plush cushion of the couch. Embroidering a pillow for your future children if your husband just got out of his bed chambers for once. Then, you saw him standing at the doorway. His face looking like he mourned you. You spoke softly, "what troubles you so much?" He shuddered before he took a seat next to you. Whatever he was about to say seemed to be rehearsed. "I.. can... I can not give you children." Your eyebrows furrowed. "Can't or will not?" He shook his head gently. "Will not."

The castle has been tense ever since. You hardly spoke to him. It was the casual difference of him saying will not rather than could not. You sat on the silk bed in your bed chambers. Looking at nothing in particular. Rather, you were deep in thought about how you even got into this situation. Xavier walked into the room, blowing the soft flames of the candles that illuminated your room. You were about to protest... but, his hand rose. "Just... let me speak okay?" You nodded quietly. "It's not that I do not want children with you. It's more that I... I'm scared. Terrified actually. What if I'm not a good father? What if I don't last long enough to see them into adulthood.. I... I can't". Your hand went to the small of his back. Truly the most reassuring thing you could've done. He smiled softly. Using his evol to make a little light show for you as an apology. Light illuminated the room, forming intricate shapes.

You two had triplets on the first go. Poor Xavier's heart nearly dropped. But, he was making the most of it. Two little girls with golden strands and your eyes. The boy inheriting your hair and his blue eyes. King Xavier was reduced to a restless father. His girls pulling at his locks while the boy nestled in his chest... he wouldn't have it any other way.

Ice King Zayne: "I'd like to formally introduce my-". He walked away before you could even finish your sentence. Your eyes widened. What? He was the one who rushed your union. So why was he pushing you away? Did he think you lower than him?

You avoided him like a plague and so did he. The ice of his evol was not the only thing making this castle so... frigid. You ended up developing a routine: wake up, finish up royal tasks, meet with your ladies in waiting, eat in the empty dining table, and go to bed. 150 steps to your bed chambers. So you started counting again and again. 150 exact. What a mundane and boring life.

Today was no different. 150 steps to leave your room and to the dining table. But, this time you saw Zayne eating. You took your seat and ate in silence. The day was pretty pleasant afterwards. 150 steps to the chambers... 1...2...3. You only counted to 50 until you felt a hand grab your wrist and tug you somewhere else. Your mind was on autopilot. 150... 151? 180 steps to Zayne's chambers. Wait.. why are you in his chambers? He helped you out of your robe. His gaze appreciative of the silk white nightgown you wore. You looked up at him baffled. But, he just tugged you into bed with him. You were spooned into his embrace. Back hitting his muscular chest.

You were weak. How else do you explain just sleeping comfortably? He nuzzled his face into your neck. "I'm... not one for affection. I really tried... I just find being away from you is unbearable." What you didn't know is that he was a mess around you. The times he rushed away from you... he was hiding in the corner of the room blushing like a fool. He was not good at being vulnerable at all. But, he will try for you.

Twin girls appeared in his arms. Both having your face, your hair, your mannerisms. His genes didn't seem to even fight it. He thanked all the wishing he did. These little girls thawed the rest of his frigid heart that you couldn't reach. He would always carry snacks hidden under his heavy crown. Chocolate for the eldest twin, strawberry jam packets for the other, and whatever you craved. All with a faint blush whenever he was around you.

Dragon Sylus: You signed up for a marriage… not this. You were stuck in the tower being guarded by a damn dragon? You knew his name was Sylus. Knew he was also the king of the kingdom. Knew he preferred to be alone and recluse in the tower. Knew he hated humans. But, also knew he had to endure to keep the kingdom out of ruins.

He clung to you. His strong voice squeaking out. What happened to this strong dragon? “M-may.. I hold on to your ribbon?” You nod. His long fingers twirled around the ribbon that laid behind your dress. The one that held your waist. His black nails scratching lightly on it. “Pretty.”

You woke up more often than not in his arms. He always asked before he touched you. Not wanting to scare you off. His finger tips were ash black. His nails pointed and sharp. The noir color fading past his knuckle to reveal pale skin. Your fingers reached his horns earning you a soft groan. “They’re sensitive, my belle.” You took your hands off. He looked at you with almost worry. His nail dragging on your soft cheek. “Do I.. scare you?” You shot up. Wanting to protest. He shook his head. Getting up and leaving the room.

You found him mopping by a small nest that could only fit you and him if you squeezed. Maybe he made it so he could envelop you whole? That’s how he felt he could protect you. Your hand petted his hair. Asking.. begging to talk. He looked up at you. “I don’t want to scare you. It’s hard enough to ask you to have heirs with me. They’d be half dragon and half human.. I can’t ask you to create monsters.” You shook your head. Explaining you didn’t find him repulsive. But, his hand found yours again. “D-don’t.. not for my sake. I’d do anything for you. My horns? I’ll shave them down. Look more human. I’ll cut the claws.. the fangs too. Anything. Please.. I don’t wish to frighten you.” When you finally got him to see reason, he slept soundly on your chest.

He was the best girl dad. His little girl had your hair and his crimson eyes. She had the most fierce personality anyone had ever seen. More importantly… she had her dad wrapped around her finger. He’d always make her a nest. Always laugh whenever she started showing her dragon side. You two would take her to the gardens so she could enjoy the sun.

God of War Caleb: Strategically, this was a match made in heaven. His kingdom was one that never lost a battle. The soldiers were all top quality and ruthless when it came to protecting the crown. But, you grew up with Caleb. The powerful king was the same person who’d fuss over your dress, fix your ribbons, put your shoes on for you. His reward? You hardly acknowledged him as a romantic prospect. Hardly batting an eye to him at the balls.

How long would it take for him to snap? Not long actually.. you’re his wife now. His queen. You were blissfully unaware to his romantic sentiments. Usually giving him the same polite nod as always. Caleb… was a good and dear friend. Until tonight.

His hand snaked to the small of your back. Keeping you pressed against him. His cheek rubbed against yours. His voice… soft. Almost melodic. “Am I not enough? I’m yours… so humbly yours. My heart..” He placed your hand on his warm chest. Your fingertips feeling his steady and strong heartbeat. “This… it beats for you.” You could only swallow hard. Your eyes flickering with recognition. You truly loved him.

He followed you around like a lost puppy. Making countless excuses as for why he needed to be in your line of sight. No one understood how this man crumbled to a pathetic fool over you. But, they weren’t crazy enough to question him. A single utter of your name had his intention. If it was a negative comment? The person would rather be dead and gone than face Caleb’s wrath. Come hell or high water, that man would go to war for your dignity.

Caleb had his heir. A boy who looked exactly like him. A carbon copy down to his pout. He adored the boy.. absolutely. But, mentally cursed himself because he wished he looked a bit more like you. He also cursed himself because his son is EXACTLY like him. Caleb would follow you around for affection or praise, only to get knocked by his son. His son was equally possessive and jealous over your time. A chaotic but loving home is what I can best describe it as.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesportsau.

We Know What You Can Do

Prompt #4: High School Sports | Word Count: 1348 | Rating: M | CW: Mention of Weed, Nearly Fade to Black Sex | Tags: Eddie Munson Lives, Time Skips, Pre-S1, Post S4, Steve Harrington Needs Something From Eddie Munson

1981

"Just ask him!" 

Eddie is standing behind the line of trees, cigarette pressed between his lips, listening to the bickering that's happening on the steps leading up into the woods, just outside the track, on the outskirts of school property. Usually he's alone out here, but today he's fairly confident Harrington and Hagan are trying to work up the courage to solicit his services. 

Fucking freshman. 

Well, tough luck, boys. He doesn't even have his lunchbox on him today, and even if he did, he doesn't sell to little goody two-shoes, anyway. Rich kid narcs. Not in their pressed polos and penny loafers. They'd fold like cheap suits if caught, and he's not stupid.

So, he doesn't step forward, doesn't do anything, because it's fun to listen to them argue back and forth, knowing they aren't gonna get what they want from him. Eddie relishes saying no. He's gonna savor the build up, only to crush their dreams.

Suddenly, Hagan is pushed forward into Eddie's line of sight.

Eddie just raises an eyebrow as Hagan wipes his hands on his jeans. Oh, this should be good. 

"We have a question," Hagan says.

"We? You have a toad in your pocket?" Eddie asks, taking another drag off his cigarette. 

Hagan reaches backwards, and pulls Harrington into Eddie's line of sight with a fistful of his shirt.

"Ah, we. The boys who think they're gonna rule the roost of Hawkins High."

Hagan scoffs like he's offended, but Harrington just smiles. But neither say anything. If they have a question, they have to actually ask it.

"Ask me what? Use your words," Eddie says, because he enjoys watching them squirm. And will enjoy it even more when he gets to say no and they walk away empty handed. 

"So, like, we've seen you. And we know what you can do," Hagan says, as Harrington shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "And if we paid you, we were wondering if you'd be willing…"

Hagan trails off, and Eddie's getting bored of this. If they can't say it, they can't smoke it. Those are the rules. Eddie has lots of rules, and he enjoys enforcing them.

"Uh, you know that Paul broke his ankle, right?" Hagan asks, changing the subject, and Eddie just stares at him.

Yeah, he knows Paul DeWitt broke his ankle jumping out of the back of a pickup. That's what Eddie heard anyway. But he's not sure why that matters. Do they think some pot is gonna fix him?

"I guess I've heard that," Eddie says. He's seen him on crutches in the hallways, but it's not like he knows the kid. 

"He was on our relay team," Harrington says.

Now Eddie's really lost.

"Okay, and…?"

"Would you take his place?" Harrington asks, looking at Eddie from beneath his coiffed, and far too hairsprayed, bangs. 

"Say what?" Eddie asks with a barking laugh. They can't be serious.

"You're fast! You used to win the blue ribbon during every track and field day in grade school! I remember!" Harrington says, voice getting louder and louder.

Eddie just laughs harder, "I thought you two wanted to buy weed. You want me to run? On purpose? No fucking thanks."

"C'mon. Please. We made it to State, but now we're one guy short. We'll give you twenty bucks," Hagan whines.

"Not my problem," Eddie says, and this is the dumbest thing he's witnessed in at least a month. Did they really think he was gonna join their little sports cult? For twenty bucks? Unreal. "The answer is no."

Hagan wilts, and starts bitching under his breath that they could have gone to state as freshmans and now if they go it'll have to be with Craig Pollard and he is slow as molasses. 

He can't believe they honestly thought Eddie was an option. He pushes off the tree, and starts walking away.

"Wait!" Harrington yells, "What if I paid you in another way?"

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. This should be good.

"What are you gonna do, Harrington? Suck my dick?"

Harrington flushes, a blush coloring his cheeks, "No! I mean, uh, Coach Griffin said if we could convince you he'd give you a C in PE. You'd pass."

Eddie pauses. He's failing Freshman PE for the second goddamn year in a row, and he really doesn't want to take it for a third time next year. 

God help him, he's actually being tempted.

"One race?" Eddie asks, and Harrington bounces on the balls of his feet.

"One track meet," Harrington says, "we'd have to practice the handoff. That's the only part that's hard."

Eddie thinks about it. One track meet, and a little practice time might be worth it if he doesn't have to take PE again. He can run. He is fast. They aren't wrong about that.

"Fifty bucks, the C, and no promises that we'll win."

Hagan pumps his fist in the air, and Eddie already regrets this decision.

1987

"Coast is clear."

Eddie slinks around the corner of the gym, and slides through the door being held open for him. He walks across the wooden gym floor, his shoes making the wood creak with every step. He still hates being here. He never thought he'd come back after everything that happened.

But here he is.

He looks up at the banner hanging in the gym. The one that haunts him.

State Track & Field. 1981. State Champions. Tommy Hagan. Steve Harrington. Tim Killan. Eddie Munson. 

It horrified him when it went up, and it horrifies him now. Nobody said there'd be a banner.

And now it's his greatest shame that he ever let those two doofuses talk him into running a fucking race for fifty bucks and a passing grade.

Eddie leans against the wall under it. This is another stupid decision, and if they get caught, they'll revoke his diploma that they very reluctantly gave him in the first place after that goddamn Spring Break from hell. 

Steve leans the ladder up against the cinderblock wall and climbs. Eddie holds onto it, and watches as Steve unhooks the banner, and tosses it over his shoulder before climbing back down. 

When he reaches the floor, he grins, "There. It's gone."

They'll probably replace it. Eddie knows that. But he appreciates the effort, nonetheless. 

Steve shakes it out, and wraps it around his shoulders like a cape. He grins, eyes all soft and locked on Eddie's. It's stupid, and silly, but Eddie's fucking smitten. God help him. 

Sometimes it's hard to reconcile that the kid who asked him to run in that race is somehow the same man that Eddie's so fucking in love with today. It doesn't seem possible.

"I think you asked for another form of payment," Steve says, and before Eddie can ask what he means, Steve is sliding to his knees in front of Eddie. Fingers working open his belt buckle, and then his jeans. "You wanted me to suck your dick. I guess I still owe you."

Steve Harrington doesn't owe Eddie anything. He saved his life. And then, for reasons Eddie still doesn't understand, he decided to stick around and love him. 

If they get caught doing this, the stolen banner will be the least of their concerns. But for some reason, Eddie can't find it in himself to say no. Not with Steve kneeling before him, that stupid green banner draped over his back, and his hand wrapped around Eddie's cock.

Then he sinks down, taking Eddie into his mouth. It's not the first time. It's not the twentieth time, but Eddie's never gonna get used to this.

"Goddamn, Harrington," Eddie says, and Steve pulls off and laughs. 

"I don't default on my debts, Munson."

Eddie touches the side of his face. He could say lots of things. Soft, mushy, sentimental things. He lived. Steve Harrington made sure of it. But Steve knows all those things. They've had those conversations during all the healing. Late at night, whispering in the dark.

Instead, he smiles.

"Well, then. You better pay up, Harrington. With interest."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesportsau and follow along with the fun! 🏃‍♂️

[iamthatonefangirl]

personification - nsfw fatws bucky barnes

i’m trying out different posting times to see when works best lol here’s an early one because i’ve been waiting in a line for a store for two hours

i still don’t know how to title my works

~~~

"oh, she's absolutely purring for me, isn't she?" he asks, poking fun at you. you bring your hands to cover your face, smiling and gently laughing at the way he's talking.

"laugh all you want, baby," he says, laughing himself, "but you know I'm right. and I know you like it."

so what if he's right? it's stupid, but god, if he's the one saying it, somehow he makes it hot.

"your pussy is absolutely begging for me to do something, anything, isn't she?" he taunts, running his thumb up and down, gathering the wetness that pools in your folds that you're entirely powerless to stop.

his words continue to humiliate you and make you laugh at the same time. your face heats, blushing pink, in your amusement and desperation for more.

you never knew it could be this fun, but it's exciting, enjoyable, with him. anything with him always is. you're so deeply in love with him.

he's your best friend, you realize.

"I can see her drooling for me, baby, just asking me to fill her up with anything I please, ain't that right?"

god, he's gonna pull secrets from you that you never thought you'd admit to if he keeps talking like this.

"ought to fuck her full o'my cum and then plug her up, don't ya think, baby?" he asks, complementing his nasty words with a smack against your cunt.

you can't help but moan and cover your face further.

"nuh-uh. look at me babydoll. look at me while I talk to you."

you do. you drop your hands and give him a look of astonishment at how utterly ludicrous he's being right now.

"nah, doll, don't look at me like that," he laughs, finally filling you with two of his fingers, making your face fall as you gasp at the sudden intrusion. "that's it, that's how you should look at me from now on, all the time, baby."

you grunt in dissatisfaction. he's joking, but it's such a far-fetched idea when you really think about it–

"oh, I'll make sure of it, doll," he continues, "maybe I'll leave a little vibrator up here, make sure you always have that look on your face, make sure everyone knows who's keeping you satisfied. bet you'd like it, beg for it like a little whore, even."

he's literally gonna be the death of you. you laugh again, spurring him to laugh, too.

"come on, doll," he says through tears, "can't make you come if you're too busy laughing."

"is that a challenge?"

~~~

masterlist

join my tag list

bucky tag list:

@clavedelune @starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @bananababygirl10 @multiversefanfics @winchestert101 @andziabarnes @chrisevansleftnipple @daisydark @luckyhornet

[parfaitblogs]

sleeping with the lights on ❀ s. reid x reader

in which the first time you kill an unsub hits you like a truck, and spencer reid is there to pick up you back up. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: comfort very little hurt. ptsd. description of someone being shot. this is my thesis for my phd in yapology. spencer reid loves you sooo much like sooo much. word count: 2k a/n: i miss posting… i miss you guys… im deeply sorry for not posting for over a month. i have so much in the works i promise i promise!! anyways yesss i read dostoevsky before writing this im sure you can tell russian novelists take over your brainnn.

"thank you for loving me when i still tasted of heartache and war." (nikita gill)

There is a certain shade of fear behind a person's eyes when they know they are about to die. 

When there is a gun levelled at their heads, and the wrong thing spills past their mouth, even the most psychotic of God's men will see a second of fear before there is tranquility. Survival instincts kick in, and no narcissistic, smug facade can ever deny that specific human brain's worst fear is dying. 

Is it not most? 

Fear of what dying feels like. Does it hurt? When every organ in your body shuts down, is it slow, and the most agonising of feelings? Or is it quick; painless? Does your brain shut down first and therefore render you unable to actually register the agony you're in? What happens after is an entirely new rabbit hole to delve into. 

Where does our conscious actually go after life? A permanent state of nothingness sounds lonely. Heaven implies there is a celestial being behind everything. Reincarnation means you have to live through this doomed from the start world all over again, and you won't even know it is your second, third, hundredth time on Earth. 

Guilt. 

An annoyingly human emotion that will eat at you from the inside out, chewing its way through organ and bone, consuming you so wholly you stop believing you are worth anything to anyone. You can nurse your own brain back to a faux sense of health, rocking back and forth on the cold wooden planks of apartment flooring, but you can never erase the guilt that takes over your body. For when it is this strong, it is more than just a mere pit churning in your stomach.

It's cold on your side of the bed.

He's pretty sure it's what prompts him awake at the glaring hour of two forty seven in the morning. 

Rumpled sheets provide him the needed comfort that he didn't imagine you going to sleep with him only mere hours earlier, but the lack of warmth left on the fabric frightens him into thinking you've been awake for hours. He pats it down anyway, seeking any inkling of body warmth left within the fabric. Proof that you are still nearby, and haven't had enough time to run too far. 

You haven't. 

By the time his eyes adjust to the blackness of the room, he can see the shadowed outline of your body sitting at the end. Head just visible from your balled up position on the floor, rocking yourself as a desperate attempt to comfort whatever is going on inside your brain. 

He says your name quietly, voice a barely there whisper as he shuffles across the bed to lower next to you. It sounds crackly to your ears, and he's in dire need of water if he wants to fix the hoarseness of it. But you are also as quiet as you hum in response, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands and turning your head to look at him. 

He doesn't say anything as he coaxes you into his welcoming arms, fingers brushing against your scalp, and accepting your heavy hearted emotions as they are. He lets your walls crumble, and holds on as you sob into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt in a way he doesn't particularly like, but he will ignore it for you. 

There's a layer of distaste for the position you are in that almost wills you to rip his arms off of you. Guilt coincides with self loathing more often than not, and he is holding you as if you are soft. 

You are not.

"Do you ever think about dying?" you whisper.

There is silence in his apartment that follows your question, and your eyes transfix on the glow of the moon through the sheer curtains on his windows. It blurs with the fabric, the illusion of a fuzzy circle. You wouldn't know it was the moon if you weren't holding onto its existence with a vicelike grip. 

"I do," he finally provides you, predictably so. "A lot."

"I didn't," you reply, clasping your fingers with his own hand, tracing circles over his knuckles to focus your mind. "Not intensely. Did you know being shot can sometimes feel like nothing?"

"For the first few moments, yes," he nods. Of course he did. "It's due to the nerve networks being our receptors for pain, as opposed to the tactile sensors. Signals move slower between the brain and the nociceptors, which are our pain receptors."

"Do you think he felt nothing when he died?"

A question weighing tonnes. He's silent for a few crucial moments, and you slowly come to your own conclusion of what the answer would be. Probably yes, for you had located where the bullet landed after you'd fired it, and you knew whatever pain receptors he had still functioning would never get those signals to his brain. He was brain dead before he'd even hit the floor. 

"I can't tell you what he felt for absolute certain," he replies, gently shaking your body out of its frozen position so he could lift your limbs atop of his own. He lets you finish the movement of climbing into his lap, face burying into his neck, his arms encircled tight around your waist. "You'll drive yourself crazy thinking about this."

"I feel crazy."

"Honey," he places his palms on either side of your head and pulls it back so he can look at you, thumbs collecting the tears that fall from the movement. "Why is this overwhelming you?"

"I killed someone, Spencer," your voice wavers as you speak, cutting in and out, and you were already so quiet. 

"You killed a man who killed a lot of people," he reasons. "Do you think he sat awake each night and pondered how they felt dying?"

"No, but—"

"—Then why are you?"

You stare at him in bewilderment for a few moments. You're aware there is a point within his accusatory words, but it does not communicate entirely, and you do not like the disdain for the man in front of you that wells in your chest. 

"Because I'm not a psychopath," you murmur, fingers beginning to fidget with the hem of his own shirt. 

He lets out a puff of air that hits your lips signalling his slight frustration, but he nods his head. 

You call him out on it anyways.

"You're angry with me."

He offers you a small smile. 

"I am not angry with you," his fingers poke your sides, and you squirm. "I'm watching you disappear in front of my eyes. I'm concerned."

Reasoning with him is futile. 

Reasoning with him had been futile. He had his forearm wrapped tightly around a nineteen year old girl's throat, and a gun indenting into her temple. Morgan still tried to, and you'd watched nearly helplessly as the bullet clicked into place in the chamber. 

Car crashes move time slowly, it's said. Watching a girl nearly die has the same effect, you suppose. Everything was so clear. You could map out every ridge on the gun, down to its tiniest, minute details. Every engraved line, the rest for his palm roughened from excessive use and sweat eroding at the metal. He was strong enough to manage both the sobbing and writhing girl in his arms and the less than light firearm, and you knew even if you had more than half a second to stop him, you could not without your gun. 

The gunshot reverberated off the concrete walls, and a loud ringing followed you weren't used to. You'd heard gunshots before. You were inured to the sound of them ricocheting around warehouses similar to this, or the safer environment of the academy's firing range. 

It's a different feeling when it's your own gun.

It's an all encompassing feeling when you catch the eyes of the person you are shooting at milliseconds before the bullet hits them. Fear in the eyes of a killer about to be killed. How stupidly poetic.

Perhaps there is a universe out there where humans are able to die in blissful ignorance.

"I used to think I'd be okay with killing an UnSub if I had to," you're staring at the threads fraying from his sweater's neckline, and he makes no move to return your eyes to his. "They're bad people, right? Killed a lot more than me for much less. But I'm—I'm not. I don't know if I ever will be. Where does that leave me? An agent who can't even stop a serial killer without having a breakdown."

"Do you think you're the only one?"

That catches your attention, and you can see the small specks of light in his otherwise dark eyes even in this shadowed room when you catch them.

"No. I know I'm not," you croak. Warmth covers your hands, and it's only then you recognise the movement of your own body. Gripping petulantly onto his sweater were your hands, his own providing a comforting blanket. "You never talk about it, though."

"I can. Do you want me to?" 

Hesitantly, you nod, and he settles his leaning body against the bed. 

"I killed a man named Phillip Dowd when I was twenty-four," he says. "He was an L.D.S.K. Long distance serial killer. How is unimportant, but it was a hostage situation. Like yours. I felt... nothing. For weeks I continued on as if I didn't have somebody's blood on my hands."

"Must be nice," you mumble. 

He chooses not to acknowledge your words. "Gideon told me on our way home from the case that this would all hit me eventually. It took longer than it's taken you, evidently, but by the time it did came around, I let it control my life. It took taping photos of his victims to my walls to let him go."

"I don't want to do that," your knuckles wipe more falling tears, and you watch his lips turn up into a gentle smile. 

"You won't have to. Crying about it is actually much healthier than what I was doing."

You're not sure if he's lying to make you feel better, but you lean into it regardless. 

"Guilt is normal," he adds, quietly. "You're allowed to feel whatever you want to feel about this, but know that anger with yourself is displaced. You did what you had to do, and a lot of good people are alive because of what you did."

"Are you reciting a book to me?" you ask, and there is a warmth that blossoms in your chest when he huffs out a short laugh. 

"Regurgitating the very advice I got when this happened to me, actually," he tilts his head and brings it in closer to yours. "The third was, I'm proud of you."

"For killing a man?" you whisper. 

"For being brave enough to do the only move you had left."

"Is there really nothing else I could've done, though?"

There probably were a thousand things you could've done. You could've ran into him earlier in life and saved him from impotency. You could've been a childhood best friend that brought him out of a shell. You could've been his first kill that set the FBI after him immediately and stopped him from hurting anyone else. But his series of life events, and your own, ran parallel to each other until you were in that room with him pulling the trigger. A frustrating realisation that you can only let life run its course the way it's been meticulously threaded out for you, and the impacts you make on people's lives will be specific and forever preplanned by the fates. 

"No," Spencer tells you, anyways, and you accept his one worded answer as the summary of your own spiralling thoughts. "Let's get you back to bed, yeah?"

"Yeah," you mumble, absentmindedly. 

Your consciousness is outside your body as he helps you up, and you crawl inside the covers next to him. You can barely feel the cotton of sheets against your skin, nor the ghost of his hands on your hips as he pulls you close enough to him. 

Distantly, he says goodnight to you, and reminds you he loves you. He doesn't press for a response, and you don't remember to give him one.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[laceyfaeryy]

What about Simon on a mission injured, with his pretty little nurse, who everyone knows because of her temper, but is so so submissive with him?

MDNI 18+

cw: brief mentions of gunshot wound, oral (m) receiving

“fuck, i did a bad one didn’t i luvie?” simon grunted as he sat shirtless on the bed, his wound bandaged up. it wasn’t a secret that simon took an interest in you, after all he was mainly surrounded by men and not pretty women like you. “you should’ve been more careful, any deeper and you could’ve bled out badly,” your voice soft but slightly stern, as if you were trying to hide your concern.

a lazy smile formed on his face, “s’not like i could’ve avoided a gunshot wound easily, ‘m not that good.” captain price walked into the room, his shoulders relaxing under the heavy uniform when he saw simon. “bet yer getting a good lashin from the nurse eh? she’s got quite an attitude.”

oh, if only they knew.

you stayed the night at the medical facility, a lame excuse of spending more time with simon. “you’re injured, the last thing you would want is to do some strenuous activities,” you mumbled, trying to keep yourself occupied so he wouldn’t see the faint blush on your cheeks. “awh come on luvie, yer old man is injured and you can’t provide some sort of relief?” his voice soft as he gently tugged you towards him.

“just a few bounces won’t hurt.”

“or you can blow me.”

he winced when you gently smacked his chest, “come on luvie, ‘m a strong man i know my limits.” his large hands gently rubbed along your sides, your thin uniform barely doing anything to hide the shivers. “everyone talks about yer feisty mouth, about time i see it hm?”

it was funny hearing his task mates talk about your attitude, but yet you were all gooey eyed for him whenever he snuck into your room late at night, making you cock drunk. a few thrusts in your little cunt and you would do whatever he says - literally simon says, it was pathetically cute.

“gonna suck my cock pretty nurse? or do i have to fuck it in my hands in front of you?”

he knew exactly what you were going to chose.

“atta girl,” he hissed as you knelt by the flimsy medical bed, his large tatted hand holding up your hair in a pony tail. “gotta stuff that pretty lil mouth every once in a while after givin’ everyone some attitude.”

you gagged slightly when you took him too deeply, drooling all over his cock and making a mess on your hands. “take yer time luvie, no one is gonna see us,” simon cooed softly at the pathetic sight of you. god, everyone knew about how fiery you were but here you are on your knees sucking simon off.

“fuck luvie ‘m gonna cum,” he grunted as his hips thrusted slightly, the feeling of your warm mouth milking him dry. eventually he spilt all of it in your mouth, a string of saliva connecting from your mouth to the tip of his cock.

“such a pretty girl, someone’s gotta tame you hm?”

simon gently smearing the cum that dribbled down his cock along your plush swollen lips, making them glossy. gently he slipped his thumb in, you obediently sucking it. “got yer real good hm?”

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @prettyinpink-bimbo @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone

[sweetyellowhoney]

Leo the matchmaker

A/N: Branching out into F1 territory too now, why not. This was very rushed, not sure how I am feeling about it. ANYWAYS my inbox is open for any and all requests :) P.S. Images from pinterest xx

Summary: A little lost Leo finds his way to your apartment and ends up doing a little matchmaking.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Tags/Warnings: Fluff

yourusername added to their story

[Caption 1: I know they say not to let strangers inside your house... but I think I can make an exception for this little guy 🥰 ]

[Caption 2: My baby is surprisingly unfazed by our visitor 💤]

story replies

yourbff OMG that is the cutest puppy.

yourusername I know 🥺 he is so sweet and well trained too. I am currently trying to find his owner, but I am not having much luck :( yourbff you should totally just keep him 😝

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

yourusername just posted

yourusername We had a visitor here at the new house 🐶 Tiger was only a little bit grumpy about it AND I got flowers for my efforts as well as puppy cuddles.

liked by yourbff, maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, and others 

21 comments

yourbff wtf I want flowers??

yourusername I'll send you some soon lovely xx

charles_leclerc Merci again for looking after Leo!!

yourusername you're more than welcome, he was a wonderful guest 🥰 He's welcome whenever he likes!

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

yourusername added to their story

[Caption 2: Catching up with my favourite handsome guy 🥰 (I guess Leo's dad is okay too...)]

story replies

yourbff YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THE DOG'S OWNER WAS HOT.

maxverstappen1 Interesting.

charles_leclerc wow, you wound me.

yourusername 😘😘😘

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

charles_leclerc just posted

charles_leclerc Merci Leo for running away and finding me a pretty coffee date ☕️😘

liked by yourbff, maxverstappen1, yourusername and others 

3201 comments

yourbff @.yourusername yOU DIDN'T TELL ME THIS WAS HIM

user1 oh to be called pretty by Charles Leclerc

maxverstappen1 I take some credit for this

yourusername I'd you're valid in doing so. Leo is glad you got him home safely.

yourusername pretty??? 🙈🙈🙈 (Leo is the best boy)

charles_leclerc Oui. Pretty 💛 (He is very good).

[steddieas-shegoes]

black swan

for @steddiesportsau prompt 'dance'

rated t | 3331 words | no cw | tags: ballet dancer steve, ballet dancer eddie, high school, steve has bad parents, not canon compliant, getting together, sort of strangers to lovers

🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰

Steve stops dancing when he’s 12. His dad insists it’s time for him to “grow out of it” and “play a real sport.” It’s fine. It’s not like he’s the best in the class and on a fast track to an invitation to the New York Ballet or anything.

He starts swimming because he has the build for it and it’s easy.

He starts basketball to make his father shut up about being on a team.

The worst part is that he’s good at that too. Not great, not like ballet, but good.

He makes both teams in high school, even makes varsity basketball his sophomore year. He’s captain by junior year.

Sometimes, he stops by the studio he used to dance at, between classes, just to check in with the director and make sure everything’s going well. She always asks if he wants to come back. He always wants to say yes.

****

On his 18th birthday, his parents are gone, and he’s lonely. Nancy’s busy, and even if she weren’t, they aren’t anything except friends. Barely that.

Tommy and Carol have written him off now that they’re going away to college in the fall, and he wouldn’t want to have them over anyway. They’re on a different path than Steve, always have been. He’s just been so desperate for connection, he’s let everything slide.

Just before dinner, he drives to the dance studio. There’s not many classes happening on Tuesdays, but maybe someone will be there to let him in. He doesn’t see any cars in the parking lot, but there’s a light on inside.

The door is unlocked, and music is playing from the back room. It’s a much smaller room, designed for solos and duets only, not group routines. The music is not ballet music, but it could be a jazz or tap routine.

The man dancing is beautiful, in loose sweats and curly hair up in a bun that seems like it’s barely hanging on. He moves gracefully, but there’s an edge to it, something Steve always wished he had, even though he didn’t technically need it. His pointe shoes are torn, much more worn in than what’s recommended for anyone, especially men on pointe.

Steve’s amazed, the way he moves to a song that’s mostly heavy drums and guitar, makes it look like a classical piece as his arms and legs do everything the way Steve used to. He resists saying anything.

Then he catches sight of the man’s face.

It’s Eddie Munson.

Eddie Munson dances?

“What the fuck.”

Eddie freezes, turns to him, falling to the flats of his feet. He looks caught out, as if he’s doing something wrong. He must be allowed to be here if the place is unlocked for him. Eddie might be a terrible student and definitely deals weed out of a lunchbox, but he’d never break into a dance studio just to use it.

He looks like he’s gonna run.

“Wait,” Steve says to stop him before he can. He steps closer. “How long have you danced?”

“Uh, five years?”

So they never took a class together. Steve was worried he’d somehow forgotten.

“Did you always take classes here?”

“I’ve never taken classes here.”

Now, Steve’s confused even more. He’s lived in Hawkins for at least 10 years. He remembers when he started living with his uncle. His first day at Hawkins Elementary set the tone for the rest of his time in school; Tommy and a few of his friends making his life miserable because of his much too large flannel shirt and greasy hair.

Steve had stayed quiet then, just as he did for most of middle and high school.

“How are you in here then?” He asks.

“I’ve had a key for two years. Ms. Laseaux made sure I had one when she had to cut her evening hours during the week,” Eddie explains. “I swear I’m allowed to be here. Don’t call the cops, please.”

“Dude, I’m not gonna call the cops. If you say you have permission, then you’re good,” Steve hates that Eddie still looks like he might run. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Is it okay if I watch?”

“Uh.”

Eddie’s music stops and the silence is almost as loud as the heavy music.

“It’s okay if not. You’re just beautiful,” Steve says honestly.

Eddie’s face flushes red and Steve has an immediate and overwhelming urge to see how far the blush goes. He shakes the thought from his head.

“Um. I guess I can start from the beginning?” Eddie offers.

“I’d love to see the whole routine,” Steve smiles.

Eddie rewinds the tape and starts it again, gets into position, and changes Steve’s life.

It’s even more beautiful from the start, a whole story unfolding before Steve’s eyes. Instead of the music being a distraction, it builds the emotion. Steve hasn’t seen anyone dance quite like Eddie.

Eddie seems a little nervous, but he never falters. He knows this routine well, front to back, probably back to front, too. It’s stage-ready and Steve wonders if he’s ever performed it outside of this room. He doesn’t think anyone else could possibly know he dances, at least not this well. He belongs on a stage.

He feels water on his cheek and he reaches up to wipe it away. He’s crying.

He remembers the time his mom cried at his first solo during a recital, how proud she was of him, and how proud he was of himself. He wonders if anyone has ever been that proud of Eddie.

“Steve?” Eddie asks.

The music’s stopped and Eddie’s breathing hard from fifth position. Steve’s tears are still falling.

Eddie’s hands cover his face, wiping away tears that just won’t stop.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s amazing; You’re amazing. Please tell me you perform somewhere,” Steve sniffs, smiles at him. “Did you get a senior solo last year?”

“No,” Eddie says quietly. “I can’t afford the fees for actual studio time and it’s required to perform at the recital. But I get to come here once a week and get it out of my system.”

Steve is about to offer to use all of his savings to pay for whatever Eddie needs. He has to get out of here, dance on bigger stages, be seen by people who can get him where he should be.

“The timing of the arabesque, Eddie, it’s beautiful. The leaps are textbook. The way you timed that kick with a cymbal crash. I mean, everything. You’re so technical, but emotional, and it’s like it takes no effort for you. You could easily get into a ballet school or a company,” Steve is talking and Eddie is still holding his face. He’s probably still crying.

“Thank you, but this is kinda it for me. I just love dancing,” Eddie takes his hands away and Steve instantly misses them. He knows he’s feeling a bit lonely– it’s his birthday, after all– but he liked how warm they were, how the blisters across his palm seemed to rub just right against Steve’s cheekbones. “You seem to know a lot.”

“I danced when I was a kid. Here.”

“Really?” Eddie seems genuinely shocked. “I thought you were, like, a stereotypical jock guy. No one’s ever mentioned you.”

Steve laughs, but he feels a pang in his chest. He knows why no one talks about him here. Most of the history of him being here was erased at his dad’s demand.

“Pretty much from the time I was potty trained to when I was 12. I had to quit,” he doesn’t feel like going into a deep dive of why he had to quit while he’s standing in the room he had to do it in. “I still come by to see Ms. Laseaux when I won’t interrupt classes. She was my instructor for six years of my life. She put so much into my lessons.”

“Were you good?” Eddie asks.

Steve laughs again. He’s not as confident as he pretends to be most of the time, but he’s sure of one thing: he was a phenomenal dancer.

“I was her best student.”

Eddie nods like he was expecting that answer.

“She mentioned wishing she could’ve had me earlier. Said she would’ve done anything to pair me with her star.”

Steve wishes more than anything he could’ve danced with Eddie. They would have been unstoppable. His dad would’ve never allowed him to dance with another boy, but the thought still makes him warm.

“I’m sure she would’ve had us in New York or Boston or Europe the second she could,” Steve smiles fondly. “She tried to bribe my mom into going behind my dad’s back for nearly a year.”

“I’m guessing he’s not okay with his son dancing like a fairy?” Eddie’s lip curls up in disgust.

“Bingo.”

“Well, join the club. That’s why I didn’t start until I lived with my uncle, but he couldn’t afford to put me in real classes,” Eddie explains. He’s rolling his ankles one by one while he stands there, something that Steve knows is a nervous habit, one he had backstage before shows. “Ms. Laseaux was a bit sweet on my uncle when I first lived with him. He didn’t have much time for dating, but I think they would’ve fallen in love if it weren’t for me. She wanted to do what she could to help, even when it was obvious they weren’t gonna work out.”

Steve does remember one visit only a couple years after he quit where she talked about a nice man who fell into some unfortunate circumstances, and how she wished she could do more than help his nephew out.

“She’s always been amazing. I wish I brought my slippers, I could’ve at least stretched and tried to learn some of that,” Steve gestures towards Eddie. “Not that I’d do it any justice with how long I’ve been out of it.”

“If you were as good as she says, I think you’d catch on quick enough,” Eddie smirks. “I have an extra pair if you think you can fit?”

It’s a huge no usually. Wearing someone else’s broken in pointe shoes is just asking for bad luck and injury, especially if you don’t know the dancer well. As nice an offer as it is, Steve should say no.

“I could try,” he says instead.

Eddie’s beaming smile silences any doubt he had in his head that this would be a mistake. He rushes to his bag in the corner and pulls out a practically brand new set of shoes.

Steve is hesitant to take them when he offers.

“These look…shouldn’t you be trying to break these in for your own feet?” Steve doesn’t know why he’s wearing torn up shoes when he has these. They look nice, and he recognizes the brand when he turns them over in his head. They are nice. Some of the nicest shoes you can buy without getting into the thousands of dollars range.

Eddie shrugs. “I like these.”

“But these cost a fortune. How did you even get these?”

“I saved up for them. I’ll break them in when I can’t wear these at all anymore,” Eddie smiles, nudges his shoulder to make him put them on. “C’mon, you need to stretch.”

Steve listens, walks over to the corner to put the shoes on, stretch out his legs and back, groaning when he pops his shoulder. He’s been a little tense all week, worried that his parents would come home for his birthday and expect him to do some kind of business dinner.

This is a much better way to spend his birthday.

Eddie is…frolicking might actually be the best word for it. He’s not exactly dancing, but he’s not really walking either. Steve almost gets too caught up watching his movements to finish what he’s doing.

“Do you want me to show you this one or do you wanna show me something first?” Eddie asks. He sounds excited, maybe even more than Steve is.

It’s not like quitting dance meant Steve actually stopped dancing. He just only did it at home, and had to make sure he was alone, which has been increasingly more difficult over the high school years. His friends practically lived at his house, even when he didn’t want them to.

But he’s still out of practice, and probably not nearly as nimble as this dance would require. He’s not sure what he would even show Eddie. His last dance recital was six years ago, and he doubts the tape with his music is even here anymore.

“Um, you can show me some of yours. Maybe the drum part?” Steve’s voice shakes with sudden nerves. He hasn’t had eyes on him while he danced in a long time. He wasn’t built like this the last time he properly danced, either.

Eddie smirks. “The whole song is the drum part, but I know what you mean.”

Steve blushes. Eddie takes position in the center of the room, leaving enough space for Steve to stand next to him.

They look at each other in the mirror. Steve nods.

Eddie moves so fluidly, even when he’s going slower to show Steve. It’s like he’s a waterfall and Steve’s the river below, waiting to take what he’s giving to move it along in a beautiful and seamless way.

It hits Steve when he’s watching Eddie turn that if Eddie’s never taken a proper class, he must’ve choreographed this dance himself.

“Steve?” Eddie’s hand on his arm startles him from his thoughts. “Need me to do it again?”

“Sorry. Yes, please,” he doesn’t know why he can’t focus, but Eddie continues to show him three more times and he still doesn’t quite get the timing right. “Sorry, I think I’m just distracted.”

“Why don’t you show me a routine you’re familiar with?” Eddie asks.

“I’m not sure I remember any enough,” Steve tries to say, but Eddie shakes his head.

“You’re a dancer. You remember.”

He’s right. He may miss a few steps here and there, or get the timing just a bit off, but he can remember most of every routine he ever did on a stage. He does it without music, something that Ms. Laseaux always made him do before recitals to ensure he knew the timing in his head.

He doesn’t pay attention to Eddie’s reactions until he’s done.

He’s breathless, and not just from the dance. Eddie’s eyes are shining, and his lips are parted in a way that makes Steve want to slip his tongue between them and taste him. He’s a bit thrown by the thought, but only because he hasn’t had those kinds of thoughts in a long time. Not since Nancy broke up with him.

Eddie stands from the floor and walks over to him, still seemingly in shock over his dancing.

Steve’s ankles are sore, and he’s a bit mad he chose the hardest dance he ever did. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest. His legs are shaking.

Eddie cups his face, eyes searching his.

“You should have let her bribe your mom,” he says quietly. “You belong on the stage, too.”

Steve feels tears prick his eyes and it’s ridiculous to be crying for the second time in front of Eddie, but he’s a little overwhelmed.

“I miss it,” he chokes out. Eddie nods because he knows. Maybe not the same way Steve does, but he knows his own yearning, his own pain at being unable to perform the way his body is capable of. He might be the only other person in Hawkins who understands him. “I shouldn’t have let him stop me.”

“You were a kid, Steve,” Eddie’s voice breaks. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I do now,” Steve sounds more sure than he thought he could with tears streaming down his face. “What can he do now that I’m 18 other than cut me off? He won’t. My mom wouldn’t let him and his business partners would think less of him.”

Eddie’s brows furrow. He looks away for a moment, his lips moving around words Steve can’t hear. When he looks back at Steve, he looks heartbroken.

“Is today your birthday?”

Steve nods. He’s not sure why Eddie looks so upset. This is turning into one of the best birthdays he’s ever had and he’s starting to feel relief that he finally feels brave enough to stand up to his dad.

“And you came here?” Somehow, he sounds even more upset.

“I didn’t really want to go anywhere else,” Steve tilts his head as he answers. “This is always where I’ve felt the least lonely.”

“Dance with me.”

They danced already. A little. But Steve thinks he means something different now.

“What do you know?” Steve asks, a flutter in his chest at the thought of touching Eddie, lifting Eddie, feeling Eddie against him.

“Swan Lake?” Eddie asks.

“You know Swan Lake? How?” Steve doesn’t mean to sound rude, but he’s a little shocked someone who’s never even taken a ballet class would know the most famous pas de deux.

“I have eyes and an uncle who buys me tapes of famous ballets from some guy in Chicago. They’re shit quality, but I watch them so often, I’ve taught myself.”

“You’re amazing.”

Eddie laughs. “Let’s see if I can pull it off first.”

Eddie rushes over to the corner, searching through the tapes on the shelf. Most of the popular ballets are there, and Steve knows every piece from Swan Lake is probably on the top. All the seniors tend to use those for their solos.

He finds what he’s looking for and slots the tape in the stereo. Steve knows there’s a slow start to the music, and it allows plenty of time for them to get into position.

It’s easy falling into this with Eddie. They don’t even discuss who will take which part, they just fall into what’s natural. Steve hasn’t spent as much time en pointe as Eddie clearly has, so he takes the male lead, happy just to have his hands gently guiding through the dance. He’s not meant to be the star of the show, and he wouldn’t wanna be as long as Eddie’s the one front and center.

When they finish, it’s easy to close the distance between them, lips brushing together in the gentlest kiss Steve’s ever experienced. He immediately wants more, but he waits.

He may have been leading the dance, but he doesn’t want to lead with this.

Eddie cups his cheek, still catching his breath.

“Happy birthday, Steve.”

It throws Steve off. He almost forgot it was his birthday. He got so caught up in just being around Eddie, dancing, feeling this freedom he only ever felt at the studio.

He doesn’t remember the last time he actually celebrated his birthday. It had to be before high school, even though he remembers Tommy insisting on throwing him a party at his own house with his own food and beer for his 16th. That was less for his birthday and more for Tommy to show off that he knew Steve Harrington.

“You’re okay,” Eddie says.

Not asking. Telling.

Steve believes him.

The next time they kiss is in Eddie’s van, not even ten minutes later, after Eddie asks Steve where he wants to go for a birthday dinner, his treat.

“Benny’s?” Steve asks.

“You sure? Just the diner?”

Steve nods. “My parents are gonna drag me to some five star restaurant next week where the only decent food will be the dessert they don’t bring enough of. I want greasy shitty food and a milkshake.”

Eddie kisses him a third time and puts the van in reverse.

They’re both sweaty from dancing, and neither of them should technically be out this late on a school night, but Steve’s not alone.

It’s his birthday, he got to dance, and he’s not alone.

[totemstones]

Burnout

(Giselle x Male Reader)

Tags : Bratty Gigi, Handjob, Sloppy Toppy, Sex, Dirty Talk, Mommy Kink, Recording

w/ plenty amount of music gimmicks

Length : 2.1K words

‘Nah, come on, you’ve never been like this. What happened?’

‘I just... have a little bit burnout’

You and Giselle are friends. You start getting closer to her since you have been doing songs with her, 24 songs that you and Giselle have done together, both finished and unfinished. Once you even think that you want to do a collab tape with her.

You were supposed to finish the verse on one song off Giselle's solo album. But at some point, you can’t even think of any lyrics, or words. 

‘Nah, keep your head up, man. You can do this. You can tell me what happened. We have been doin’ this things so many times. I’ll be your therapist’ - Giselle trying to cheers up yet concerns

‘I don’t know, i just-, feel like I can't think any words. But I don't have any problems for real. Don’t worry, nothin’ can stop me’

‘Cap. You look like a miserable guy right now, i can see. Let me do something’

Suddenly, Giselle starts to kneel in front of you while you sit on the sofa in the studio. She starts to put both of her hands and slide up from your shins, to your knees, and finish at your crotch. Then rubbing it at slow pace.

‘Woah woah, what you doin’?’

‘I just, you know-, give you a little heat. So, I decide to rub your wood. Based on the science, when the wood got rubbed, it creates fire. I heard that you’re burnout right? I want to lit your fire back again’

After that, she unbuckles your belt and takes off your pants down on the mat. The plump bulge that was caused by your friend got shown. When Giselle sees that, she does her mischievous smile after saw your wood.

‘Oh! I never knew that you have… such a big cock, a really really big one. Why you never show this to me? I guess this is your hidden talent, don’t hide it to me after this. OK?’ 

Your last cover was over, she takes off the underwear. Her face was too close to your cock that caused your cock flip up and hit her cheek.

‘Oh!, it slaps me. But what will hit me harder, your lyrics or your cock’

Giselle puts one hand to stroke your cock, and another hand to fondle your ball. Giselle pursing her lips while doing it. This action of hers can make you look at the ceiling and release a satisfying moan.

‘Have you ever thought- about… the fantasy about me?’

‘Nev- Never. Cuz you know- you’re my friend, it would be weird i-if I ever think about that. But since you’re doing this to me, i might looking forward about it- and thanks for this therapy’

Then, she pacing up the tempo and puts her both hands to pumping your cock, still seeing the glans even when she puts both hands on.

‘Your cock is so fucking big. Anyways. Do you love me-?’

‘Yes. I fucking love you’

‘I’m not even finished the fucking question, I just want to ask that if you love me when I'm doing this’

‘Fuck’

You thought that she was asking if you love her, you slipped out your real feeling of her.

‘So. Do you really love me?’ 

‘Definitely’ 

‘Alright. call me mommy then?’

‘What- Ah hell nah, you’re not my mommy’

At first, you feel offended. But then, Giselle start to playing with your cock, put her face closer to your cock and place it on her face, you can feel the breath from her nose that give you a goosebump.

‘Look at me! Your cock is longer than my face. I don’t know how many times I’ll say this, but you have such a big cock’

Giselle puts her nose and drags along from your balls to the cock. Then started to put it into her mouth.

‘Oh! I'm sorry. I just wanted to play with it for more minutes, but it ended up in my mouth. I'm sorry for the accident. But I think you want it to happen, right? So, since it happening, I’ll continue it’

Giselle starts to suck you cock, goes up and down, while keeping both eyes on you, wanting to see your relaxing face from this therapy section. Giselle keeps spitting on your cock, and oftenly switches to handjob that more slippery than before. Giselle getting more sloppy, her face full of her own saliva, her lips have lipstick color faded marks. She start to giving faster pace for you.

‘I've been doing this for a while now. Can you finally call me mommy?’

‘No. I didn’t see your full potential yet. Instead, Can you show me your hidden talent? Since i had already showed it to you. If it great, i might call it for you then’

‘Deal. And i’m not only do it for the calling, ‘cause i’ll make you scream it’ 

Giselle moving far away from you, standing in the middle of the room. Then, she starts to pull her jeans down, showing her pink panties. Then taking off her pink hoodie, showing the pink bra that she is wearing.

‘That’s a bar’

‘What? I’m not even rapping yet’

' I'm just saying that's a 'bra' '

‘Alright, enough. Fuck me then’

‘You want it now?’

‘Yeah, fuck that. I want it now’

Giselle starts to take off her bra, showing her pink titties. And take off her panties as well, showing her pink pussy. She’s throwing both of covers at you. You gotta wipe it to the side to see her full naked body. 

‘Damn. How many pinky things in you?’

‘All pink. But i’m thinking ‘bout dying my hair red. So, Can you paint the white for me before?’

‘As you want, Gigi’

Giselle moving closer to you, controlling your head up by her finger and kissing for a moment, you feel like you’ve fallen into a trance by her passionate kissing. While Giselle still not moving her mouth out of you, you can feel that your cock is starting to sense something had touched and its moving slowly.

‘You feeling it?’

‘A Little’

‘Wanna feel more?’

‘Yeah’

Giselle puts her body down like how gravity works. Both of you release the moans, feeling the same thing. She hugs your neck and slowly moves up and down, while you sucking at her tits.

‘Ah- it’s feeling so good, never have a big cock inside me like yours before. This satisfying me a lot’

You also move your hips to hit her pink kitty, the slapping sound has turned both of you on so much.

‘It’s getting too quiet in here. Can you come to the recording room to open some songs for me?’

‘Aight’

Before you take it out, Giselle hits your arm and pushes you back before you even stand up.

‘Wha- What?’

‘I forgot to tell you, I have a little challenge for you; Move to the room with me, but your cock have to still stuck in me, don’t take it out yet. Can you do it?’

‘Ah- fine’

‘Yah! Good boy’

You stand up and carrying her body to go to the inside of the room, one hand entwines her butt and the other hand hugs her from behind. Giselle starts to move again, but moving like she’s struggling. You can’t fully control your legs and it makes her back hitting the table at mixing panel. And then, she starts screaming.

‘AHHHHHHH Help meeeee’

‘I’m sorry. Where’s you hurting’

‘Just move and come into the room!’

‘Ok Ok’

You ran into the recording room, and put her on the table and checked what happened to her.

‘AHHHH HELP ME!’

‘WHERE DO YOU GET HURT- WHERE!’

You look at every spot of her body that if she’s hurting or anything. At that moment, Giselle starts to laughing at you.

‘Haha i didn’t say that i’m hurting, dumbo, don’t overreact. I mean ‘help me- to cum already’, i’m too horny for this, i can’t bare with it anymore. I want you to cum in me and cum with me together’

‘Bruh, bratty behavior’

You put her on the table and start pounding her again while Giselle grabs her phone and tries to select the song.

‘Can you fucking stay still? I can’t even clicking the song’

‘Guess it’s my challenge then’

‘Alright’

You continue pounding her without knowing what song she will put on the speakers. Once it got play, you can recognize your voice on it. 

‘Is that our song?’

‘Yea- Yeah. It’s our song, i always love thi-this song, ah- i love hearing your voice on the track, it makes me wet every time. Once i ever fingered myself while playing this song on repeat’

‘That’s romantic f-for me. But wait? This song isn’t finished yet right?’

‘Ye- Yeah?’

Giselle already knows that you might bring the mood back again, the feeling of unfinishing the work. Then, she starts to have an idea.

‘Ca- Can you bring that mic to me’

‘Huh? What you gon do?’

‘Bring that shit!’

You bring the microphone to her and put it beside you and Giselle.

‘Can you o-open the file of this song and record it?’

‘Al- alright What you gon do?’

‘Have you ever heard of ‘P Power’ by Gunna’

‘Oh. I understand it’

‘Yeah, do it like what they did’

You turn your back to the computer and look for the file of this song. When you find it, you prepare to start the special recording session.

‘You Ready?’

‘Let’s do it’

You press the record button, the 90’s R&B instrumental fulfills this sex scene, it makes you pound her harder than ever. All the sounds that happen in this room got recorded through a microphone.

‘Ah- Ah- Harder baby I'm nearly cum now. Ah- you’re pounding me so good baby. Make me cum please and we can cum together’

‘Ah- Your pussy is so good baby, wish i could pound this forever. No better pussy like yours baby, you sucked me so good lately’

The song was close to the outro and you feel like you are about to cum soon.

‘I’m about to cum baby, are you close yet?’

‘Ah- Yes Baby. I’m nearly cum now’

‘Let’s cum together’

‘Before you cum in me, ah- Can you call me mommy one time?’

‘Yes I can. Mommy. Milking me please, ‘til my breath runs out, ‘til i can’t cum anymore’

The part where the drums were cut off is the time that you and Giselle had cum together, only the sex scene sound and a few instruments. You both felt good feelings for each other, showing their relieved expression. You bend closer to her and whisper.

‘I love you baby’

‘Love you too’

Before you start to get tissue to wipe anything, you press the stop recording button on the screen and start to clean the booth for her.

‘You love this idea aren't you?’ 

‘Love it, you’re so fucking creative’

‘I’m creatively fucking, should add bed squeaking sound after’

‘You want to add it?’

‘Yes. It might add more tension for the song’

‘Let’s record it at my house then’

You have the fire again and recorded a few songs after that sex. And you went back home with Giselle to recorded the bed squeaking sound.

Next week, the appointment of the next recording session. You open the door and see the producer sitting in front of the computer.

‘Hey! What’s up man’

‘Hi Nice to meet you bro’

‘Nice to meet you too. How many beats you’ve produced this morning’

‘A couple, man’

‘That’s great. Show it to me then’

‘Before I show it to you. Can i ask you a question’

‘Yeah?’

‘I just went to see what you produced last week, and then I found this: What happened to this song?’

‘What song?’

The producer plays that song that had special recording last week, the voice recording was the length of the full song, 4 minutes long with sex sound behind it. You start smiling to the producer.

‘What the fuck is this?’

‘I mean, It's a sample bruh, just put it for the mood man, 90’s R&B vibe’s songs often play while people are having sex, you didn’t know that?’

‘I mean-, alright. i’ll give it to you man’

‘Yeah, right? Slow and smooth instrumentals are created something, don’t cut it off the track, leave it, it’s already finished’

You talk with producer and then go into the booth to record some songs. Suddenly, your producer wants you to listen something.

‘Hey, you want to listen to the song that Giselle had recorded a couple days ago? You might want to hop on the track’

‘Yeah play it’

The producer plays Giselle’s unfinished song with this bar on it.

‘If you wanna be my pet, call me mommy’

You start to smile and giggle a little at what she said. The producer sees your reaction. 

‘What do you even laugh about?’

‘Nothing’

Then you continue this session, while that bar is still around your head, reminding you of the special session last week. 

- totemstones

[akkaweo-akkaweo]

Better choices

Naoi Rei x M!reader

Tags: softdom, jealousy, post-orgasm torture

WC: 7.2k

—————

The little digital watch on your wrist beeped on the hour: 10PM. You carried with you a battery-powered mosquito lamp, a bag of nacho chips, and a jar of salsa. Your destination, barely a hundred meters from the door of your house, was a quaint playground in the roundabout-cum-cul-de-sac in your village.

To be more specific, your destination was Naoi Rei, seated on a big, decorative rock near the edge of the playground.

"You're late," she pouted.

"By less than a minute, hello?," you rebutted, setting the mosquito lamp right by her legs. In shorts, she needed it more than you.

"Hmph," she pouted harder.

"Don't fret now," you said, as you reached out to grab her shoulder, which she grumpily pulled away from you with a huff.

You clicked your tongue. "Alright, guess I'll just have to eat these nachos alone," you muttered, emphasizing the last word. In a snap, Rei moved a bit to the side to give you space.

"Apology accepted," she rolled her eyes.

As neighbors for the majority of your life, Rei had always been like this with you; this meeting spot was hallowed ground for your friendship, and talking time like this an inviolable agreement. Even when you both went to different colleges, got jobs, or experienced any manner of trouble in the dead of night, the rock remained the rendezvous point.

"Lemme guess," she said, forcefully grabbing the bag of nachos from your hands, "Sooyoung." You sat down, opened the jar with held breath, and took a loud sigh.

Tonight's agenda, as it had been maybe 3 or 4 times now: Sooyoung, a girl you met at work. Well, "met at work" is a loose description, considering you "met" for the first time when she asked you about chips at "work," in the convenience store nearby.

"Usual opening question," Rei asked, a mouth full of nachos. "You still wanna do this?"

"I'm not wasting any effort, okay?," you rebutted. "It's not over 'til she says it's over."

You've been trying to woo Sooyoung for nearly a year now. Successes include a meaningful chat over coffee, a fairly uninteresting movie where you held hands, and a less-than-stellar bar crawl.

"Okay," Rei said with a groan. "Here's a thought: offer to go with her clothes shopping?"

"Clothes shopping?," you remarked. "I mean, doesn't that come off... weird?"

"You're literally the only person I know who'd say that," she replied. "Unless you wanna stare at her tits in the dressing room like a perv, no, it's not weird."

"Bruh, what the fuck?," you reacted. "No, I meant it'd be weird to buy her clothes."

"Again, you're literally the only person who'd say that," she replied. "Women would never pass up an opportunity to get more stuff for their wardrobe."

You grumbled as you sat on the rock, back against Rei. This rock used to be big enough for the two of you; now both of you were more leaning on to it and using each other as ample support.

"It's not that, it's... she's not reciprocating, and I would be offering to give something material. Out of my own pocket. That's a waste of effort." You scratched your head, irritated.

"Well, you're not wrong there, though I'm pretty sure you've spent on her more than once," Rei said with a mouth full of nachos, still holding the bag hostage. "I mean, let's look at it now: you've taken her to the movies, you've had a café date, you've gone drinking without sex..."

"Rei," you groaned, remarking at the aside.

"You've offered hiking which didn't materialize, you offered a blackbox theatre date... That's as much as anything you can offer in this boring ass town, and you spent on those too," she continued.

You slicked your hair back in frustration. "I just wish I could get a clearer sign with her, you know?," you added. "That's it. I want to know if I should even...," you trailed off.

Rei let out another exasperated sigh. "Dude, obviously you don't want to stop chasing after her, so why wait for a sign? You could always just read into it that she's waiting for you to do the right gesture. Or offer the right date. If she's intentionally playing hard-to-get, play harder."

"That's why I need you here," you replied. "I have no idea what that would be or how else."

"So quit your bitching and just offer what I said," she retorted. "The worst that can happen is that she says no, and you'll beg me to come here for more plans. Big fucking deal."

Now, you and Rei are best friends without question, but you know when she gets worked up. An imaginary klaxon rang in your head: she was in that territory, and that was a first.

"Alright, sorry," you relent. "I'm just paranoid, I suppose."

Silence – rare even for Rei and her usual side comments about your questionable decisions. All you could hear was the quiet munching of nachos.

"Any nachos left?," you asked, and Rei shook the bag as audible proof it was close to empty.

"So, uh," you asked, "how's that guy you've been trying to ask out?"

"Gave up," she said coldly. "Unlike you, I know when to quit when I'm not wanted."

Silence again, no less awkward. So much more awkward that you're patting your thighs and tapping your foot silently, trying to resist the urge to walk away. But the sinking feeling in your chest wins out.

"Well, thanks for the advice. Keep the salsa," you said. "I'll... leave you to it then."

You slowly get up, trying to feign leaving, when Rei started sniffling. "I really wish you'd get the hint," she whispered.

"Wait, Rei, wh–"

"I said I wish you'd get the fucking hint, you doofus!," she hissed as she stomped her feet, looking back at you over her shoulder. "It's always Sooyoung this, Sooyoung that, or maybe even Vicky this, or Jen that, it's always gotta be someone else!"

You stayed frozen. "Rei–"

"And here I am, crawling to you every single time you need me because I want to be with you, hoping you're gonna realize it one day," she cried, almost bawling. "And all you ever do is just fuss over more women who will never give you what I can!"

You're not just frozen now; you're shellshocked. Sure, you always had a nagging feeling asking Rei about other girls would be a bit awkward, but you never assumed she'd ever take it personally. More than that – that she had any feelings for you to take it personally.

"Rei–," you tried to speak, more firmly, but Rei had already gotten up.

"No. I don't want to talk to you," she responded. "Not about work, not about your life, not about other girls. Just leave me alone." She walked briskly into the darkness; you sat there, surrounded only by the screeching of cicadas, the lamp and a jar of salsa on the floor, and the ringing silence in your ears.

The hundred-meter walk home felt more like a kilometer, the excruciating length of it fraught with rewinding to every single time you were with Rei.

"I wish you'd get the fucking hint."

There was this one night when you asked Rei for help when you were seeing a singer-songwriter who was very into Laufey, an artist you'd only heard by name before then. Rei made you an entire playlist even before you got to the playground. You spent the night listening to the music, and she would tell you all about the "lore" of her: her twin sister, her ethnic background, the jazz inspiration, etc.

"What's your favorite song of hers?"

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger pensively. "Maybe this one," she said, cutting the song to her choice.

One day, I will stop falling in love with you,

Some day, some will like me like I like you,

Until then, I'll drink my coffee, eat my pie, pretend that we are more than friends,

And of course I'll let you break my heart again.

"Wow," you reacted, "it has such an old sound you don't hear anymore."

"Hmm," Rei reacted, staring up into the black sky, even though there were no visible stars in your neighborhood.

"What do you like about it?," you asked.

She looked at you, her eyes glistening from the halogen streetlights. Her blank expression turned into a smile you'll never forget, only because you've almost never seen it on her: her eyes scrunched up until you could question if she could still see, her grin nearly ear-to-ear, hiding a deep chuckle.

"I guess I just relate to it a lot."

You laid quietly on your bed, tears welling in your eyes as the song blared in your headphones, staring up at the ceiling of your pitch black room.

You were worse than a doofus. You were a dumbass.

=====

"I think we should stop seeing each other," you said sternly to Sooyoung.

"O-okay, um," Sooyoung responded. "W-well, if that's what you want..."

"I just need you to answer me honestly," you added. "You were never into me, were you?"

"I mean...," Sooyoung scoffed, trying to find the words. "Look, you're a great guy and all, and I really enjoyed the dates, I really did. But... you're just not my type. And to be really honest, I was trying to let you down easy. I thought you'd never take the hint."

That stung, a little. Maybe a lot more than you ever ought to have felt.

"Then... before we call it quits, can I just ask you something? I need your... advice," you sighed.

"Okay? Go ahead, I'm listening," she said, turning the chair around for you. "You're taking this a lot better than I thought."

"Thanks. Uhh...," you scratched your head, trying to figure out a proper way to explain everything. "So, I've been talking to someone else to get advice. About our dates and stuff."

"Sounds like a great friend, if they suggested all those things we did," Sooyoung remarked.

"They did... she did," you corrected yourself. "Actually, more than just us. About a lot of personal stuff. But girls and dating in particular. Ever since we were kids." The more you explained it, the more ashamed you felt. "She... told me the other night she was hurt by me asking for help about the girls and dating part."

Sooyoung rubbed her neck. "Yikes. I sorta figured where this was going halfway through your story. I suppose you've figured out what that means, right?"

"Yeah. admittedly a little late," you paused. "But... am I too late?"

"What do you mean by that?," she asked.

"Let's say I wanna... try and date her," you continued. "Am I too late to ask her out?"

"Honestly?," Sooyoung replied, "It's not so much if you're too late or too early if she really likes you. But, if this girl were like me and I was in her shoes, I'd want some form of assurance that I'm wanted by you. I mean, you've literally told them you were interested in other people. Other girls. Girls that weren't her. It'll take a little bit more than 'trying' to date. You need to want her, choose her."

You fell silent. Sooyoung likely saw the gears turning in your head.

"Maybe start there. If you wanna take her seriously, why would you? What's there to like about her?," she continued. "You're a sweet guy, really. You don't need to change a thing about yourself, for now at least. But you gotta make all of that choose her, or she'll never believe you."

Sooyoung's phone started ringing. "I'm so sorry," she remarked, "just remember what I said. Do it with purpose, and with someone who can appreciate you more thoroughly." She then stepped out, both literally and figuratively.

"Goodbye," you whispered to the empty seat in front of you.

=====

The little digital watch on your wrist beeped on the hour: 10PM. You were sitting on the rock in the middle of the neighborhood playground, an unopened bag of potato chips in hand a battery-powered mosquito lamp by your feet.

You shook your foot anxiously, and checked your phone again, probably the 12th time in the past 10 minutes.

You looked at your text to Rei: "Meet at the rock, 10PM" – the same message you've been sending her when you ask to see her, and the same unanswered message you've sent after that night. This was night #4.

A part of you wanted to leave it with finality, to accept Rei was fully done with your shit. She had every right to be, and you didn't think she was wrong for it. But you remembered Sooyoung's words: act with purpose.

10 minutes passed. Then another 10. You thought you heard someone heading to you, but it was just a lone night jogger. Then another 15.

A hooded figure suddenly walked up to the streetlight, wearing a pair of light pink pajama pants with a still indiscernible cartoon print and chunky rubber slides. Her face was obscured, but you didn't need to see it to know who it was. You stood up in... excitement? Frantic? The feeling didn't matter.

When Rei was finally right next to you, she had no makeup on, her eyes very puffy and reddish. Her face was scrunched into a scowl, but softened as you looked at her.

You reached out to hand her the potato chip bag. Without words, she grabbed it gingerly before taking a seat on the rock. You sat the same way, back against hers.

You struggled to find the words to say, the right ones at least. You wanted to say everything right away, that you were sorry and you were insensitive and self-centered.

Rei heaved a heavy sigh. "You can say anything you want," she replied. "Stop overthinking it."

You tried to angle your body a little bit more towards Rei. "Remember that night after the school play?"

Silence, though you heard her breathing sound shaky.

---

"Um... I want to leave the Science club."

You dropped your sandwich. "What?! B-but why?"

"Because... I just got into the school play," she said with a subdued smile.

You slammed your hands on the table excitedly. "Oh, forget the Science club! That's amazing! When's the show?"

"End of the year," she replied, loosening up to your cheer. "But I need to quit to focus on rehearsals and all."

"Yeah yeah, totally," you said, and hugged her tight without thinking. "I'm so happy for you!

---

"Hey Jen," you asked your cute friend in the Science club, "what's a good color of flower to give someone?"

She looked at you, puzzled. "Color?"

"Yeah," you continued. "Or type. Design? I don't know, I've never learned about flower names."

"Design?!," she replied incredulously. "So you've never heard of poinsettia? Chrysanthemum? Geranium? Jasmine??"

"Um... violets like the color? And roses!," you replied excitedly.

Jen slapped her forehead. "O-kay. And here you are in the Science club."

"I'm a chemistry guy, okay?," you defended yourself. "Please help me."

---

At the end of the show, you waited by the backstage with a handful of three white roses and three violets. You didn't have that much money, but you wanted to get Rei her favorite flowers – fortunately the only flowers you knew. Rei stood out well, delivering her lines with clearly and making everyone laugh with her witty lines. She deserved these flowers.

5 minutes passed. Then another 5. Then another actor came out, noticing you.

"Oh, you looking for Rei?," he asked. "She went out with her friends in the other direction. Sorry."

Without thinking, you texted her right away. "Meet at the rock, as soon as you can."

---

"I waited for you that night," you continued, "even if you'd left. I ran to this rock and waited, even if you were late, like actually late. Even if I was tired, and sweaty, and full of mosquito bites."

You heard Rei sniffling.

"Rei, I'm sorry," you said. "I wasn't... attentive. I was selfish. Or self-centered. Whatever the word is. I wasn't looking at what was right in front of me." You paused, trying to gauge if Rei was still capable of listening.

"I hope you believe me, but before everyone else it was you," you said, holding back your own tears. "That was almost 10 years ago. I'm not going to pretend that I currently reciprocate your feelings for me, but I want to try to bring back what I felt a long time ago."

Rei paused and sniffled. "I still have them."

"Huh?"

She pulled out her wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper, with one rose and one violet dried up and pressed on it.

---

It was almost 11:30PM. You'd been waiting at the rock for almost 40 minutes. You'd rushed to the rock, no snacks or mosquito lamp or flashlight; just you.

Your legs were shaking. You felt your heart race only slightly slower than how it was waiting outside the backstage. You felt your fingers get cold, even when your palms were sweaty. You barely could sit still.

Of all the classmates you've ever liked, this feeling was the first you attached to one – and it was Rei.

You heard and saw a car drive up to her house, and saw a figure step out of it. You stood up, wanting to see the figure better, but there was no need – the figure started running hurriedly to your direction.

"Rei! You were–" you tried to say, before all of her crashed into you at full speed. You almost got knocked off your feet, if not for the rock catching your fall. Which hurt a bit, but you ignored with Rei's tight hug.

"I'm so sorry! My friends just whisked me away, I was actually looking for you, and–," she frantically replied.

"No, it's no bother, really! You were great! I got you these–," you said at the same time, before stopping and pushing Rei away in shocking realization.

"Ow! Hey, what was – oh no!," she exclaimed.

In your excitement, you hugged with the bouquet between you, the paper wrapping ripped apart by the moisture and the flower petals bent out of their original shape. When you let go of each other, it had fallen to your feet.

Rei looked at you, tears suddenly starting to well up. "I'm sorry...," she said softly, "I didn't–"

You picked up the flowers, offering it to Rei anyway, feeling your cheeks flush with heat and your heart thumping in your ears.

"I got you these," you said softly. "Sorry it's a bit... yeah."

She went in to hug you, making sure the flowers stayed in your hand and away from you while she did. She held you in a hug for a long while, both of you calming down.

---

You held the paper in your hands while Rei spoke.

"That night, when I got home, I remember pressing the flowers one by one," she explained, "and I remembered that with every flower I did, I was extra careful and extra giddy. And that's when I knew I liked you." You folded up the paper the way she did.

"I didn't really... have a crush on you or anything either," she continued, her body starting to face yours. "But a part of me kept thinking, 'if he asked you out, I'd say yes right away.' So I waited."

Rei looked away again. "Then you started going out with Jen," she added, her face more distraught. "Then that didn't work. Then there was that girl you met at your freshman mixer. Then it was... I don't know how many girls you talked to me about. But every single one felt like there was one thing I had but two things I didn't."

You started anxiously biting your nails. How had you not noticed this sooner? How could you completely have ignored someone who you ran to incessantly?

"But I stayed because you meant a lot to me too," Rei said. "I don't regret any of it. I don't hold it... no, I did hold it against you for a bit. A while. A long while. Maybe I still do, just a bit."

She fell silent. She wasn't crying anymore, but you could imagine her face looking very close to weeping.

"I guess all there's left to say is," she added, "I wanna give you a chance."

You didn't quite have the words, but your body was telling you to move, to act.

Grabbing her into fireman's carry, you lifted her with all your energy to sit onto your lap. "Whoa, hey, what are you doing?!," Rei reacted. You were now both face to face with each other, foreheads and cheeks pressed up. You felt the warmth of her breath, and paused.

This was it, the feeling that was missing. You went through every single time you went out with Sooyoung, then all the times you went out with Rei. You thought about all the places you'd gone with Jen, then remembered all the times you went there first with Rei. You remembered every single date you've been on, then brought yourself right back to this moment. Rei was the missing piece – the yearning for reciprocation, for recognition, for a sign, and like a puzzle she belonged right there, in your embrace.

You didn't even think too hard about what to do next. You planted your lips on hers, briefly — and everything felt right.

When you parted from her, she looked at you, stunned, for a whole second, before she closed her eyes and dove into your lips, for twice as long.

"Finally," Rei smirked, "thought you'd never figure it out."

You kept on kissing, the screeching of crickets and birds around you interrupted only by the smacking of your lips against one another. Rei's lips softly cushioned yours as your heads twisted, trying to push each other in more deeply than physically possible; but such was your appetite for her, and hers for you, yearning to dig deeper for everything that was just unearthed.

You released your grasp on her and she looked at you, her scowl dissipated by a more sincerely warm and toothy smile. She didn't have to explain anything further, all her feelings told by the smile plastered on her face.

"Rei, I'm–," you started, but silenced by a single finger on your lips.

"Stop," she butted in. "Save it for later. Just hold me first."

You brought in your thighs under her to hold her more closely, still cradling her like a baby. She wrapped an arm around your shoulder and nuzzled her face on yours, releasing all the aggression she had pent up.

Every time you shifted your position, she used her other hand to fix it back in place with a light slap. "Stop ruining my moment," she hissed, though her tone gave away that it was less hostile and more clingy.

She released you from her grip and stared at you again. "I'm ready to forgive you now," she said, a hint of sass audible in her voice.

"What an honor," you replied, rolling your eyes. She grabbed your face between her fingers, squeezing your cheeks.

"Shh," she rebutted, "you're not off the hook yet." She stood up, offering a hand to you.

You held it, though looked at her puzzled. "Wait, where are we going?"

"My room," she replied, starting to pull you towards her house.

"Wait, but your family–"

"Not home," Rei said curtly. "Just trust me."

You dropped your hesitations and let her pull you in, following her into her house, up the stairs, and into her room. The lights were off, and before your hand reached the switch, she stopped you.

"No," Rei said firmly, "I wanna do this in the dark." Your mind started racing – was this really happening? You've never gotten this far with a girl, you've never prepared for it either mentally or materially, but you weren't against the pace things were going. Maybe you were even excited.

In the shadows, you saw Rei take off her shirt, her silhouette only accented by the plain white walls and cabinets in the room. You saw the curves on her body, the way her breasts rested on her body, her bare legs and thighs smooth and slightly toned. She stood a bit awkwardly, but with purpose.

"I don't just want you to like me back," she replied firmly, "I wanna prove to you I'm better than all of them."

Rei stepped closer, her body only slightly illuminated by the moonlight streaming from her window.

"Do you want me like this?," she asked, her voice shaky.

"Y-yes," you stammered, still shocked at the pace of things.

Your heart raced. You knew Rei to be competitive, or at the very least petty enough to do the most out of spite. You couldn't possibly imagine how she was going to utilize that burning passion in the moment.

"Rei," you said, "are you sure you wanna do this right now?"

She stepped forward until she was face to face with you, her breath warm just inches from your face. She removed your shirt and pants, letting them fall to the floor. Her eyes pierced into yours.

"Yes," she said with determination, "I'm gonna make sure you never forget me."

Rei pushed you down by your shoulders to sit you on the bed, and knelt by your feet. She pulled down your underwear and let it sit by your feet, then crawled up in between your legs until her mouth was right up to your groin.

"Look at me," she spoke sternly.

Keeping her hands on your legs, she dipped down to catch your dick in her mouth, held in place in between her lips. With her lips almost vacuum sealed against the tip of your erection, she shoved her head into you, forcing your length in as if her mouth were immovably tight.

The feeling of her lips grazing against your length, lubricated by her tongue swirling around your shafted continuously, was incomparable. When you let go of her gaze to throw your head back in ecstasy, she dug her fingernails into your thighs to grab your attention.

Rei sucked you off with almost mechanical pace; she covered your length from base to under the tip with consistency, not so fast that she was ramming herself into you, but definitely slow enough the you weren't writhing and ramming yourself into her in chase of stimulation.

"Fuck, Rei, fuck," you reacted, watching her eyes stare unmoved from yours. Even when your legs trembled, her hands held you firmly in place. She even moved her hands down to your ankles and heels, wrapping her forearms behind your calves.

"Fuck, Rei, that's so good," you continued, her pace only slightly picking up. "Holy fuck, holy shit."

As you approached your climax, you started uncontrollably bucking your hips, as if chasing after her. Yet Rei continued at her pace, unchanged even with your disruptions. It was almost torturous keeping yourself from finishing.

"Rei, please, I wanna cum, I'm so close, faster," you begged.

"Mmm-mmm," she said, shaking her head. Still Rei continued at her pace, your head now fully facing up at the ceiling. Your eyes were wide open, even rolled up as you approached climax.

"Rei, Rei," you called out her name. "I'm gonna, I'm gonna–"

Then she stopped, popping her mouth out from your cock. You twitched for a few times, then your hips started bucking in search of her mouth, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Rei stared at you with a devilish grin, as if mocking your current state.

"Are you okay?" she asked, rubbing your thigh. You didn't even know what to reply; it felt good – amazing, even – up until that moment she denied it from you. You just stared at her, wide eyed, confused.

"Great," she replied with a smile. From her bedside table, she pulled out a lip tint, applying it to her lips until it glistened in the moonlight.

"Okay, let's mark that... one," she remarked, gingerly tracing a single, horizontal line on the inside of your bare leg with the tint. "Ready for number two?"

"Hold up, what do you mean number–" was all you could utter before Rei took your cock in her mouth a second time. She engulfed your dick in its entirety in one go, until her painted lips landed at the base of your groin.

She kept the suction in her mouth as she slowly – very slowly, almost dragging her lips across every vein on your shaft – lifted her head. When she got to the bottom of your swollen head, she released her lips and took your length in again, repeating the process.

You've never felt the sensation before: you were sensitive, still close to your orgasm; but you could feel something still pooling up within the base of your cock, even adding to what was already there just before she stopped sucking you.

After three more slow and gentle bobs of her head, Rei's lip tint left a faint stain around the base of your cock, wet from saliva and very much visible – like she had wanted to leave it there. She teased you a bit more, sucking only the half inch right under your head, before releasing it with a pop. Your mouthed barely formed a coherent sentence, overwhelmed still by the ticklish sensation on the underside of your shaft.

She released you briefly to purse her lips, keeping them moist, before resuming back at the same consistent pace she was at just earlier. Rei stared at you with unmoving, almost dismissive eyes; you felt her soft, luscious lips press up against your groin as they landed at the base of your dick. Her tongue pressed up on the underside of your shaft, the tip just barely tickling frenulum. All that, and you felt her pace pick up, her face slamming a tad lighter onto your body.

"Fuck, I wanna cum so bad, Rei," you groaned. "God, you're good at this." Rei chuckled with your dick still in her mouth, the vibrations adding stimulation.

Again, you neared your breaking point. Your breathing turned into loud gasping and moaning, until all you were saying was her name over and over again: "Rei, Rei, Rei." The suction on her lips broke as she smiled, now shoving your dick as far deep into her throat.

Except it didn't reach the back of her throat, Rei's face and nose instead slamming into your hips. Even when it was practically buried in your pubes, she still stared at you with hungry, lustful eyes.

"Rei, I'm gonna– fuck, I'm– hah, fuck–," you bumbled, your torso rocking back and forth as she continued to suck harder and faster. You could feel the swelling tide of cum in your shaft, ready to burst, and you bucked your hips in the air...

Then Rei stopped, again, releasing you from your grasp. Your hips stayed in the air, chasing after her mouth, and you groaned aloud in frustration. One, two droplets of white spilled from your tip, which Rei watched as it slid down your shaft. You reached a hand for your cock, intending to stroke yourself to completion, but Rei suddenly lunged at you, shoving you fully onto the bed.

"I told you I wasn't gonna make you forget me," she said mischievously. "But you owe me for making me cry my eyes out the whole week."

You gasped for air, out of breath from being denied a second orgasm, but you didn't move as proof of submission. She grabbed a long ribbon from a drawer and sat you up, tying your hands behind your back. She made you sit with your back to the headboard of her bed, reapplied her lip tint, and drew another line down from the previous one on your thigh. "That's two," she cooed.

Now you felt a pain in your groin, like from the denial. You still felt a load ready to come out with the right amount of coaxing, but judging from Rei's treatment that wasn't going to come easy.

She took you in her mouth again, this time going even slower than before. Unlike the second time, where she was more frantic and hasty, she returned to her pace from when she started – mechanical, consistent, tantalizing.

But this time the sensation on your dick was different. It tickled, almost painfully, but in a stimulating way – you wanted it to keep going and end right now.

Still Rei sucked on, her lips covered in spit. She started to spill so much drool from her mouth that it began coating your shaft, slowly dripping over your balls and onto the bed. The trails left behind were cold in the air, even when it started spilling onto your taint.

Now you were seated completely on the bed, legs splayed outwards, while Rei laid on her stomach. You could see her ass in the dark, not wide but definitely sizable, like you could grab a whole handful of it. You've never noticed these features on Rei – not her boobs or her butt, maybe her thighs the few times your hormonal teenager self ogled at all the girls in your PE class – but you realize now that she was just as hot as a lot of the girls you've dated.

She let go of your cock to flick it with her finger a single time. "Ow! What the fuck was that for?!," you whined.

"I said, look at me," Rei growled, swallowing your dick whole right as she said it. The sharp pain from the flick actually made the load welling up in your shaft retreat, and now you weren't sure if she was grabbing attention or keeping your orgasm delayed again – maybe even both.

That delay never came. She picked up her pace again, the pain in your balls increasing as you could feel them trying to squeeze out a third one. Though it welled again at your base, you now felt all of your cum fill up your length, from base to tip. As Rei's sucking continued, you felt yourself twitch, and you swore that the trails of saliva she left started turning whiter.

"Rei, please, I'm so close," you begged. "I wanna cum so bad..."

"Keep begging," she muttered, as she picked up her pace yet again.

"Rei, you suck me so well, holy fucking shit," you praised, hoping that would encourage her to let you actually finish. "Your face looks so fucking hot while you take me whole."

Rei started moaning at your words, and you notice one of her hands, while the other was wrapped firmly around your base, was in between her legs. Each moan she made only brought you closer to finishing.

"Please, Rei," you begged, "I wanna cum so bad, I wanna cum for you so bad..."

Rei let her mouth go of your dick and started licking your frenulum vigorously. The extra sensation was enough to start breaking the dam, and your mouth blubbered to make sure she knew that "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum– agh!"

With one final thrust in the air, you burst, as Rei's hand around your base let go. For a split second, you swore time slowed down as you saw your cumshot burst into the air – which you've never, ever seen – then another, and another, and another. The sudden ecstasy of your release made you increasingly lightheaded, almost blanking out

After what felt like minutes, you came to, and Rei's face was completely drenched in white, viscous globs of cum, dripping onto her chin. Her mouth, agape as she caught her breath, bore strings of cum that spanned her lips, trembling with every pant she made.

You stared at each other. She smiled in satisfaction, licking her lips and lapping up all the cum she could with her tongue. You finally found the presence of mind to laugh, your high fully felt as it coursed through your bones. "Holy fuck, that was amazing," you remarked, and Rei gave you her toothy smile in pleasure.

She pulled out her tint again to mark your leg – a single line right next to the second, now looking like T mixed with an F. "That's three," she chuckled, "you're crazy, you know that?" You breathed heavily, gasping for air, still laughing.

Without warning, Rei gobbled up your dick again, now doubly aggressive than how she sucked you prior. Your eyes widened, your abdomen crunched, and your hips tried to retreat into the bed, only being stopped by said bed against Rei's relentless bobbing.

You writhed and laughed as the sensation turned more ticklish, as your shaft felt every ridge on Rei's lips rub against it. You laughed, groaned, even yelped as the sensation blended into the pain in your balls from being wrung dry.

"Rei– hah, stop! Fuck, stop!," you begged. Rei groaned her rejection of your request, replacing her mouth with the quick stroking of her hand.

"Come on, take it," she taunted. "You owe me all of it."

Your body twisted and contorted from the extreme sensation. But surprisingly, you could still feel something welling up in your shaft – your release merely held back by the ticklish sensation.

Rei rubbed you faster, scraping off some cum from her face onto yours until it was slick, sliding, and squelching with her grasp.

"One last," she reassured, "give it to me. I want it all over my face. I want it all over my mouth. I wanna feel your seed all over me. Make me yours. Mark me. Claim me."

Your writhing was frantic and aggressive. If not for Rei's weight on your legs you would have shaken yourself free, but your arms were still held back. No amount of retreat stopped Rei's unrelenting stroking.

"You're mine," she growled, taking your whole length in one last time. That last line of dirty talk was all you needed, and you cum another – a fourth? – time. It disappeared into Rei's mouth, but when she let go, a few streaks of drippy, clear fluid left a trail around your tip.

You panted, eyes heavy from exhaustion and ecstasy and head buzzing. You felt Rei trace another line inside your thigh. "Four," she teased, "if only we could make that five." Worn out as you were, you felt your dick twitch still, the prospect of being used by Rei surprisingly a turn on.

Rei clicked her tongue at the sight of you, slowly kissing your sensitive cock. Each one was light and cold at each touch, making you twitch and shudder harder and harder as she continued. She giggled as she continued, picking up the pace.

You heaved to catch your breath. "You're... very... pleased... despite... being sad..."

Rei paused her kissing. "Sad? I wasn't sad," she replied, dragging her tongue from the base of your cock to your tip, with a slow, dick-achingly long drag. "More frustrated. I've wanted you for so long and you kept wanting others. Now that you're mine, I'm never letting you go."

You laughed in panic. "Okay, I'm sorry... Fuck, I've never... never had a blowjob... like that.."

Rei giggled as she made another long stroke on your dick, your groans even louder behind hard-gritted teeth.

"You sound like you're in pain," she cooed, her tone seemingly mocking you. "You want me to stop?" she dragged her tongue once again, intent to continue until you stopped her. But you said nothing, merely groaning and gasping for air, eyes almost watering at how sensitive you felt. And Rei loved watching you squirm.

Like the end to an elaborate ritual, Rei took your dick in her mouth fully, wrapping her lips tightly around your head, forcing it through her mouth, and keeping the seal tight around your shaft – the same way she started. Inside her tongue did most of the work, stroking the full underside of your dick as she bobbed her head gently up and down the lower half of your shaft.

Painfully, you squirmed, feeling something pool at your base. "Fuck, stop! I'm gonna– fuck!"

Before you realized it, you squirted into Rei's mouth – squirted, meaning you felt a sharp jet of liquid spray out of your dick. Rei had let go of you just before you did, the fluids coating her face, your torso, your thighs, and the bedsheets.

With that, you let out a single laugh, and felt the ringing and the blackness in your field of view take over.

=====

When you woke up, the sun was almost about to rise. On Rei's bedside, her alarm clock read 5:39AM.

You tried to get up by propping yourself up with your hands – revealing that your bindings have been removed. Your groin ached and your member felt sore and sensitive, and you groaned to summon all the strength you had in you to get up.

Hobbling to the bathroom, you realize your skin felt surprisingly clean. You had been sweating and drenched in all manner of ejaculate last night, yet you felt like you'd taken a clean shower.

When you got to the bathroom, you turned on the faucet and rubbed your face, trying to wash the grogginess out of your system. When you opened your eyes, however, you found a little surprise: Rei left her lip tint counter on your thigh, the lines now forming the character 正. Around the base of your dick was a pink stain, the same ones caused by Rei's lips.

You grinned instantly – she accomplished her mission. "God damn," you muttered to yourself, "definitely the best blowjob I've had."

"Good," Rei replied, suddenly waiting at the door. You jumped, instinctively hiding your crotch in your hands. Rei tossed you your underwear and pants, and you swiftly put them on. She however wore your shirt, which fit her nicely – stretching down just past her hips that she was fully, but just barely, covered up.

She held your hands in hers, swinging them playfully. "I think I went... a little overboard last night..."

"You think?," you laughed at her.

She tilted her head and looked away. "Well... maybe I planned to go overboard..." She could barely hide her smirk.

You rolled your eyes. "I sure hope I've apologized sufficiently then."

"Hmmm," Rei replied cheekily, "take me out on a date first. Then we're even."

You embraced Rei tenderly, rubbing your hands on her back as she rubbed her face into your chest. Things felt right – for once you weren't just giving, but receiving twice over.

"I'm sorry for taking you for granted, Rei," you said softly into her hair.

"It's okay," she said, her face squished into your bare chest. "Don't go."

You held Rei by the shoulders and stared at her. She smiled from ear to ear, her eyes squished so much she looked like she couldn't even see. That's the Rei you liked.

"So," you replied, "how about we go clothes shopping?"

—————

[urfriendlywriter]

25 "you've no idea what you do to me," vulnerability dialogue prompts !!

(feel free to use <333 tag me when yall write!! my favs are )

"God, I need you."

"I've craved this more nights than I can remember." :'')

"Would it assure you if I say.. that I'd be honored to protect your vulnerability with me?"

when you both sleep together after a traumatic event, you holding them

^ they silently whisper, "I'm scared.. That you'll leave me once you see how much I need you. that this love will consume me, make me.. clingy, and you'll see I'm just.. broken"

"Can you hug me?" By a really vulnerable you and they still at the request before one hand moves to your back, holding you against them - perhaps more tightly than necessary.

They make a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, pressing their forehead against yours, "What would I be without you?"

"Would you... would you be okay if I put my arm around your shoulders? Like, hugging you from the side?"

^ "Would u want to?" you ask but they hadn't expected you to ask if they wanted to. your question implies that you care about their feelings too, and it touches something deep within them. "Yes," they admit softly. "I do."

Cuddling but its them on top resting their ear over ur heart and listening to its beatssssss

3 am truth exchanges and both your voices are really quiet, intimate and genuine, eyes shining with lots of emotions that you both honor and hold close.