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detectivestucks2 · 5 hours ago

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Mean, Rich, & Mine Pt. 8

18+ content, Minors do NOT interact

Pairing: Frat Boy Sukuna x F!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, oral female receiving

Summary: The drive home forces you to confront Sukuna's recent actions. You've been thinking about them a lot, especially when he makes a proposition.

Art Credit: @innaillus

Word Count: 3.1 k

Chapter 7 I Chapter 9

The drive to your place is quiet. You drum your fingers against your thigh, mind swimming with thought. Your insides tug at each other mulling over recent events. He’s stood up for you, apologized to you, claimed and pleasured you. So many things about his recent behavior point towards a genuine change.

But why would Sukuna find you special? The man with infinite options, hyperfixated on a scholarship girl. The doubt in your mind won’t quiet. He doesn’t care about others. He likes a good time and a good game. Your resistance to him has probably created his most intriguing challenge yet. That’s why he seems to care so much, right? But then why choose the word wife? Why knock out four men to protect you? And why do his kisses feel so… divine?

Sukuna’s hand finds its way to your upper thigh, resting its weight and gripping your skin. He means it when he says he’s claimed you, it’s just so hard to envision him settling down. Yet here you are, in his car, being touched with care.

He shifts the gear into park and rounds to the other side to open your door. Like a proper gentleman, he escorts you to your front door and guards you as you dig for your keys.

“I want more.” He blurts out into the silence.

You pause, your hand still in your backpack. “What do you mean more? You were literally eating me out minutes ago. We kiss all the time and I’d say most of our encounters are rather graphic these days. What more could there possibly be?”

“Date me.”

“You want us to date? Like be exclusive? Together?”

“It seems my claim is meaningless if we’re not dating. It was brought up by my brothers several times this week.”

Your chest deflates. “That’s not a good enough reason to date someone.”

“Tell me, what’s a good enough reason?”

“I don’t know, wanting commitment, a future. Having genuine feelings for the person. Take your pick.”

He looks down, considering his words. You finally find your key and slot it into your lock, frustration mounting with his silence. Earlier he had said “future wife.” Why is it suddenly so hard for him to express how he feels? And why does it bother you so much? You hear the familiar click of your deadbolt turning but when you push the door sticks. You begin hip checking the it as you continue. “You know, the fact that you have to think so hard about this is exactly why we shouldn’t date.”

Sukuna rests his palm against the door and pushes it open, a grim look on his face. “Would you please let me upgrade your housing?”

“No” you scold defiantly pushing past him.

“I don’t like that you live here. “

“And I don’t like that you can’t express your feelings.”

“When did I say that I have feelings?”

“Exactly my point! You didn’t. I assume you do, though, considering the jealousy, the protectiveness, tonight’s surprise, and the fact that you called me your future wife earlier. But because you won’t admit to it, even when trying to ask me to date you… it shows why I shouldn’t. I don’t want to hand my life over to someone who can’t recognize basic emotions.”

“I can recognize basic human emotions.” His eyes narrow at you.

“Then explain to me why you want to date me and why I should say yes.”

There’s fight in his red eyes. He’s feeling defensive and rebellious but he also wants to win. He wants you to surrender and be his. He wants you to stop fighting his claim.

He marches up to you, to which you back away. He paces you all the way to your kitchen. “Why’re you running C?”

“Cause you’re trying to mow me over.”

Your rear hits the counter’s edge, causing your body to jolt. No quicker has your flesh met the particle board top than Sukuna’s hand has trapped your jaw in its grasp. “We should date because I am obsessed with you, Char. I think about you constantly. I worry about you constantly. I yearn for you constantly. Never in my life have I been so possessed by need for someone. You have toppled my world, C. I want you, and I know you want me. Being together is inevitable. Just admit it.”

Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your lungs unable to function properly with him so close to you. He changes his grip on your face, opting to lift your chin with his knuckle while his thumb brushes your lower lip. He looks at you transfixed before closing in on your mouth, his lips taking yours yet again.

Every time you go through this, his kiss fogs your mind with insatiable lust. He just spent hours torturing you this evening and still, he requires more of you. Lips on his, you try to imagine what this would look like if it were real. You picture it to look a lot like it does now. “Please, Char, I need more,” he pleads against your cheek.

You softly moan, spurring his hands to grab your legs and lift you onto the countertop where he settles between your legs, continuing to rub his pelvis against your center through those soaked panties that you desperately need to change. Your fingers dig into his shirt, pulling him closer. You want him, you really do. He turns reality on its head; it becomes something you don’t recognize. This man, who grew up worlds apart from you, wants to drag you into his version of this life, one full of wealth, status, and power. It’s hard to wrap your mind around, but since when can you wrap your mind around anything while he poisons your cognition with his kisses?

Small pants come from your mouth as the desire for him takes root in your gut. You feel your organs squeeze with want, your hands fisting his shirt and pinning him to your front while his arms cage you in.

He groans before he pulls away, a string of spit thinning before it breaks apart and falls between you. “I need an answer, C.”

You pause, looking at the tattoos that run under the collar of Sukuna’s v-neck shirt. With a thick swallow, you muster the courage to admit your response, “okay.”

“Okay?”

“One date. I’ll go on one date with you, and after that I’ll see how I feel.”

“It’ll be more than one date.”

You shake your head before leaning it against his broad chest. He holds you, resting his cheek on your hair, a rare moment of quiet existing between you.

The shop bell rings as Sukuna’s massive body passes over the threshold. Two anxious saleswomen perk up ready to earn their commission as he pulls off his sunglasses and places them in the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can we assist you?”

“Afternoon, ladies. I’m looking for assistance with some items for a date.” It’s Thursday, and Sukuna made the drive over to the shop that outfitted you the week prior as soon as his classes were finished. His excitement for your date is hard to suppress; his mind constantly wanders to planning, and it won’t quit till all the details are in place.

“Oh? Well we have a new collection of suits that just came in last week. Would you like us to take some measurements?”

“Actually I am looking to purchase something for her. I believe you should already have her measurements on file.”

“I see. What’s the name?”

“Ch-”

“Wait! Extremely tall, muscular, and tatted. What do you think, Mae?”

“Oh you’re right Sherry! Yes, we have her measurements on file. What can we get for you?”

Sukuna smirks as he digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He opens the web browser and points to his screen. I was thinking something like this.”

“My oh my, you sure you don’t want a wedding dress to go with that lingerie?” Mae says with a wink to Sherry.

“Not yet, but soon.” he smiles.

The two girls look at the image of the strappy bodysuit knowing exactly how he’s going to convince you. “Maybe instead of a wedding dress you’d like to purchase a different dress that allows this purchase to poke out in a classy way.”

Sukuna’s intimidating gaze locks with Mae, a calculated grin growing on his face. “What’d you got?”

Her face rockets from intimidation to joy. After a quick clap of her hands, she strides over to a section with business attire and cocktail dresses. She starts leafing through a series of satin gowns, thumbing through various colors, blush pink, baby blue, maroon, and black. She pauses on the black but then grabs the maroon off the rack instead. “This one will go nicely with her skin tone and will blend with the black bodysuit.”

“You have good taste.”

“They wouldn’t have hired me if I didn’t.”

Sukuna admires the dress. The sheen of the satin is so glossy it almost looks like liquid metal. The neckline is a wide cowl that dips low enough to show off the straps around the bosom of the bodysuit, and the fit is narrow around the waist but flares out at the hips, with a hem that ends mid-thigh. This will be perfect for toying with you. He can see it now. “Add it to my tab.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherry says as she heads over to the store computer.

“Do you have a pair of Louis Vuitton’s in this color?”

“We don’t but we have the Gala Pump in black. That will accent with the black of the lingerie.”

“Add those too.”

“You got it.”

“If this is what you’re spending on her outfit, I’m afraid to know how much you’re spending on the date.”

“A lot.” Sukuna says with a straight face, his mind running through his plans. “She won’t be able to deny me after tomorrow. She will be mine.”

“Hear that Sherry? She won’t be able to deny him.” Mae whispers.

“I bet she’s still insisting they’re lab partners.” Sherry whispers back.

“She is.” Sukuna chimes in.

Both ladies' backs straighten, feeling embarrassed that he overheard their quiet remarks. “Why do you think that is?”

“She thinks it’s part of an elaborate joke. At least that’s what I assume.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Cause I’ve done some stupid stunts in the past.”

“Pulling pigtails is biting you in the butt, hmm?”

With one sharp look from Sukuna, Sherry shuts her mouth.

“Well I hope this date convinces her.” Mae says kindly. “We’re rooting for you two. Have been since she stepped into our shop last week.”

The resolute look on his features says it all. He will not accept any other outcome. Tomorrow night, you will become his girlfriend. He’s certain you’ll bend. Especially after the way he’s touched you this week. You’re like putty, always doing what he says like a good girl. During lab tomorrow morning, he’ll behave, only so his tactics in the evening will be more effective. Then, by the time Monday lab rolls around, you’ll be his.

Mae hands Sukuna the three boxes containing his purchases and wishes him luck. He thanks them both before he places the boxes on the passenger seat and drives off to the frat house.

“Morning, Princess,” Sukuna says as he sits down on the stool next to you. Instantly, you feel a flush burn your cheeks as the semiweekly lab partner torture begins. Every Monday and Friday, it’s the same song and dance; however, this time you’ve agreed to go to dinner with him. You’ve caved and, against your better judgement, you’re going out with Ryomen Sukuna. If you’re being honest, you’re more scared than you are excited. You want to believe him. You want to think he’s changed and he’s serious about ‘his claim.’ He’s convincing enough. Especially when you think back to how he saved you at work or how he knocked out his own frat brother. But the pit in your stomach tells you it’s another stripper situation. He’s going to have you dressed up and then leave you on some street corner to make you look like a hooker.

“Good morning, Sukuna.” you say, intentionally using the wrong part of his name.

“Ryomen.” he corrects

“So I have to call you by your preferred name but you won’t call me by mine?”

“Yes.”

You huff in disbelief. The arrogance of this man. “Fine, Ryomen. Tell me, how should I dress for our date tonight?”

“Don’t worry, baby, I have it taken care of.”

“Taken care of?” he nods and your stomach sinks further, “How much did you spend?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just know that you’ll love what I picked out.”

“You mean you’ll love it.”

“Well I did pay for it. Of course I was gonna get you what I wanted you to wear.”

“You can’t keep spending money on me like this. It hasn’t even been a week since your last-”

“Donation?”

“Sukuna, please!”

“Ryomen.”

“If you want me to call you Ryomen, then stop acting like Sukuna and start acting like Ryo.”

He hums at his nickname, loving the sound from your lips. “Fine, how exactly do you want me to act?”

“Stop making jokes about me being poor. It makes me feel like this date is a set up and it makes me not want to go.”

Sukuna’s pulse pauses. Backing out is not an option. “You are going on this date, Princess. You agreed to it.”

His growl sends shivers down your spine, arms pebbling with fear. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to, Sukuna.”

You say it quietly, eyes downcast but the statement still stings. He grabs your wrist. “Look at me.” Your focus remains on the lab table. “Look at me dammit.” Reluctantly you meet his gaze, eyes glassy. “This isn’t a joke, Char. You’re mine. I’ve never been more sure of anything. Let me prove it to you.”

You study his face. He features genuine; you can’t detect the lie. It doesn’t completely erase the worry but eases it enough that you’re willing to go. “Okay.” is all you whisper back.

His hand releases you but begins to wander to your shoulders and back, rubbing circles as he goes. The gentle touch helps you nudge back into your comfort zone, and soon you find yourself leaning into him while the TA speaks. His arm finds purchase around your waist while he leans his cheek against his propped-up fist. You look and feel like a real couple as you sit there. Is this what he’s looking for? These little moments where you fit together like two puzzle pieces? Or is this a phase? Hopefully, you’ll know more after tonight because these twisting thoughts have exhausted you.

During today’s synthesis, you find your hands brushing against each other, like always, but this time there’s more electricity there. There are small pauses where you look at each other as if it’s for the first time. Even when cleaning up, something about it feels domestic. This is not the same lab partner you’ve had this semester. This is a new man.

After the bell rings, Sukuna sweeps you to the stairwell. “Ryo, why are we headed here? Please don’t let it be another remote control vibrator.”

His giant hands grab your waist and push you against the wall. “I need another taste.”

“What?”

You ask but no explanation comes. He can’t help himself with you. He was trying so hard not to play any games but feeling your warm body against his drove him mad all class. He needs you on his tongue. Aggressively he sucks and bites your lips, pulling back till the flesh slips from between his teeth. “Stand on the stairs and face away from me.”

“Ryo-”

“Now.” The protest dies on your tongue and you comply. “Pull down your pants.”

“Ryo!”

“I don’t have a lot of time till my next class, please Char, just do it.”

Hesitantly you undo the button of your wide-legged jeans before dropping them to your thighs, nervous that someone will see. Before you have a chance to stand back up, Sukuna’s kneels behind you. His hand yanks your underwear to the side while his face buries itself between your legs, pushing you down so that you’re catching yourself with your hands on the stairs.

Satisfied groans fill the stairwell, his happy noises echoing like a sexual foghorn that’s sure to get you caught. Despite yourself, your gasps of pleasure join the melody, only increasing the risk of someone coming to investigate. But how can you resist with the way his greedy mouth feasts on you? He has your hips pushing back into his face, begging for more. When his tongue dives into your hole you lose your breath and when the pink muscle makes its way to your rear a high pitched moan sings the chorus of your filthy anthem.

After a few frenzied minutes, you finally gasp out that you both need to get to class. His massive hands, which have been gripping your thighs, tighten their hold before releasing you. Left dizzy, you collapse to your hands and knees as he wipes his mouth with his forearm. It takes a few steadying breaths before you can resume standing and pull your bottoms up before some unknowing witness makes their way to the stairs.

You don’t even finish fastening your jeans when Sukuna pulls you into another kiss. His searing passion spills into the connection. This one, however, tastes like the sweet tang of your arousal that was just sucked out of your folds. His tongue playfully slips into your mouth where his flavor mingles with yours before he pulls back again, leaving you winded.

“Thank you, baby. I needed that.”

“Mhm” is all you have capacity to respond with as you blink back at him dumbly.

“I’ll see you at your place. 7:00pm”

“Sure.”

He spanks your ass, groping it before kissing your cheek and guiding you down the steps towards the first floor. When you’re downstairs, he kisses your cheek again before heading towards the psychology building, leaving you to walk towards the math building in a daze. Tonight you’re going on a date with Sukuna. Ryomen Sukuna is taking you on a date. A date, tonight, with Ryomen… and he purchased your outfit. It must be fancy if he thinks you don’t have the right clothes for it. Or he wants you in something extremely slutty... You’ll have a say if you don’t want to wear the clothes he brings, right? Knowing Sukuna, probably not.

Masterlist I Chapter 7 I Chapter 9

@emoedgylord

#jjk smut #sukuna ryomen #sukuna fanfic #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #detectivestucks #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x y/n #frat boy sukuna #toxic sukuna #bully to lovers #enemies to lovers #college romance #new series

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enfinizatics · 2 years ago

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decided to pause replaying shadow of the tomb raider bc i started getting tired only to start playing syberia. truly switched from one puzzle lesbian to another puzzle lesbian.

#i haven’t finished playing syberia yet #and the tomb rider reboot… i have been replaying those games for YEARS #and also i can’t keep screaming at my computer at 1am or my roommates WILL smack my head #so i just settled for a quiet point and click #but its good so #i love lesbians #gaming #tomb raider #syberia #syberia 2002 #gamers of tumblr #gamer girl #moira speaks

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sinkuna · 19 days ago

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୨୧ ― The hotel room door closes with a soft click behind you, the pale light of the moon streaming through floor to ceiling windows.

Nanami had reserved the penthouse suite, ordered champagne that cost more than most people's rent, and even scattered rose petals across the king sized bed like fallen prayers. The man- your now husband, had ensured every detail was perfect for this moment after your wedding.

Because nothing- absolutely nothing, was ever too much when it came to you.

His hands wind around your waist from behind with the same reverence he'd shown sliding the ring onto your fingers hours ago. It was almost like he was memorizing the moment through touch alone. "Mrs. Nanami," he murmurs against your ear, and you feel him smile at the unfamiliar weight of your new name. "My wife," pressing his lips against your neck, the word still foreign on his tongue but sweeter than any bread he's ever had.

You lean into his warmth, the soft fabric of his tuxedo rubbing against the back of your own dress. "Mr. Nanami," you breathe, reaching back to caress his cheek, and you feel him press into you more at the title, his grip on you tightening, "My husband."

His fingers found the delicate zipper at your spine, drawing it down with practiced patience. Each inch of exposed skin received its own blessing- lips, warm breath, soft touches that made you arch against him.

"So beautiful,” he breathes against your vertebrae, "always so beautiful." his breath ghosts over your bare shoulders as the white gown slides away like shed silk... "Perfect," he adds, voice hitching as the fabric pools at your feet in waves of ivory and lace, leaving you in nothing but intricate lingerie. The garter belt sits high on your thigh- his gift to you, adorned with a diamond that matches the one on your finger.

Turning you in his arms, "Gorgeous," his lips find yours in a sweet kiss, hands tracing your jaw, "Stunning," he whispers, cupping the nape of your neck as he draws you deeper, tongue coaxing a quiet moan from your lips… "All mine." he says with a low growl. All these words heavy with the weight of a man who's never been careless with language. When Nanami Kento calls you beautiful, gorgeous, stunning... perfect, it's because he's catalogued every detail that makes them true.

And it was all reserved just for you. Only for you.

Your hands reach up to push the jacket from his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt- needy and impatient until he caught your hands. "Slowly," he commanded gently, "we have all night."

His mouth traced the column of your throat, pausing at your pulse point to feel your heart racing. "I love how responsive you are," he murmured, teeth grazing your collarbone, "how you tremble when I touch you here..." his thumb traced your nipple through delicate white lace… "How you make those little sounds..."

A soft moan escaped as he took the lace covered peak between his teeth, rolling gently until your knees buckled.

"That sound," he groaned, steadying you against his chest, "I'm going to spend tonight learning all the new ones you'll make as my wife."

"Mmph~ K-Kento~ oh god I-"

"Shhh, I'll take care of you," he promises, fingers ghosting along the lacy edge of your panties, "just like I always do, only this time..." his thumb rubs circles through the thin fabric of your thong, a teasing pressure against the bundle of nerves that has you moaning and rocking against his hand, "i think i'll make sure this whole building knows you're Mrs. Nanami now."

His strong arms hook beneath your legs, lifting you effortlessly to settle you among the rose petals. The bed dipping under his knee as he follows, hovering over you like a man worshipping at an altar, fingers caressing your face as he takes a moment to simply admire the picture you make- sprawled out beneath him.

"I love you," the words barely audible as he leans down, lips finding the delicate skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing the delicate skin, "so much." Your back arches involuntarily as he finds the diamond adorning the middle of your garter, giving it a flick with his tongue before tracing the silk band with calloused fingers. "I'm so glad you didn't toss this earlier," he admits... "When you told everyone you were keeping it... I was relieved you wanted to skip that particular tradition."

The diamond catches in the moonlight as you bite your lip, a sweet smile playing at the corners of your mouth, "Well~ I was thinking," you card your fingers through his styled hair, mussing the soft strands, "maybe I could wear just this when you come home from work from now on."

His eyes snap to yours, "Don't," his tone serious- the careful control he's maintained all evening fracturing at your words... "Don't tell me things like that unless you want me taking extended lunch breaks to come home… I don't think I'd be able to control myself if you did." he confesses, and the honesty in his voice has your heart skipping a beat, "I barely manage now."

Without breaking eye contact, he catches the garter between his teeth, his lips grazing your skin as he drags it achingly slow down your thigh, "do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of you greeting me at the door wearing nothing but this?" With a final tug, he slips the garter free, letting it dangle from his mouth before tossing it aside with a smirk.

"K-Kento please~" You squirm under his heated gaze, thighs squeezing together, trying to relieve the throbbing ache between your legs, but the action only makes it worse… "Please don't tease me tonight. I can't-"

"Please what, darling?" a lock of his hair falls in his eyes, "Tell your husband what you need." He runs his hands up the back of your thighs, lifting and spreading them apart. The sight of his head between your legs, looking up at you from beneath the fall of his hair has you biting the inside of your cheek...

"Please~" the word barely a whisper, "M'need you, Kento. Need my husband to make a mess of me hah~"

Your words dissolve as he removes your lace thing- his mouth finding you bare and fucking soaked, "God," he groans against you, tongue swiping at your slick folds.

He devours you like communion wine, like salvation itself, tongue fucking into your entrance, a thumb circling the small bud above.

"Nghhh fuck~" Your eyes squeeze shut, the pressure building, hips rolling to meet his tongue, your juices covering his chin.

"So sweet," he groans, the words muffled against your pussy, the vibration making you buck against him, "I could savor you all night."

With that he rises up, mouth leaving you empty and aching, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, "But I think i'll save the rest of my appetizer for later." He smirks down at you, wiping the remnants of your slick off his chin with the back of his hand.

Slowly, he reaches down to unbuckle his belt, pulling it free in a single motion, "Put your arms above your head, love," he orders softly, watching as you obey without question, a soft gasp escaping when he catches both your wrists, securing them with his belt. "This is my wedding night as well, after all…" securing the leather strap around the frame of the headboard, "And I intend to take my time with you."

Your fingers curl around the smooth leather, testing the bindings as his cock springs free, precum already pearling at the tip. The head is flushed, straining, and aching to be buried in your heat.

"Fuck-," he groans, hand gripping the base, thumb sweeping his weeping slit, "you have no idea what you do to me."

He positions himself between your thighs, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding along your wet folds, the tip catching your clit, and then he's sinking into you, a strangled groan torn from his throat as you wrap around him like a vice.

Each thrust has the bedframe creaking as he fills you completely, perfectly, his cock stretching you just right. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling as you move together, the only sounds in the room are the obscene sounds of your joined bodies, your broken cries, his grunts of pleasure.

"Ah! Mnnnh Kento~" You writhe beneath him, tugging at the restraints, body arching and straining for release, but the position keeps you helpless, a moaning wreck, pinned and bound by his cock, his weight, his strength.

"Harder~" The word slips out before you can stop it, and you feel him still above you.

"Are you certain?" His voice carries an edge now, something darker lurking beneath the tenderness.

"Please, Kento. I need… I need you to fuck me. M’need my husband to make me scream~."

The change is immediate. Your sweet gentle Nanami, replaced by his more desperate… pent up, and demanding side- god you loved it when he got like this~. His thrusts become punishing, deep enough to make you see stars- head so dizzy it causes you to babble incoherently. And his words… oh, his words turn absolutely filthy.

"This what my precious wife needs?" he rasps, breath hot against your throat as his cock drives deep, "Her loving husband splitting this perfect pussy open, making her beg for more like a whore."

The headboard rocks against the wall as he thrusts into you, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. "Look how you're taking it," he pants, voice breaking, "Greedy little thing swallowing my cock. You're dripping all over the sheets, darling."

When he pulls out he’s quickly undoing his belt from your wrists- flipping you onto your stomach hastily as you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But then he's slamming back into you from behind, the new angle making you scream into the pillows.

"That's it," he groans, watching as that pretty pussy of yours grips him each time he withdraws, "let the whole hotel hear how good your husband fucks you. Let them know how desperate- how hungry you are for my cock."

His hand comes down on your ass with a brutal crack, making you clench and gush around him. "You like that, don't you? My beautiful wife likes being spanked while she gets her pussy destroyed from behind."

"Y-yesss! Oh god, yesss!" you babble, drool pooling at the corner of your lips as you're fucked senseless- eyes rolling back, "I love it when you ahhhh! when you use me like this!" Your voice breaks into needy whimpers, pussy clenching desperately around his length as he pounds into you, "Yesyesyes! Fuck me harder!"

He sets a brutal pace, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside that makes your vision white out, your body trembling as you lose yourself completely to the sensation. "Please," you moan, saliva dripping from your parted lips, "don't stop... m’need it so bad... need your cock so f’hah- fucking deep..."

"Going to stuff you so full," he growls against your ear, teeth sinking into your shoulder, "give you everything until you’re overflowing with it… until your belly swells with it..."

His movements stutter for just a heartbeat- eyes widening in shock at what he'd just said… Until your belly swells... Did he really just confess he wants to make a child with you tonight? The admission sends a shock through his system even as his cock throbs harder at the thought.

"I- …," he breathes shakily, almost stunned by his own desperate need. But there's no taking it back now… the raw truth is out.

"D-do it~" you coo breathlessly, the words sending a shiver of pure want down his spine. Your fingers push back his hair, holding him close, and the way you look at him... The sheer amount of adoration and love in your eyes, it nearly steals his breath away. You are the light of his life...

His thrusts become erratic, sloppy, each one driven by that new need to create something precious- a son, a daughter… either or it didn’t matter.

"Look at me," he gasps, his voice breaking. "I want to see your face when I- ngh-"

Your eyes lock as his control finally snaps. With a broken moan of your name, Nanami buries himself to the hilt and releases. Hot sticky ropes of cum flood your womb, painting your inner walls white as he empties himself completely. Your own orgasm washing over you from the fullness of him, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop from his throbbing cock.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, skin slick with sweat and cum. He holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your neck as you both slowly return to earth, his cum slowly leaking out of your thoroughly used pussy.

Later, much later, dawn creeps through silk curtains to find Nanami already awake, memorizing the sight of you sleeping peacefully beside him. His thumb traces over your wedding ring, this symbol of a future he never dared imagine…

"Wife," he whispers to himself, the word starting to sound less foreign.

Husband…

Thats what he is now.

And someday, perhaps sooner than later… A father.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, marveling at you- this woman who chose him, who said yes to forever with a man who once thought love was a luxury- the only luxury he thought he couldn’t afford in his dangerous line of work. Now he knew this, it was the only wealth that mattered… and he was the richest man alive.

˚₊‧꒰ა. 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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enhaflixer · 4 months ago

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Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

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regressionschool · 19 days ago

Text

The Challenge

You’ve worked at Regression School for over a decade. You’ve seen all kinds of Littles—reluctant ones, rebellious ones, even clever manipulators who smiled sweetly and plotted potty escapes the moment your back was turned. But none—none—had ever been quite like Melanie.

She didn’t cry when she was admitted. She didn’t protest during orientation. No, Melanie had stared you down, pacifier clipped neatly to her alphabet-print shirt, and simply stayed silent.

Day one had passed uneventfully. She’d sat quietly through nap time, toddled obediently through the halls in her light-up shoes, and even colored neatly within the lines. But she hadn’t asked for the potty. Not once.

You made a note of it in her chart, just like all the others.

But day two had been… different.

The scene replays in your mind like a snapshot—Melanie in the middle of the reading circle, crinkling just slightly in her training pull-ups, legs crossed daintily and an air of defiance in her every motion. The class was quiet, listening to Miss Jenny read "The Little Bunny’s Big Day", and Melanie had shifted once… then again… and then—

A soft hiss.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Her pull-ups bloated subtly under her sundress, then darkened. You watched the creeping stain, the slow sag. By the time she stood up, it was clear—too clear.

“Oh no, sweetie,” Miss Jenny had said gently, taking her hand. “Looks like you need a change.”

Melanie’s eyes found you across the room.

It wasn’t an accident. That much was obvious.

She wanted you to see.

There wasn’t embarrassment or shame in them. Only a glint of challenge.

And so, on day three, you did what any seasoned caregiver at Regression School would do when confronted with such behavior—you removed the option for rebellion.

No more training pants. No more pull-ups. Melanie was returned from the changing room swaddled securely in a thick white medical diaper, double-taped at the hips, with a telltale yellow wetness indicator running down the center.

She didn’t say a word about it.

But her eyes found yours again.

Still challenging.

Still daring you.

You called her to your office after lunch. Not because of misbehavior—she’d followed every rule to the letter—but because you needed to understand her. Littles who gave up too easily were boring. Ones who resisted forever were exhausting. But Melanie… she was something else.

The door to your office clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. Melanie didn’t flinch. She didn’t even glance at the plush pastel posters or the stack of reward stickers lined up like medals on your shelf.

She flopped into the chair across from your desk with practiced ease, legs parting carelessly, the thick white diaper beneath her riding high and proud, crinkling as she settled in.

“Well?” she asked, eyes steady on yours. “Gonna give me another sticker for coloring inside the lines?”

You folded your hands on the desk.

“No,” you replied, voice calm but firm. “That’s not the point. Most Littles need days—sometimes weeks—before they finally let go. They cling to their old habits, clutching at that last shred of potty training like it’s sacred. But you…” You let your eyes travel down briefly to the faint yellow bloom beginning to show on her diaper. “You gave it up from the start.”

Melanie didn’t look away. But the corner of her mouth twitched half amusement, half bitterness.

“So what do you want?” she asked, voice low and cool, though her fingers fidgeted slightly on the soft pink arms of the chair. “A tantrum? Some tears? You won’t get them.”

You leaned back in your seat, studying her.

“Why you’ve surrendered so easily… but still look at me like you're winning.”

That cracked something. A flicker behind her eyes. She sighed and reached up to brush a lock of auburn hair off her cheek, the pacifier bouncing lightly on its clip.

“You think I had a choice?” she said finally. “We both know what Regression School is. No one gets enrolled and leaves with their potty training intact."

“So that’s it, then?” you asked softly, watching her shift again in the chair. “You’re just going to go along with it? Play the perfect Little, as long as you get to pretend you’re still in control?”

Melanie’s eyes sparked again, her lips curling—not sweetly, not submissively, but with a slyness that could cut.

“I never said I was pretending.”

The silence was punctuated only by the quiet hum of the overhead fan. And then—

She shifted her weight with deliberate slowness, planting her feet on either side of the plush chair, knees spread wide. The pacifier on her clip bobbed gently with the motion. Her hands slid to the cushioned arms, steadying herself, and her gaze never left yours.

Then came the sound.

It started soft. A barely audible grunt from Melanie, low and unhurried, followed by a sudden crackle, muffled by layers of thick padding. Her brow furrowed slightly, not in discomfort, but focus. A long, hot breath escaped her lips, and the unmistakable squish and squelch of her diaper filling echoed faintly between the walls.

You watched as the pristine white bulk beneath her dress puffed outward at the back, sagging visibly, discoloring slightly around the edges. The wetness indicator had already begun to blur from yellow to green, but now—now it was joined by a bulging distortion that left no doubt. The smell followed quickly, sweet and sour, familiar.

And Melanie?

She grinned.

“Oops,” she said, voice syrup-sweet and mock-innocent. “Guess I really am settling in.”

You stared at her, half in disbelief and half in awe.

Most Littles hid it the first few times. Curled up, covered their faces, whimpered. But Melanie—Melanie leaned back, legs spread, a fresh mess ballooning softly in the seat of her now thoroughly used diaper, sagging and squishing as she shifted her hips just a little more.

“This what you wanted to see?” she whispered.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because this—this wasn't surrender. It wasn’t defeat.

It was power.

And Melanie knew it.

“Well,” you said finally, rising from your seat and circling your desk slowly. “I think it’s time for a fresh diaper, little one.”

Melanie just smiled wider, utterly unashamed. “Then you better bring the thick ones. I don’t think I’m done yet.”

She wasn’t embarrassed.

She wasn’t broken.

She was in control of this, of you, of the moment.

#ab/dl diaper #diaper stories #ab/dl stories #regression school #ab/dl caption #diaper captions #wetting diaper #diaper bulge #ab/dl #ab/dl girl

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peachesofteal · 2 months ago

Text

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: light daddy kink Flashback to the first time Captain Riley met Raspberry girl.

The bakery is slow.

He’s only been coming here for a few days, but he’s already figured out the best time to stop by so he can avoid the crowd. Before eight hundred, it’s always packed, too many people in line for tea, coffee, breakfast, pastries, half of them headed to base, the other half to somewhere else.

He starts his day early, and then swings out here for a mid morning breakfast, or coffee, depending on how his day has gone. Usually, it’s filled with paperwork and overseeing training exercises, all of it as boring as the next. He welcomes the reprieve of a pastry, a togo container closed over a massive raspberry sweet roll (or two) that he usually eats in truck before he makes it back to base. It’s hard to leave it alone when it’s sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him. He fucking dreams about things at this point, their sweet dough and cream cheese icing, raspberry jam, he assumes, swirled in every layer. If he’s lucky, he arrives just after or before a new batch is brought out, and they’re still hot.

A few tables are occupied inside, people with headphones in clicking away on laptops, or casually chatting over a tea. It’s never too quiet here which he appreciates, there’s always music flowing, and noise coming from what he assumes is the kitchen, hidden behind a typical swing door you’d see in any restaurant.

The familiarity is comfortable. There are no surprises, usually.

Except today, something new catches his eye.

You.

You’re holding a plate of flaky pastries of some kind, standing at the edge of the counter. Mara, the girl who usually works the register, makes coffees and teas, plates or packages things from the case, is giving you her full attention as you speak.

You stun him. Perfect from head to toe, beautiful in a way that’s making him believe you were created just for him.

A possessive pulse pounds under his jaw. Locked in just at the sight of you.

“They have nuts in them. Almonds. But they’re sl-slivers, so they’re just… they’re hard to see. So uh… make sure I guess, that people know?”

“Okay, I’ll put it on the sign.” She holds the little placard up and you nod approvingly.

“Right.” Like you’ve been holding your breath this entire time, your chest deflates shakily. Gun shy. Anxious. Fearful.

Precious thing.

That craving inside him perks up, hones in. Heat seeking missile.

For once, it’s not only sexual. Not only about keeping someone for the night, the morning, putting all his energy and care into them just to cut that cord, close himself off and send them on the way.

No. This is different. This is more.

“Can I get one of those to go?” The guy waiting at the counter in front of him points to the plate. “Almond croissants, right?” You tense. There’s a lapse, and he can see your gears turning, sifting, before finally settling on something.

“Sure?”

“Sure I can get one, or sure they’re almond croissants.” You flinch. It would be hardly noticeable to someone else, but to him, it reveals another piece of the puzzle. You picked the wrong thing. He knows could soothe this burn, honor these parts of you that don’t seem to fit in, keep your mind, your heart, safe. Love you in the ways you desperately need.

“Oh. Yes.” You nod, sliding one into the bag and pushing it across the counter as Mara cashes the man out, only looking up once he’s turned to leave.

It only takes a second before you’re locking eyes with him.

You freeze, and swears there’s a whisper of a whimper. Mara gives you a curious look, and then follows your line of sight right to him, her mouth quirking to the side in a small smile. Your hands clasp together at your waist, fingers interwoven. Immediately, they clench around one another so tight, he wonders if it’s hurting you. He wants to pull them apart, cover them with his own, hold them. Hold you.

His instincts are churned up. They scream at him, trying to run away with a fantasy of a future.

He thinks briefly of John and Grace, his old captain’s little blueberry pie, a sweet girl watching a movie and curled up on her daddy’s lap. His jealously is not from a desire of Grace herself, but of the relationship, the life John has carved out for himself, the purpose, the control, the ability to tend and care for someone who can give themselves so endlessly, be so trusting they let all their defenses go and fully let go. The love.

He’s never thought it was the right time for him, but now he knows he was wrong. It was never about the right time.

It was always about finding you.

Mara must see something, because she clears her throat and says your name, nodding in his direction.

“This is Captain Riley.” Military brat, she knows the rank of every uniformed person who sets foot in here, and always addresses them as such. You gulp.

“It’s n-nice to meet you.” Mara fills the gap quickly, nonchalantly, trying to ease your discomfort.

“Captain Riley is the one who buys out all the raspberry rolls.” You brighten.

“Really?” His chuckle rumbles in this throat.

“Really. Think I eat two or three a day now." He pats his stomach, and you grin, before it gets lost immediately, unsure, glancing at the ground.

“G-good, That’s… I’m glad.” It’s enough of a starting point. He can’t push too hard. You’re already trembling, looking up at him now, both with trepidation and wonder. Mara’s boxed up his order, quietly placing it in front of you, and you’re careful when you pick it up, handing it over like you’re handling a bomb, lips parting when he touches you. He forces the contact, intentionally brushing his fingers against yours, pleased when there’s an immediate reaction, a sharp inhale, a bob of your throat. He gives you a very gentle smile.

“Thank you sweetheart.” Your eyes go incredibly wide, and you squeak.

“You’re welcome!” He’s unable to get another word out fast enough before you’re practically running into the kitchen, door swinging wide enough for him to see just inside, eyes like saucers, nervous smile stretched across your face, your hands brushing your apron repeatedly, even though the batter and flour crusted on it doesn’t move.

Precious, sweet little girl.

You need someone to take care of you. Someone who will carve out space for you to exist, without fear. Someone who will understand your needs and instead of trying to force you to go where you don’t fit, they’ll protect you, encourage you, hold your hand. Someone who will build you a castle, a fortress, an entire world, just so you can be yourself, be happy as yourself, not a person the world wants to change.

You need him.

You need a daddy.

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #I really loved writing this one #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader

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alwaysmaybank · 2 months ago

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soft rafe hours

soft!bf!rafe x reader

warnings: barely proofread, use of y/n once, really soft and mushy!

this is my first time actually writing anything fan fic related so idk if this is good or not.. sorry in advance for the people that follow me because of jj or "right in front of you" but when I made this blog I was in my jj phase and now I'm in my rafe one, so sorry! hope you like it !!

the title is so cringy help me

summary: nobody ever saw rafe like this—so soft. well, except for you, especially during soft rafe hours: at night after a long day, when you’re asleep, when he first wakes up, when you’re sick or hurt, after an argument, on rainy days, and even sometimes in bed. you loved this side of him, even if he only showed it to you. people see him as the confident, smug rafe cameron, but one phone call reveals just how different he truly is.

more under the cut!

after tossing and turning the entire night, slumber is finally taking over your eyelids. just as they start to close… ping! you could've sworn you left your phone on silent? after groaning about it and wondering who it could be, it clicks.

ping! it's rafe. this has become a familiar trend now, him not being able to sleep so he texts and texts until you reply.

ping! until you two call.

ping! you consider just ignoring it, ping! but how could you? it's rafe. plus, if you even tried to ignore him, he would come over and break the door down if he had to.

ping! you eventually open your phone, your eyes closing instinctively at the blinding brightness, six texts from rafe.

rafey:

2:14am

hey baby you up? i miss you

rafey:

2:32am

baby? are u up? y/n?

you saw him yesterday. you’re not sure what’s going on, but you suspect it has something to do with ward, given his clingy behavior.

2:35am

hey rafey

rafey:

did i wake you? sorry baby

you lie. you don't want to make him feel bad.

no no dw baby i was watching something

rafey:

oh okay can we call? couldnt sleep without you i miss you

five seconds later, you call him. “hey baby,” you hear his quiet, soft, yet raspy sleepy voice first.

“hi,” you reply tiredly.

“i missed you,” he says, and you can practically hear the radiant smile in his voice.

“how was your day?” you just had a blissfully lazy day today, some shopping on the side.

“good, i went shopping and saw that whiskey you like on the shelf, reminded me of you,” you grin over the phone.

“mm, good,” you hear him mumble out. “just missed your voice,” he continues. “couldn’t sleep without hearing you first, baby.” that’s cute.

“awh, i love you, baby,” you reply, your tired but don’t want to stay silent; you know he needs this.

“i missed you today,” rafe murmured after a beat, his voice rougher now, more raw. “whole day just felt wrong without you in it.” your chest tightened slightly, in the best way as a blush crept onto your cheeks. he said stuff like this all the time; you don’t think you would ever get over it.

“you make everything better, without even trying,” he pauses, taking in a soft breath. “like… just existing.” you didn’t know what to say, so you settled for a soft, “i missed you too, rafey.”

rafe hummed on the other side of the line, clearly content with that answer. the call goes silent for a minute, the only sound both of your soft breaths that blended together.

“don’t hang up,” he mumbled, his voice hard to get the point across but softened immensely. “jus’… stay, okay?” he whispered, and you agreed with a soft hum.

there was another long pause, and then, so quiet you could’ve thought you imagined it, a little, “love you so much, baby,” slipped past rafe’s lips. you held a chuckle in before responding, “i love you too, rafey, goodnight.” but by the time you said that, rafe was fast asleep, his breath slowing down as the gentle trance of sleep pulled him in.

as you lay there, wrapped in the warmth of his soothing voice, you felt your own eyelids grow heavy, surrendering to a peaceful slumber where everything felt right.

this is wayyyy too short stop

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #drew starkey #alwaysmaybank #outer banks #phone #fanfic #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #fluff #soft!rafe x reader #soft!rafe cameron

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applecaviar · 3 months ago

Text

How do the LADS men react when they catch you reading smut. 🫣 Part 4

I present to you brat tamer Zayne, enjoy!!

TW: Smut

Part 1 (Xavier)

Part 2 (Caleb)

Part 3 (Sylus)

Part 5 (Rafayel)

You step into the cozy restaurant, the warmth of the interior a stark contrast to the biting winter chill outside. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, making your mouth water. You spot Zayne already seated at your usual table by the window, he looks up as you approach, hazel green eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Sorry I'm late," you apologize, sliding into the seat across from him.

"It's fine, I already ordered the usual is that ok?"

You nod, smiling warmly at Zayne as you take off your coat and drape it over the back of the chair. "That's perfect, thank you."

"How's work? I'm glad we could squeeze in this lunch date today, I've really missed seeing your face these past couple of days, Zayne." You offer him a playful smile, your cheeks flushing slightly as your eyes meet his intense gaze.

You listen intently as Zayne speaks, noticing the slight furrow in his brow and the weariness in his voice. "Busy" doesn't even begin to cover it, you think to yourself. He's been running himself ragged at the hospital, pouring every ounce of his brilliant mind and skilled hands into saving lives. It's what he does, what he lives for - but it also means long hours, missed meals, and precious little sleep.

As the waiter arrives with your shared meal, you dive in enthusiastically, savoring each bite. About halfway through, Zayne's phone begins to buzz on the tabletop. He glances down at the screen, his brow furrowing with apology as he meets your gaze.

"I'm so sorry love, but I need to take this call. It's one of the surgeons from the cardiac ward." He stands up, already moving towards the entrance of the restaurant. "I'll just be a moment." Over his shoulder he tosses a reassuring smile your way before stepping outside, the door swinging shut behind him.

You quickly finish the rest of your meal, knowing that your stolen moment with Zayne is fast slipping away. As you set down your utensils with a soft clink, the restaurant door swings open, ushering in a gust of cold air and Zayne's tall frame.

He strides over to you, his expression a mix of apology and urgency. "I'm so sorry about that. A patient's condition took a turn and I need to get back to the hospital immediately." He reaches for his coat, already shrugging it on as he speaks. "I'll give you a ride back to the Deepspace HQ, if that works for you. I know it's not ideal, but..." He trails off, hazel eyes filled with regret as they meet yours.

You feel a flicker of annoyance spark through you at the interruption, your voice reflecting a hint of that irritation as you respond. "Fine, Zayne. A ride back is fine." You start gathering your belongings and you slip your arms back into your coat with a sigh.

"I understand your work is important, but..." You pause, meeting his gaze with a pointed look. "I thought we could have a bit more time together today. Just the two of us." The words come out with a slight edge, betraying your disappointment at the cut-short lunch date. Still, you know better than anyone the gravity of his responsibilities at the hospital.

Swallowing your frustration, you offer him a small smile. "But of course, your patients need you. Let's get going." With that, you stand up, ready to follow him out to the car.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

As Zayne starts the car, the engine purring to life beneath you, you settle into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt with a soft click, the interior is warm and cozy. You turn to face him, ready to strike up a conversation, eager to catch up on the lost time. But before you can utter a word, his phone begins to ring once more, the shrill tone piercing the relative quiet of the car.

You let out a sigh, feeling your shoulders slump slightly as you lean back against the leather seat. Zayne glances over at you apologetically, one hand gripping the steering wheel.

It's been too long since you've had Zayne to yourself, too many nights spent aching for his touch, for the feeling of his skin against yours. The phone rings again, a second time, the sound grating on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. You know his work is vital, lives literally depend on his brilliance and skill, but damn it, don't you deserve some of his time too? Don't you need him just as desperately?

As Zayne answers his phone, you hear the concern in his voice, the urgency in his tone. You know instantly that this call is going to take longer than the short ride back to HQ, and that your chance to catch up, to steal a few intimate moments, is slipping away once more. With a sigh, you reach into your bag and pull out your headphones, you take your phone from your pocket, tapping the audiobook app open with your thumb. You click on a novel you bought recently, a romance story that had drawn you in from the very first chapter, a tale of love and passion that you had been eager to lose yourself in. You tap the play button, the soothing voice of the narrator filling your ears as you settle back into the leather seat, letting the story unfold around you.

Suddenly, you remember the part where you left off, the male and female leads, both strong willed and passionate, had been locked in a heated argument. Their voices, filled with frustration and unspoken emotions.

You listen intently, feeling the intensity of their disagreement, the way their words cut through the air like a knife. But as quickly as it began, the tone shifts. The anger in their voices softens, replaced by a charged silence that hangs heavy with unspoken desires. You hold your breath, feeling the tension building between them.

Suddenly, in a moment that catches you off guard, their fight turns into something else entirely. The passion behind their words transforms, morphing into a raw hunger that you can feel through the speakers. Their argument turns into a battle of a different sort, a war of touch, taste and need.

You sit up straighter in your seat, your heart starting to race as the scene unfolds in your headphones. The male lead's dominant actions send a shiver down your spine, his forceful yet tender touches painting a vivid picture in your mind. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you listen to the female protagonist's breathy gasps and needy whimpers, her body responding to his skilled ministrations.

A sudden ache throbs between your thighs, a longing that you didn't even realize you had been suppressing. The way he takes control, commanding her body and mind, ignites something deep within you. His dominance, his raw masculinity, the way he makes her his... it's everything you've been craving without even realizing it. Your fingers clutch at the hem of your shirt, your knuckles turning white as you grip the fabric tightly. The car feels hotter now, the air thick with a tension that mirrors the scene playing out in your imagination.

You feel Zayne's fingers tap gently on your arm, the sensation jolting you out of the heated scene unfolding in your mind. Startled, you jump slightly, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to face him. With a slightly trembling hand, you remove one of your headphones, allowing his voice to filter through the lingering echoes of the audiobook.

"We've arrived" Zayne says, his deep voice cutting through the haze of your lustful thoughts. You blink up at him, realizing that in your distraction, you hadn't even noticed the car coming to a stop outside the towering building that houses your workplace.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were already here," you murmur, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"Thank you for the ride," you say reaching for the door handle. As you step out of the car, the chilly winter air hits your flushed skin and you pull your coat tighter around you.

Before you close the passenger door you hear him call your name again. "Y/N, wait," he calls out, his deep voice reaching your ears as he mutes his phone call "Don't forget, you have an appointment scheduled with me today for your monthly check-up."

You nod, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. "I know, I haven't forgotten. I'll be there, Dr. Zayne," you roll your eyes at him as you close the door. The way his title slips from your tongue feels strangely intimate.

You slip your headphone back into your ear, eager to catch the last few minutes of the heated scene unfolding in your audiobook. The narrator's deep, soothing voice fills your ear once more as you turn to walk towards the headquarters building. You have about twenty minutes left of your lunch break, and you're determined to make the most of that time

As you walk, you reach into your coat pocket to retrieve your phone, intending to rewind the last few minutes of the audiobook that you had missed. However, as your fingers search the depths of your coat, a sense of unease begins to creep in. Your phone, usually nestled securely in your pocket, is nowhere to be found. You pause on the sidewalk, patting at your other pockets, a growing sense of panic rising in your chest.

Suddenly, the narrator's voice falls silent in your ears, the audiobook coming to an abrupt end as your headphone loses its connection to your misplaced device. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, in your distracted state, in the haze of lust and longing that the audiobook had induced, you must have left your phone behind in Zayne's car.

"Fuck"

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Later that day, you find yourself sitting in the modern waiting room outside Zayne's office, your knee bouncing nervously as you await your monthly check-up. The white walls and the faint scent of disinfectant do little to calm the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You can't shake the feeling of embarrassment that has been lingering since you realized your phone, and with it, your audiobook, were left behind in Zayne's car.

As you sit there, your mind wanders back to the heated scene you'd been listening to, the male lead's dominant actions and the female protagonist's responses echoing in your thoughts. You had been so engrossed, so lost in the intimate moment, that you can't help but cringe at the idea of Zayne potentially overhearing even a snippet of it. The thought of him knowing what you had been craving, the desires that had been stirring within you, makes your cheeks flush a deep shade of red.

You try to push the thoughts away, taking a deep breath to compose yourself as you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. The door to Zayne's office swings open, revealing his tall, broad shouldered frame. He's changed out of the dress shirt and tie he had on earlier, now wearing a crisp white lab coat that accentuates his professional demeanor. His hazel eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of something in their depths but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cool, collected gaze of your doctor.

You rise from the chair, your legs feeling a bit unsteady as you walk towards Zayne's office. As you brush past him, you feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air between you. It's enough to make your heart race and your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red.

The room feels both intimidating and comforting, a testament to his brilliance and dedication to his craft. You perch yourself on the edge of the exam table, smoothing your skirt over your thighs as you try to calm the nervous energy coursing through you.

Zayne closes the door behind him, the click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. You watch as he approaches, his movements efficient and focused as always. A glimmer of hope sparks within you at the realization that perhaps he hadn't overheard the explicit scene from your audiobook after all. Some phones are known to stop playing media once disconnected from headphones, aren't they? Maybe, just maybe, yours was one of those right?

"Alright, let's begin love, we only have 15 minutes" Zayne says, his voice low and smooth as he reaches for his stethoscope. He listens intently to your heartbeat The cool metal of the stethoscope sends a shiver through you, making you all too aware of the intimate proximity of his body to yours.

Zayne's brow furrows as he listens to your heartbeat, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with a questioning gaze. He removes the stethoscope from your chest, letting it rest around his neck as he reaches for your wrist, his long fingers finding your pulse point with practiced ease.

"Your heart rate is elevated," he notes. His thumb brushes over your skin, the sensation sending a small jlt of electricity through you. "Did you run here?

You shake your head as he places the stethoscope against your chest once more, urging you to take a deep breath. As you inhale, your lungs expand, your ribcage rising gently. But as you exhale, you feel your breath catch, the air leaving your lungs in a shaky, uneven stream.

Zayne's brow furrows again, a flicker of concern crossing his face. He listens intently to your breathing, his head tilted slightly as he focuses on the sound. After a long moment, he straightens up, allowing the stethoscope to rest around his neck once more.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice filled with a gentler concern. "Your breathing is a bit erratic. And your cheeks are flushed..." He trails off, his gaze drifting over your face, taking in the deep red hue that still paints your skin.

Before you can answer you feel Zayne's body heat radiating against you as he leans in closer, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangle in your hair. Your heart races, your breath catching in your throat as you think, for a moment, that he might close the distance between you and press his lips to yours.

"Were you in the emergency room two days ago?"

His words reach your ears, and the spell is broken. Your eyes widen in surprise as you realize that he's not about to kiss you at all. Instead, he's demanding an explanation for something far more serious.

"W-what?" you stammer out, your voice coming out sounding more breathless than intended. "I don't know what you're talking about, Zayne."

Zayne's eyes narrow, his grip on the back of your head tightening slightly. "Don't play dumb with me, Y/N" his voice low and dangerous. "I just got off the phone with Dr. Greyson. He told me that you were in the emergency room two days ago after a run in with a pair of wanderers. Is that true?"

You roll your eyes, trying to brush off Zayne's concern with a dismissive gesture. "It was nothing serious, Zayne," you insist, your voice taking on a slightly defensive tone. "I just... I passed out, that's all. It happens sometimes after a tough hunt."

You can see the frustration flashing in his eyes, his jaw clenching slightly as he takes in your words. He's not convinced, and you can tell that your attitude has only served to anger him further.

"Nothing serious?" he repeats, his voice rising slightly. "You could have been killed. Those creatures are dangerous, and you know the risks better than anyone."

You swallow hard, feeling a flicker of guilt for not telling him sooner. But you also feel a spark of defiance, a stubbornness that rears its head in the face of his disapproval.

"I had it under control," you argue, your chin jutting out slightly as you meet his intense gaze. "I've been training for this, Zayne. I know what I'm doing." Even as you say the words, you can't help but think of the way your heart had raced, the way your vision had started to tunnel before everything went black. Had you really had it under control? Or had you been in over your head, just as Zayne seemed to think?

You blink, wondering if you imagined the hint of a smirk on his lips. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a stern, disapproving frown. You can't be sure if it was a reaction to your defiant words or if it was a fleeting moment of amusement at your stubbornness.

With a sigh, Zayne releases his grip on the back of your head and steps away. He moves to sit behind his desk, the sleek chair creaking softly as it accepts his weight.

"Come sit down, Y/N," he says, his voice still tinged with that underlying frustration.

You feel a flicker of unease as you make your way over to the chair. Settling into the seat in front of him, you smooth your skirt over your thighs, suddenly feeling self conscious under Zayne's scrutiny.

"I said, come sit down but I never said where, did I?"

"Oh," you breathe out, suddenly feeling flustered. Your gaze darts down to his thighs, where his fingers tap impatiently against the fabric of his dress pants. The gesture is both commanding and intimate.

You stand up from the chair, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a tentative step towards him. But before you can sit down on his lap, as he so blatantly implied, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar object. Your eyes widen in surprise and a flicker of panic as you recognize it as your phone.

"Were you looking for this?" Zayne asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. A wave of embarrassment crashes over you, your cheeks burning hotter than before. You can only imagine the thoughts running through Zayne's mind, the conclusions he must be drawing about your... tastes. The realization that he now knows about your secret desire for dominant men hits you like a punch to the gut.

Zayne, I..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you try to formulate a coherent response. But what can you say? How can you possibly explain the fact that you've been craving the very thing he's always held himself back from giving you?

"Your taste in literature is quite interesting love" The way he says "love" sends a shiver down your spine, the single syllable dripping with a raw intensity that makes your knees feel weak.

Zayne leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his shifting weight. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, he's enjoying this, enjoying the way your embarrassment and flustered state have given him the upper hand.

Zayne glances at his watch, his brow furrowing slightly as he takes in the time. "Will you look at that," he murmurs "We only have five minutes left, so I suppose there won't be a chance for you to sit... anymore." His gaze rakes over your body, his eyes lingering on your curves in a way that makes your heart race.

You reach out for your phone, your fingers brushing against Zayne's as you attempt to take it from his hand. But at the last moment, you hesitate, pulling your hand back as if burned. The sudden movement causes the phone to slip from Zayne's grasp, tumbling down to land softly on the plush carpet at your feet.

Without a word, you sink down to your knees, the soft fibers of the carpet cushioning your legs. You lean forward, your hair falling over your shoulder as you reach for your phone. As your hand closes around the device, you pause, your gaze drifting up to meet Zayne's.

He's watching you intently, his eyes dark and unreadable. You can't help but smirk up at him, your lips curving into a playful grin, phone clutched in your hand.

His eyes widen in surprise as your hand suddenly drops the phone again and reaches for his belt. Before he can react or push your hands away, the ring of his office phone pierces the air, startling you both.

Seizing the brief distraction, you waste no time in your actions. Your fingers unbuckle his belt, the leather strap slipping free with a soft clink. Zayne's breath hitches, his body stiffening slightly as your hands move lower, grasping his zipper. With a slow tug, you lower his zipper, the metal teeth parting company with a soft hiss.

Zayne's eyes, which had been flicking towards the ringing phone, snap back to you as he realizes your intentions. His gaze is intense, blazing with a mix of shock, desire, and restrained hunger. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the words die on his lips as you reach inside his boxers and wrap your hand around his hardening length.

His cock is hot and heavy in your palm, already stiffening and swelling from your touch. You can feel the weight of it, the thick vein running along the underside, the velvety soft skin that sheathes the rock hard flesh beneath. A thrill of power surges through you as you realize the effect you have on him, the way his body responds to your touch despite his attempts to maintain control.

Zayne's jaw clenches, his eyes never leaving yours as he struggles to regain his composure. The phone continues to ring, its shrill cry growing more insistent, demanding his attention. But in this moment, his gaze is solely focused on you, his body trembling slightly as you stroke his now fully erect cock.

You freeze as a knock sounds on the door, the sharp rap of knuckles against wood jolting you like a shock of electricity. Acting on pure instinct, you quickly duck down, hiding yourself beneath Zayne's desk just as the door begins to open. The plush carpet brushes against your skin as you crouch there, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath before Zayne is pushing his chair forward, the wheels rolling smoothly across the carpet. The sudden movement catches you off guard, and before you can react, his chair is pressed flush against the desk, leaving you with no room, to hide his now fully exposed and throbbing erection.

You can hear the creak of the door hinges as it swings open, the sound of footsteps entering the room. Zayne clears his throat, his voice slightly hoarse as he greets his visitor.

"Yes, Yvonne, what is it?"

You can hear the faint rustle of fabric as Yvonne moves closer to the desk. "Dr. Zayne, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to let you know that your next patient, Mrs. Hartley, called to cancel her appointment for this afternoon. And I've just checked the schedule, you don't have any more appointments booked for today."

As Yvonne speaks, you find yourself face to face with Zayne's throbbing erection, the swollen head mere inches from your lips. The musky, masculine scent of his arousal fills your nostrils, making your head spin with desire. Unable to resist the temptation, you lean forward slightly, your parted lips brushing against the sensitive flesh.

Zayne inhales sharply through his teeth, his body tensing above you as your mouth envelops the head of his cock. His hand grips the armrest of his chair, knuckles turning white as he fights to maintain his composure.

"Is that all, Yvonne?" Zayne asks, his voice strained as he tries to keep it level. The effort it takes for him to maintain his professional demeanor is clear in the tightness of his jaw, the slight waver in his tone.

You can only imagine the show of willpower it must take for him to keep himself from reacting, from giving away the secret that you're hidden beneath his desk, your lips wrapped around his cock. The risk of getting caught only adds to the thrill, the forbidden nature of your actions sending a fresh surge of heat rushing through your veins.

"Well I have your schedule for tomorrow, do you want to go over it or should I just email it to you?"

"Just... just email it to me" he manages to grit out, his voice tighter than before. The sensation of your tongue dragging along the sensitive underside of his cock is making it increasingly difficult for him to think straight, let alone carry on a coherent conversation.

Yvonne hesitates for a moment. "Alright, I'll send it over shortly then. Is there anything else you need before I go, Dr. Zayne?"

As Zayne opens his mouth to respond, you take the opportunity to wrap your lips around his cock and take him deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the thick head. A shudder runs through Zayne's body, his fingers tightening their grip on the armrest as he bites back a groan that threatens to spill from his lips.

"N-no, that's all for now," Zayne manages to say, his words coming out slightly clipped and strained. "I'll... I'll look it over when I get your email."

You feel Zayne's hand move to your hair, his fingers gripping the strands tightly the slight pain of his grip only adding to the pleasure of having him in your mouth.

Yvonne's footsteps pause, and you hear her ask, "Did Y/N leave already? I didn't see her leave earlier."

For a moment, there's a beat of heavy silence, the only sound being the pounding of your own heart in your ears. Then, Zayne's voice cuts through the air, strained and tight.

"She's... she's currently in the bathroom," he manages to say, his words coming out in a slightly husky murmur. The lie rolls off his tongue, but you can feel the effort it takes for him to maintain control.

Yvonne hesitates for a moment, and you can almost picture her brow furrowing in slight confusion. "Oh, I see," she says, not sounding entirely convinced. "Well, I'll just... I'll be heading out then. Have a good rest of your evening, Dr. Zayne."

As Yvonne turns to leave, you hear her call out, her voice louder than necessary, " Tell her I said goodbye, would you? I'll see you tomorrow."

The moment Yvonne is gone, Zayne's grip on your hair tightens, his hips rocking forward slightly as he pushes himself deeper into your mouth. His deep, powerful thrusts send waves of pleasure radiating through his body, but also push you to your limits. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to accommodate his thick length, your throat constricting around him.

A particularly forceful thrust causes you to gag, a spurt of saliva escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down the side. The sound of your choking and the feeling of your convulsing throat around him almost send Zayne over the edge.

With a sharp intake of breath, he pulls you off his throbbing cock. You gasp for air as your mouth is freed, tears streaming down your face and your chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Without a word, he uses his grip on your hair to gently pull you up and onto his desk, the smooth wood cool against your skin. You sit there for a moment, catching your breath and wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

Before you can regain your bearings, Zayne leans down and grabs your ankles, his strong fingers curling around the delicate bones. With a swift movement, he places your feet on the edge of his desk, the heels of your boots digging into the polished wood. The action causes your legs to spread, your skirt riding up to reveal your panties.

Zayne leans in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Tell me, love," he whispers, "Do you think Yvonne is stupid? Huh? Why do you have to be such a fucking brat?" The word 'brat' comes out as a growl, a sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. At the same time, his hand finds its way back to the hair at the nape of your neck, gripping the strands tightly and using them to angle your head, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.

Before you can formulate and answer, Zayne sits back down in his chair, releasing your hair only to use both of his strong hands to push your legs even wider apart. The movement is forceful, almost rough, the desk creaking slightly beneath the sudden shift.

Not wanting to waste any more time , he hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric of your panties and tugs them roughly to the side. The cool air of the office kisses your newly exposed flesh, making you shiver. But you barely have a moment to register the sensation before his mouth is on you, his tongue delving between your folds with a hunger that takes your breath away.

"Ah!" you gasp, your back arching at the sudden, intense pleasure. He doesn't hesitate, he licks and sucks at your most sensitive places with a single minded focus, his tongue circling your clit and dipping inside your cunt.

His knowledge of your body is intimate and extensive, allowing him to play you like an instrument. His tongue dances over your most sensitive spots with practiced ease, the slick muscle circling and flickering against your clit. He can feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his invading tongue as he drives you towards ecstasy.

And just as your climax begins to crash over you, your vision blurring at the edges and your toes curling in your boots, Zayne suddenly pulls away. Your hips buck up off the desk, seeking more of that delicious friction, but Zayne holds your thighs firmly in place, denying you the release your body cries out for.

"No," you whimper, frustration and desperation coloring your voice. "Please, Zayne, I... I need..." But the words die on your lips when you feel his palm crack against your sensitive flesh. You gasp, your hips jerking up off the desk at the sudden contact, your eyes flying wide open in surprise.

Didn't you hear what Yvonne said?" His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your soft skin with a possessive force. "We have all night, love. And brats like you don't get to cum fast... and certainly not when they want to."

With a deliberate, almost teasing slowness, he unzips your boots and slips them off your feet, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud.

"Lift your hips for me, Y/N," Zayne commands. "I need to remove your skirt and panties. Now." His gaze is intense, his eyes burning into yours with an unspoken demand for obedience.

You quickly obey, lifting your hips off the desk as instructed. Zayne makes short work of your skirt and soaked panties, roughly tugging them down your legs and off, leaving you bare and exposed.

As you start to reach for the hem of your shirt, intending to remove it as well, Zayne's hand shoots out and grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His grip is firm, his fingers wrapping around your wrist like a manacle.

"Ah ah ah, not so fast," his voice a warning growl. "If you don't listen, I'm going to have no choice but to tie those hands of yours. And trust me, you won't like the consequences of testing my patience any further."

Without warning, he leans in and starts trailing hot, open mouthed kisses along your sensitive inner thigh, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh. You feel the sharp sting of his bite, followed by the soothing caress of his tongue, leaving a trail of marks in his wake.

He works his way up, alternating between sucking and biting, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. Just as you think he might finally give you what you want, he pauses, his breath hot against your core.

Then, with deliberate teasing, he spreads your pussy lips using his thumb and middle finger to expose your throbbing clit and extends the tip of his tongue to graze it, the faintest whisper of a touch.

Your hips jerk, a strangled moan escaping your lips at the teasing caress. But before you can gain any real pleasure from it, he pulls back, leaving you wanting and desperate once more. He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he takes in your needy expression.

He continues his maddening tease, the tip of his tongue flicking against your clit in feather light strokes. He can feel your body tensing, your thighs trembling on either side of his head as he pushes you to the brink time and time again. Each time you feel your climax building, your walls starting to flutter and clench around his tongue, he pulls back, denying you the final push you need to tumble over the edge.

As much as you try to keep your impending orgasm a secret, Zayne knows your body intimately. He can feel the subtle changes, the way your muscles tighten and your breathing hitches. And so, just as each climax is about to crash over you, Zayne pulls away once more, leaving you on the edge.

"No!" you cry out, frustration and desperation coloring your voice. "Please, I... I can't..." But your pleas fall on deaf ears as Zayne refuses to relent.

Finally his hands reach for the hem of your shirt. With rough tug, he pulls it up and off, tossing it carelessly to the side. Your bra quickly follows, the clasp unhooking easily under his fingers. The lacy garment falls away, baring your breasts to his hungry eyes.

He takes a moment to admire the sight of you, laid out naked and wanting before him. His eyes darken with lust as they roam over your curves, taking in every dip and swell. Leaning down, he places open mouthed kisses along the soft underside of your breast, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh until he reaches the hardened peak of your nipple.

"Zayne, please," you whimper, arching your back to press your breast more fully against his lips. Your plea is cut off by a sharp gasp as his teeth close around the sensitive bud, his tongue flicking against it teasingly. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping the short strands tightly.

He pauses, his breath hot against your breast as he looks up at you with a stern, expectant gaze. "Next time you find yourself in the hospital, are you going to let me know right away? are you going to be a good girl and call me first thing, before anyone else?"

His tongue flattens against your nipple, the slick muscle dragging over the sensitive peak as he laves attention on the hardened nub. At the same time, he thrusts two long, strong fingers deep inside you, your walls instantly clenching around them.

He pumps his fingers slowly, his thumb circling your clit in teasing strokes as he suckles at your breast.

"I'll be good," you gasp out "I promise, I'll call you first thing if anything happens." You can feel your climax building, your walls fluttering wildly around his fingers. Tears of frustration and overwhelming pleasure sting at the corners of your eyes.

"Please, Zayne," you whimper, your voice breaking on his name. "Please let me cum this time. I'll be so good, I swear it. I just... I need it so badly. Please, I'm begging you..."

"Not good enough," Zayne whispers as he pulls his fingers out of your cunt, leaving you empty and aching. Tears stream down your face as he denies you the release you so desperately crave.

"Zayne, please," you sob, your voice choked with emotion. "I need... I can't... Please don't do this. I'll do anything, just please let me cum. I'm begging you." Your hips buck up off the desk, seeking any friction, any pressure to alleviate the throbbing ache between your thighs.

In a blink, Zayne flips you over onto your stomach, your bare breasts pressing against the cool surface of his desk. Before you can catch your breath or process the sudden change in position, he's gripping your hips and pulling them back, forcing your ass up to meet the heavy weight of his erection.

You feel the thick, hard length of him sliding between your cheeks, the tip smearing trails of precum all the way down to your dripping entrance. Your hips twitch and buck reflexively, your body craving the feel of him inside you, filling you up in the way only he can.

You reach back to grab Zayne's hip, your fingers digging into his flesh as you try to pull him closer, desperate to feel him inside you. But before you can, he grabs both of your wrists, pinning your arms above your head and holding them down against the desk.

"If you keep being a bad girl, Y/N, how am I supposed to fuck you properly? Hmm?"

He punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your ass, the stinging pain blossoming into a warm, tingling pleasure that makes you clench around nothing. The head of his cock catches on your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what's to come.

Zayne releases your wrists only to grab them again, this time bringing them behind your back. Before you can react, you feel the cold metal of his stethoscope as he wraps the tubing around your wrists to bind your hands together, leaving you helpless and at his mercy.

"There, that should keep you from being too troublesome" His hands smooth over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to leave fingerprint shaped bruises in their wake.

"Now, let's see if we can find a way to make you behave," Zayne growls, his hips surging forward to bury himself to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat in one powerful thrust.

You scream in a mix of surprise and overwhelming pleasure as Zayne sheaths himself fully inside you with one hard, deep thrust. Your back arches, your tied hands fisting behind your back as you try to adjust to the sudden, intense intrusion.

Zayne lets out a groan, his voice echoing off the office walls as he hilts himself deep inside your clenching, grasping heat. "Fuck," he grunts, his hips pressing flush against your ass as he savors the feeling of your walls gripping his cock. "You feel fucking incredible."

He doesn't give you a moment to adjust to the feeling of his thick cock buried deep inside you. Instead, he grips the tubing binding your wrists and starts to move, using it as a handle to pull you back to meet his powerful thrusts. His hips smack against your ass, the stinging pain blending deliciously with the intense pleasure radiating out from where you're joined. The movement and force of Zayne's thrusts causes the items on his desk to clutter loudly, some falling to the floor with a crash, papers scatter and pens roll off the edge.

Don't worry, love," Zayne grits out through clenched teeth, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "This time, I'm not going to stop, but if...fuuuuck...if you keep clenching around me like that, I won't last long"

"Zayne, I'm gonna... I'm about to..." you stutter out, your words dissolving into a high pitched keen of pleasure as you feel your climax fast approaching. Just as you're on the brink, ready to tumble over into pure ecstasy, Zayne does the unexpected.

While one hand stays gripping your bound wrists, the other snakes around to your aching, swollen clit. But instead of the gentle rubbing or flicking you crave, Zayne pinches the sensitive nub hard between his thumb and index finger, sending a shockwave of intense sensation coursing through your body.

Zayne whispers harshly in your ear, "If you ever roll your eyes at me again like you did today, twice, your punishment will be far, far worse than a few spanks. The only time your pretty eyes should be rolling is when I'm fucking you just thrust like thrust this thurst, until you can't see straight."

To emphasize his point, he gives you a particularly brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass and forcing you to take every last inch of his cock. "Is that clear, Y/N?"

He lets go of your clit, the sudden rush of blood back to the sensitive nub sending jolts of intensified pleasure shooting through you. As your body trembles he angles his hips just right, and on his next thrust he lightly runs a finger along the side of your now swollen clit.

Your scream of ecstasy echoes off the office walls as you come, your vision going white with the force of your orgasm. "Yes, Zayne!" you cry out, your voice breaking on his name as your walls spasm and clench wildly around his cock.

As your body convulses and shakes through the most intense orgasm of your life, you hear Zayne let out a string of curses. "Fuck! Shit, Damnit! I can't...I'm cumming!"

His grip on your hips tightens to a bruising level as he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside your still fluttering walls. His cock pulses and throbs as he starts to unload, flooding your insides with his hot, thick seed.

You can feel each twitch and spurt of his release, his body shudders above you, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants as he rides out the waves of his own climax.

"Good girl," he whispers "you took my cock so well" He gently removes the stethoscope from your wrists, rubbing the reddened skin to ease the discomfort as he helps you up, his strong arms supporting your trembling body.

"Come on," he says softly, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. "Let's go clean you up and then we can head home. We have to stop by the store to get a new stethoscope, and then we have to figure out a way for me to hide my embarrassment every time I have to talk to Yvonne"

You can't help but laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all, your cheeks flushed and eyes bright with lingering pleasure.

He smirks at the memory, chuckling lowly as he helps you gather your scattered clothes.

Note: I don't know if a stethoscope is strong enough to handle that but you get the idea 😉

Rafayel is next!!!

1K notes · View notes

gyuuberryy · 11 months ago

Text

fatal trouble

pairing: vampire!sunghoon x reader

synopsis: your roommate is hot. really really hot. and odd too. really really odd. after a strange experience with him, you slowly start distancing yourself from him. but, it becomes exceptionally hard with your feelings coming in the way. how are you supposed to protect yourself if you can’t resist him? the answer is you don’t need to. your fates are intertwined and there's no letting go.

genre: roommates to lovers, vampire au, soulmate au

warnings: suggestive content, mentions of nightmares and blood, jealous!sunghoon,

note: dropping this before i go on hiatus for a month due to school work. i haven't proofread it that well i hope there are no mistakes. also im obsessed with vampire aus, enhablr needs more of them fr!! i hope you enjoy reading this!

word count: 6k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the soft glow of your laptop screen illuminated your face, casting long shadows across sunghoon's pristine white sheets. you were sprawled out on his bed, legs crossed beneath you, surrounded by a chaotic scatter of textbooks and papers. the quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the room, broken only by the intermittent clicks of your keyboard.

sunghoon sat at his desk, a silhouette against the darkened room, save for the focused beam of his desk lamp. his fingers danced across the keyboard with an almost rhythmic precision, the soft glow of the screen reflecting in his dark eyes. you’d grown accustomed to the sight of him engrossed in his work, a solitary figure lost in the world of ones and zeros.

you’d known each other for a few months now, the kind of acquaintance born out of shared living space and the occasional group project. as roommates sharing the same major, your apartment had become a de facto study hub. computer science had thrown you together more often than not, and tonight was no exception.

“hey, did you get the part about the algorithm?” your voice, a whisper in the quiet, cut through the comfortable silence.

sunghoon glanced up, his eyes a deep, almost unnatural shade of red in the dim light. for a moment, you were struck by how different he looked compared to the daylight. “yeah, i think so. isn’t it something about minimising the time complexity?”

you nodded, your eyes scanning the code on your screen. “exactly. i’m just having trouble with the implementation.”

a comfortable silence settled over the room as you both focused on your respective screens. the only sound was the rhythmic tapping of keys and the occasional sigh of frustration. you glanced up at sunghoon, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of his monitor. his long, slender fingers moved with an almost hypnotic grace across the keyboard.

there was something undeniably attractive about his focused intensity. his features, normally sharp and aloof, softened slightly when he was engrossed in his work. it was a side of him you rarely saw, and it was oddly captivating.

you shook your head, mentally scolding yourself for such thoughts. he was your roommate, nothing more. and besides, there was no way he could be interested in someone like you.

“hey,” sunghoon’s voice cut through your reverie, “i think i figured it out.”

you blinked, startled. “oh, really? want to explain it?”

he nodded, sliding his chair back and standing up. he walked over to your side of the bed, his tall frame looming over you. as he leaned in to point at your screen, his scent washed over you – a subtle blend of wood and something else, almost sweet, that you couldn’t quite place.

you felt a strange warmth creeping up your neck as he hovered over you. his proximity was unnerving, yet strangely intoxicating. you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the code in front of you.

sunghoon's breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer, his voice a low rumble, "try this." his finger hovered over your keyboard, about to demonstrate.

you felt a shiver run down your spine, not from the cool night air but from the inexplicable sensation of being so close to him. his scent, a mix of something woodsy and faintly sweet, was intoxicating. you tried to focus on the code, to ignore the way your heart was pounding in your chest.

he typed a few lines, his fingers brushing against yours. the contact sent a jolt of electricity through you. you forced yourself to concentrate on the screen, trying to understand the changes he made.

"see?" he said, straightening up. "it's simpler this way."

you nodded, still reeling from the physical contact. "thanks," you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper.

sunghoon stepped back, a small smile playing on his lips. "no problem," he said, turning back to his own computer.

you took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. it was just sunghoon, your roommate. nothing more. but the way he had acted, the way he had touched you, it was making it hard to think of him that way.

the room was quiet again, the only sounds the soft clacking of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper. you were deep in thought, trying to wrap your head around a particularly complex problem when a question popped into your head. on impulse, you asked, “so, sunghoon, what do you do in your free time, when you’re not, you know, studying?”

sunghoon paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. a flicker of something, perhaps surprise or amusement, passed across his face before he responded smoothly, “free time is a luxury for a computer science student, don’t you think? but when i do find a spare moment, i usually spend it reading or exploring new coding languages.”

his answer was polite, but it felt rehearsed, as if he'd prepared a response for just such a question. a sense of curiosity sparked within you. you’d always thought sunghoon was a bit of an enigma, but this was a new level of intrigue.

curiosity, a persistent itch, prodded you to ask something more than just about schoolwork.

“hey, i was curious about this” you started, your voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner, “where are you from?” it was a simple question, one you would normally ask any new acquaintance, but there was something about sunghoon that made you curious about his past.

he paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. for a moment, there was a stillness in the room that was almost palpable. then, with a casual shrug, he replied, "oh, just a small town. nothing interesting." the response was swift, deflecting your question with ease.

confused, you returned to your code, but your mind was racing. there was something off about sunghoon, something that had intrigued you from the moment you met him. you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but there were strange little details that had started to accumulate.

there were those odd instances – like the time you'd woken up in the middle of the night to find the kitchen light on and sunghoon standing at the counter, completely motionless, his eyes glowing an eerie red. or the way he seemed to have an uncanny ability to appear and disappear without a sound. and then there was the peculiar lack of a reflection in any mirror in his room.

these memories surfaced, sharp and clear, as if your brain was piecing together a puzzle it didn't know existed. you shook your head, dismissing the thoughts as overactive imagination. after all, sunghoon was just your roommate, a fellow computer science student. nothing more, nothing less.

a yawn escaped your lips as you stretched, the late hour finally catching up with you. “i think i’m going to call it a night,” you announced, rubbing your eyes. the weight of the unanswered questions about sunghoon was beginning to feel heavy.

sunghoon nodded, his gaze fixed on the computer screen. “alright, good night then. i’ll probably stay up a bit longer.”

you nodded in response, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. as you stood up, you glanced down at the floor. something was off. the soft glow from sunghoon’s computer cast long shadows on the floor, including a distinct one from his chair. but there was no shadow of sunghoon himself. the spot where his shadow should have been was empty, an inky void against the illuminated floor.

a chill ran down your spine. your heart pounded in your ears. your mind raced, trying to come up with a logical explanation, but nothing made sense. you snatched up your bag, your movements jerky and panicked. without a second thought, you fled back to your room, the door slamming shut behind you. you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling. only when you heard the satisfying click of the lock did you allow yourself to breathe.

your heart pounded in your ears as you leaned against the cool metal of your door. the realisation of what you had seen was slowly sinking in. no human lacked a shadow. it was impossible. a chill ran down your spine.

you tried to rationalise it away. maybe there was a draft, or a trick of the light. but deep down, you knew better. something was profoundly wrong, and it was connected to sunghoon. the friendly, quiet roommate you thought you knew was now shrouded in an unsettling mystery.

you glanced at the clock. it was late, and exhaustion was starting to creep in. you needed to sleep, to clear your head. but how could you sleep with this looming over you? you decided to distract yourself by pulling out a book from your shelf, hoping the words would drown out the unsettling thoughts.

as you turned the pages, your mind kept drifting back to sunghoon. his unusual behaviour, the absence of his shadow, it all fit together into a terrifying puzzle. you tried to shake off the feeling, but it was like a persistent itch you couldn't scratch.

sleep finally claimed you, but it was restless. your dreams were filled with shadows, long and menacing, closing in on you. you woke up with a start, your heart racing. the first light of dawn was filtering through your curtains. you got out of bed and went to the window. the world outside looked ordinary, peaceful. but you knew the truth was far from it.

something was wrong with sunghoon, and you were determined to find out what.

the days following your unsettling discovery were a blur of forced normalcy. you tried to interact with sunghoon as if nothing was amiss, but the weight of your knowledge cast a long shadow over your interactions. you found yourself avoiding his gaze, your voice trembling when you spoke to him.

sunghoon seemed oblivious to your discomfort at first. he’d always been a quiet person, so his reserved nature didn’t raise any immediate suspicion. however, as the days turned into weeks, his patience began to wear thin.

"hey, are you free to study together tomorrow?" he asked one evening as you were both making dinner. his tone was casual, but you could detect a hint of underlying disappointment.

your heart skipped a beat. you’d been avoiding his study invitations, coming up with increasingly elaborate excuses. the truth hung heavy in the air, a tangible thing between you. you hesitated, your mind racing.

"i... i’m really busy tomorrow," you stammered, your voice barely audible. "maybe next week?"

disappointment flashed across sunghoon’s face before he masked it with a forced smile. "sure, no problem," he replied, his voice flat.

as he turned away, you couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. you'd hurt him, and you knew it.

the night was a descent into terror. you dreamt of shadows, long and menacing, closing in on you. sunghoon was there, but not as you knew him. his eyes burned with an unnatural light, and his form was distorted, monstrous. you were running, but your legs were leaden, and the shadows were gaining on you. a scream built in your throat, but no sound escaped.

you woke with a start, drenched in sweat. your heart pounded like a drumbeat in your chest. panic washed over you as you gasped for air. you were disoriented, unsure of where you were. a noise from the living room startled you, and you jumped out of bed.

the light was on, and there, standing in the doorway, was sunghoon, his face etched with concern. before you could react, you found yourself lunging at him, your hands grasping at his neck. he didn't fight back, instead, he held you tightly, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

your sobs racked your body as you clung to him, finding solace in his warmth. he shushed you softly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. gradually, your breathing began to slow, and your body relaxed.

when you finally calmed down, sunghoon gently guided you back to bed. he sat on the edge, running a comforting hand through your hair. you clung to him, your fear slowly dissipating.

in the quiet that followed, you felt a strange urge to confide in him. your voice was barely a whisper when you began, "i dreamt of you... as something... different."

sunghoon stiffened, but his grip on you didn't loosen. something flashed behind his eyes, but he listened intently as you recounted the terrifying details of your nightmare. when you finished, he was silent for a long moment. finally, he whispered, "go back to sleep," and you felt him lean down to kiss your forehead.

with that, he quietly left the room, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.

the days that followed were a careful ballet of avoidance. you moved through your days with a practised detachment, constructing an invisible wall between yourself and sunghoon. the weight of your decision pressed down on you like a physical burden. despite the burgeoning crush that had blossomed in the quiet corners of your heart, you'd created a formidable wall between yourself and sunghoon. his enigmatic nature, coupled with the unsettling discoveries you'd made, had convinced you to keep him at arm's length. it was a lonely existence, a self-imposed exile that offered a semblance of safety.

your days were a monotonous cycle of lectures, assignments, and solitary meals. you'd found solace in the company of your classmate, lee heeseung, his cheerful demeanour a stark contrast to the storm raging within you. yet, even as you laughed and shared stories with him, a part of you longed for the quiet intensity of sunghoon's presence.

in the vast, impersonal lecture hall, you’d sought refuge in the anonymity of the crowd. but even here, you couldn't escape the weight of your decision. a persistent sense of being watched gnawed at you, a constant reminder of the eyes that followed your every move. and you knew very well who it was. it was during one such lecture that the tension reached a breaking point.

you were engrossed in your notes when a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught your attention. a cold prickle ran down your spine as you slowly turned your head. there, in the row behind you, sat sunghoon, his gaze fixed intently on you. his expression was a complex interplay of emotions - longing, pain, and a flicker of something darker.

your heart pounded in your chest as a wave of guilt washed over you. you'd hurt him, pushed him away without a second thought. in that moment, as his eyes held yours, you realised the depth of your own cowardice.

not to mention, with each passing night your nightmares had intensified. each night a descent into a darker, more terrifying realm. sleep, once a refuge, had transformed into a battlefield, leaving you exhausted and on edge. the physical toll was evident - dark circles shadowed your eyes, and your skin had started to take on a sickly pallor.

despite your deteriorating condition, you continued to maintain your distance from sunghoon. guilt gnawed at you, but fear held you captive. yet, in the aftermath of each nightmare, you found yourself seeking solace in his presence. he’d sit by your bed his silent vigil a comforting anchor in the storm of your nightmares. his touch, gentle and reassuring, had become a lifeline, pulling you back from the brink of despair.

one particularly harrowing night, you woke up screaming, your body drenched in sweat. sunghoon was by your side almost instantly, his arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace. as your fear subsided, you began to recount the nightmare, your voice trembling.

"i... i dreamt of a place," you managed to say, your words halting. "a dark place, with... with strange symbols."

sunghoon's grip tightened around you. "and you were alone," he finished for you, his voice low and soothing.

your eyes widened in shock. how could he know what you had dreamt about? you hadn’t even managed to complete your story. yet, sunghoon had described it perfectly, as if he had been there with you.

a chill ran down your spine. you pulled away from him, your eyes filled with fear and confusion. sunghoon simply looked at you, his expression unreadable, before turning and leaving the room.

what did this mean? how could sunghoon know about your nightmares? the answers were as elusive as ever, but one thing was certain: the line between the ordinary and the extraordinary was blurring, and you were caught in the crossfire.

the nightmares ceased as abruptly as they had begun. you woke each morning feeling refreshed, the spectre of terror finally lifted from your shoulders. a sense of relief washed over you, but it was tinged with a strange melancholy. the nightly visits from sunghoon, a comforting ritual amidst the chaos, were now absent.

initially, you welcomed the return to normalcy. the constant fear and exhaustion had taken a toll on you, and the ability to sleep soundly was a precious gift. but as days turned into weeks, a nagging sense of unease crept in. sunghoon's absence, once a welcome respite, now felt like a void.

you started noticing subtle changes in him. his eyes, once bright and alert, were now shadowed by dark circles. his once sharp features seemed softened by fatigue. it was as if a weight was pressing down on him, a burden he carried alone.

a pang of guilt struck you. perhaps your avoidance had contributed to his deteriorating condition. you wanted to reach out, to offer support, but fear held you back. what if your presence only made things worse? what if you discovered something terrifying?

you longed to reach out to him, to offer solace and support, but the words remained trapped in your throat. the fear of rejection, of further pushing him away, paralyzed you. it was a cruel irony that the person you yearned to comfort was the one causing you the most pain.

the afternoon sun beat down on the bustling campus as you made your way towards the nearest convenience store. the promise of a refreshing popsicle was the only thing that could lure you away from the confines of your dorm room. with a popsicle clutched in your hand, you emerged from the store, ready to face the world, one frozen treat at a time.

just as you were about to savour the first bite, heeseung materialised beside you, his infectious grin lighting up his face. "arcade?" he suggested, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. you nodded, the prospect of a distraction proving too tempting to resist.

you split the popsicle down the middle, the sweet, icy treat a welcome respite from the oppressive heat. as you handed one half to heeseung, a strange sensation washed over you. it was as if a cold draft had swept across your skin, a shiver that had nothing to do with the melting popsicle in your hand.

instinctively, you turned around, your heart pounding in your chest. there, on the other side of the road, stood sunghoon, his figure cast in the harsh sunlight. his eyes, usually guarded, were fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on hostility. a scowl marred his usually indifferent features, and his jaw was clenched tightly.

you offered a timid smile, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm between you. but his gaze remained unwavering, cold and unforgiving. with a final, contemptuous glance, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

a wave of guilt and confusion washed over you. you'd hurt him, you knew that. but the intensity of his reaction was unexpected, almost frightening. as you turned back to heeseung, you forced a smile, determined to push the unsettling encounter to the back of your mind.

the encounter with sunghoon left a bitter taste in your mouth. his hostile glare had shattered the fragile peace you'd been cultivating. as you and heeseung made your way to the arcade, your mind raced, trying to decipher the meaning behind sunghoon's outburst. had your avoidance pushed him to the brink? or was there something more sinister at play?

the arcade, with its flashing lights and the cacophony of sound, offered a temporary escape from the turmoil within. you lost yourself in the rhythm of the games, the competitive spirit temporarily drowning out the unsettling incident. yet, even as you laughed and cheered with heeseung, your mind kept drifting back to sunghoon, his angry gaze burning into your memory.

as the afternoon wore on, a sense of unease settled over you. the carefree atmosphere of the arcade couldn't mask the growing storm within. the incident with sunghoon had opened a wound, a raw and painful reminder of the complex dynamics between you.

you glanced at heeseung, his laughter infectious, and felt a pang of guilt. he was doing everything to lift your spirits, to distract you from your troubles. but your mind was elsewhere, trapped in a labyrinth of doubt and fear.

the walk back to your dorm was a solitary affair. the campus, usually bustling with activity, seemed deserted. with each step, the weight of your worries grew heavier. the encounter with sunghoon had forced you to confront the reality of the situation. you couldn't continue to bury your head in the sand, hoping that the problem would resolve itself.

the weight of the day pressed down on you as you unlocked the apartment door. exhaustion tugged at your limbs, but the lingering unease from your encounter with sunghoon kept your mind racing.

as you stepped into the living room, a jolt of surprise ran through you. sunghoon was standing in the kitchen, his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the refrigerator.

there was an unnatural stillness to him, a predatory calm that sent a shiver down your spine. his eyes, when they met yours, held a strange intensity, a glint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. "fancy seeing you here," he said, his voice low and measured.

you forced a smile, your heart pounding in your chest. "just got back," you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

he approached you slowly, his steps deliberate. "we have that new assignment," he began, his voice low and seductive. "maybe we could work on it together tomorrow?"

your mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse. "i'm... i'm pretty busy," you stammered, avoiding his gaze.

sunghoon's expression darkened. with a swift movement, he closed the distance between you, cornering you against the kitchen counter, his hands grabbing your hips. his proximity was unnerving, his scent, a mix of wood and something faintly sweet, filling your senses. you could feel his breath on your skin, hot and heavy.

"don't lie to me," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "i know what's going on."

his grip tightened around you, and you winced.

"it's nothing," you insisted, your voice trembling. "just... busy."

"busy with heeseung?" he spat out, his jealousy evident in his tone. his eyes narrowed, and you could see the anger simmering beneath the surface.

your face flushed with embarrassment. he was taking this the wrong way. “it’s not like that,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

sunghoon's grip tightened, pinning you against the cool surface of the counter. his breath was warm against your skin, and a strange sensation, a mix of fear and excitement, coursed through your veins.

“don’t lie to me,” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “you're avoiding me.”

you didn't know why, but the power dynamic between you and sunghoon was intoxicating. he had never behaved this way before let alone showcase jealousy so blatantly. it was hot. you felt a blush creeping up your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

before you could respond, you found yourself leaning in, your lips brushing against his. it was an impulsive act, a desperate attempt to silence him, to end the confrontation. but, to your surprise, he responded, his lips moving against yours with a gentle intensity.

the world seemed to slow down as the kiss deepened. but as quickly as it had begun, it ended. you pulled away, your heart pounding in your chest.

overwhelmed by a rush of emotions, you turned and fled to your room, slamming the door behind you. you leaned against the door, panting, your mind racing.

the realisation of what you had done hit you like a tidal wave. you had kissed your roommate, a person you were actively avoiding due to a growing sense of fear and unease. the implications of your actions were terrifying. you'd crossed a line, a boundary you had carefully constructed to protect yourself.

a series of frantic knocks on the door jolted you out of your stupor. it was sunghoon, his voice muffled through the wood. "open up, please," he pleaded. your heart pounded in your chest. you couldn't face him now. you needed time to process what had happened, to regain control of the situation.

the knocking continued for a few minutes before finally ceasing. silence enveloped the room, heavy and oppressive. you slid down the door, your body trembling. what had you done?

morning arrived with a sense of foreboding. the thought of facing sunghoon filled you with dread, but the need to uncover the truth was stronger. you waited until the sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway, a sign that he had left for his morning jog.

with a deep breath, you crept into sunghoon's room, a sense of trepidation gnawing at you. the room was immaculate, a stark contrast to the chaos that often reigned in your own space. everything had its place, every surface spotless. there were no hidden compartments, no secret drawers, no clues to the enigmatic man who inhabited this space.

disappointment washed over you. you'd hoped to find something, anything that would explain the strange occurrences, the unsettling behaviour. but the room held no secrets, only a sense of emptiness.

your eyes scanned the room, searching for any hidden compartments or secret passages. everything seemed ordinary, almost mundane. disappointment was beginning to creep in when your gaze fell on a small cabinet tucked beneath sunghoon's desk. it was always locked, a tantalising enigma that had piqued your curiosity countless times.

today, however, there was a change. a key was lodged in the lock, an open invitation to delve into the forbidden. a wave of hesitation washed over you. you were invading his privacy, crossing a line you had sworn never to cross. but the allure of the unknown was too strong. curiosity, like a relentless tide, pulled you forward.

with trembling hands, you grasped the key and turned it. the lock clicked open with a satisfyingly smooth sound. you slid open the cabinet door, your heart pounding in your chest. a mini-fridge, small and unassuming, greeted you. a wave of relief washed over you. so this was the secret? a hidden stash of snacks?

you reached out to open the fridge door, a smirk playing on your lips. but as the cool air enveloped you, your blood ran cold.

inside, lined up neatly on the shelves, were rows of blood bags. the crimson liquid glinted in the dim light, a chilling contrast to the sterile white plastic. the sight was so surreal, so utterly horrifying, that for a moment, you thought you were hallucinating.

your mind went blank. a wave of nausea washed over you as you stared at the horrifying contents of the fridge. this couldn't be real. this was a nightmare, a twisted hallucination. but the cold, hard truth stared back at you, undeniable and terrifying.

the world tilted as your legs gave way, sending you crashing to the knees. blood bags. sunghoon kept blood bags. your roommate, the seemingly normal guy you knew, was a… vampire? the very concept seemed absurd, ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel. yet, the evidence sat before you, a stark reality that defied logic.

panic clawed at your throat, but a desperate hope flickered within you. maybe it was a medical condition. maybe he had a strange blood fetish. anything but a vampire!

"vampires don't exist, do they?", you mutter to yourself still in shock.

"yes, they do," a low voice confirmed, sending a tremor through your entire body. you spun around, scream caught in your throat. sunghoon stood in the doorway, his face unreadable, his eyes a bottomless well of emotions.

shame washed over you in a tidal wave. you felt exposed, not just for snooping, but for the fear and disgust that clouded your mind.

jumping out the window, a ridiculous notion moments ago, now seemed like the only way out. here, trapped in this surreal nightmare, your only escape seemed to be a dramatic leap from the fourth floor. it wouldn't kill you, right? you’d only break a few bones at best, which you were absolutely okay with.

with a burst of adrenaline, you scrambled to your feet and bolted towards the window, desperation fueling your actions. but before you could reach the latch, a hand clamped around your waist, pulling you back with an iron grip. "don't even think about it," sunghoon's voice was a low growl, the air crackling with unspoken emotions.

you were pinned against his chest, his warmth a stark contrast to the chilling terror that gripped you. his eyes, no longer cold and distant, burned with a mix of anger and concern.

his words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the wildness of your actions. you struggled against his hold, your fear fueling your resistance. but there was an undeniable strength in him, a power that held you captive.

"please, let me go," you gasped, your voice trembling.

sunghoon's grip loosened slightly, and he took a step back. his eyes held a mixture of concern and something else, something you couldn't quite decipher. "i won't hurt you," he said, his voice soft. "i need to explain."

your eyes met his, a mixture of fear and confusion swirling in their depths. sunghoon seemed to read your mind, his expression softening as he took a step closer. he sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

"i know this is a lot to take in," he began, his voice low and steady. "but i need you to trust me."

you nodded, your mind racing. there was something about his tone, a vulnerability beneath the hardened exterior, that compelled you to listen.

"i'm a vampire," he said, the words hanging heavy in the air. "it's not how i wanted things to be, but it's the reality i've been forced to live with."

he paused, his eyes searching your face for any signs of revulsion. but to your surprise, a strange sense of calm washed over you. this was the answer, the missing piece to the puzzle.

he went on to explain his existence, the centuries of solitude, and the desperate hope that had brought him to you. he talked about the blood bags, a necessary evil to sustain his life.

he continued, his voice laced with a hint of vulnerability. "i’ve been alone for so long. i've tried to live a normal life, to blend in. and then i met you."

his gaze softened, a tender look replacing the earlier intensity. "you're my anchor, my reason to keep going. your nightmares, the ones you've been having, are a connection between us. we share them, a soulmate bond, if you will. it's the only way for me to experience human emotions, to feel truly alive."

the revelation was mind-boggling. a vampire? your soulmate? it was a story straight out of a gothic novel. yet, as he spoke, a sense of peace washed over you. there was a truth in his eyes, a vulnerability that resonated with your own.

without thinking, you reached out and hugged him. your arms wrapped around him, offering comfort and acceptance. he froze, surprised by your sudden embrace.

"i don't care," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. "i'll figure it out. we'll figure it out together."

he returned the hug, his arms tightening around you. his face was buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, a rhythm that mirrored your own. in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace, fear and confusion faded, replaced by a sense of hope and possibility.

"i'm so sorry about the nightmares," he murmured, his voice filled with regret. "i stopped sleeping for a while, trying to find a way to stop them. i hated seeing you scared, all because of me."

your heart ached for him. he had sacrificed his own well-being to protect you. anger and concern warred within you. how could he be so selfless, so reckless? you pushed against his chest, needing to see his face, to read the emotions swirling in his eyes.

"don't be stupid," you scolded, your voice stern. "you can't just stop sleeping."

you gently pushed against his chest, trying to create some distance between you. you needed to see his face, to gauge his sincerity.

"stop," he whined, his voice laced with playful annoyance. "just stay like this for a little longer."

his words were a stark contrast to the seriousness of the situation, but they had the desired effect. you froze, your body responding to the unexpected shift in tone. sunghoon's grip tightened around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. his lips brushed against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. the warmth of his breath mingled with the scent of his skin, creating an intoxicating blend that clouded your senses.

you were caught in a whirlwind of emotions, fear and confusion replaced by a growing sense of intimacy. the line between platonic comfort and something more was blurring, and you were dangerously close to crossing it.

his voice dropped to a low octave, a husky rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "i can't stop thinking about how your lips felt against mine last night," he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. he pulled back, his eyes holding yours, a mischievous glint in their depths.

"can we do that again?" he asked, his voice laced with playful arrogance.

before you could respond, his lips were on yours, claiming your mouth with a fierce urgency. the kiss was a whirlwind, a tempest of emotions and sensations. his tongue explored your mouth, demanding entrance, while your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. the kiss was different from the one you had shared the night before, filled with a newfound urgency and intensity. his tongue explored your mouth, a dance of desire and longing. you could feel the heat radiating from his body, a warmth that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer. with a swift movement, he lifted you onto the bed, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck. he nuzzled your skin, his breath creating a tingling sensation. "you smell so good," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "i had to stop myself from pouncing on you the first time i saw you."

"from now on, you're sleeping in my bed," he declared, his voice firm. "i need to make sure those nightmares don't come back. and besides, i like having you close."

as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. in this moment, with sunghoon holding you close, everything else seemed to fade away. the line between reality and fantasy blurred, replaced by a single, undeniable truth: you were in the arms of a vampire, and you were dangerously close to falling in love.

his lips trailed down your neck, with such heat that it left you breathless. he nibbled at your skin, his teeth gently scraping against your sensitive flesh. the sensation was both painful and exhilarating, a heady mix of fear and desire. you gasped, your body arching involuntarily.

"i'm not going to bite you," he promised, his voice laced with a hint of mischief.

"not yet, at least."

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

#ady 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀...👩🏻‍💻.ᐟ #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fics #enhypen x reader #sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon fics #sunghoon oneshots #kpop fics #vampire au #enhypen vampire au #vampire!enhypen #vampire!sunghoon #enhypen horror

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snail-day · 1 month ago

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Can't Sleep

Sum: You can't sleep and maybe it's about conversations that have been left unspoken. SatoSugu x Reader TW: Domestic Fluff, Soft Angst. a/n: It was a thought I had the other day where if Suguru didn't become a cult leader if they would still have to neglect some dreams due to the harsh truth that either of them could die at any point :( WC: 1.6k

Despite all your tossing and turning - counting sheep, flipping your pillow to the cool side - it’s no use. Your body aches, your skin is clammy, and your thoughts are far too loud for the late hours of the night.

You can’t sleep. It's frustrating beyond belief because you should be able to sleep.

Suguru is curled behind you, one sculpted arm draped lazily across your waist, heavy with exhaustion. He got home just a few hours ago from a three-day mission, hair still damp from a shower he barely stayed awake through. You barely managed a conversation before bed, mostly silence and a few tired smiles.

His breath fans softly against the back of your neck. A slow, even rhythm. He’s out cold. You could probably light the house on fire and he’d sleep through it.

Well. Except if you picked up your phone.

It’s sitting innocently beside you on the nightstand. All it would take is one little swipe, one guilty scroll through your feed until the screen’s glow dulls the noise in your head.

But Suguru has a rule. No phones in bed. He’s told you the reasons, shown you studies about blue light and dopamine, and the risk of fractured sleep cycles.

You’re allowed to grumble about it. Suguru finds it cute when you pout, brushing his thumb across your lower lip like he's tempted to kiss the argument away.

So instead you wait. Listening to the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his soft black hair brushes against your shoulder every time he shifts. And then - there. He turns over, arm falling away.

Your cue.

You slide out from under the blanket, careful not to let it rustle. Hands and knees on the floor, carpet bristling against your palms like you're trespassing in your own home. Phone clutched in your palm like contraband. Careful not to let any light slip free. You crawl across the room to the door because you never walk at night. Suguru wakes at the slightest creak, even in his sleep, and once dragged you back to bed with a sigh and a “c’mon, angel, not tonight.”

You make it.

It’s 12:01 a.m. The hallway is cool against skin. In a way, it feels like freedom. You curl up on the couch, tug the soft crocheted throw blanket over your legs, open your phone.

Satoru should be home in four hours. You tell yourself you’ll be back in bed before then. Before he finds you like this and starts asking questions you can’t answer.

You anxious? You okay? Want to break up? Did something happen? Is it me?

No. Nothing happened. And maybe that’s the problem.

You pull up Old Enough! on Netflix. It’s soft. Silly. Toddlers running errands, clumsy and proud, their tiny legs working overtime to carry baskets bigger than their torsos. It’s not gripping enough to binge, but it helps. Settles something.

You’re halfway through an episode when the door opens.

Click. Clatter.

Keys into the dish on the table by the door. A housewarming present, if you remember correctly. A soft sigh. The faint scrape of shoes kicked off.

You freeze.

Satoru stops in his tracks.

Satoru blinks at you across the room, his white hair rumpled and wind-tossed, still dressed in his crumpled uniform. His blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and the bags under his crystal blue eyes are deep enough to carry the weight of the week.

“Baby?”

His voice is quiet, still rough with fatigue. He crosses the room in a few long strides, then drops to his knees on the plush rug in front of you, cupping your face in his warm hands.

His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones. One slender finger catches on the skin beneath your eye…as if checking for something that isn’t there - sleep, tears, the pieces of you you haven’t said out loud. His lips press into a thin line, concern pulling at the corners.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you with Sugu?”

Satoru isn’t always soft. Not in the way Suguru is. His sweetness tends to come laced with far too much energy, jokes, a half-grin, and a nudge. But right now, he’s quiet. Gentle.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His baby blue eyes glance down at your phone, settled in your palm. Watches a child struggle with a bag of carrots. His eyes soften.

“Want me to watch with you?”

Though, like most things, he doesn’t wait for the answer. He just shifts onto the couch beside you, tugging you into the warmth of his side. Your cheek rests against his chest, where his heart beats steady beneath his jacket, faintly out of sync with the soft sounds from the show.

He smells like salt and ash. Like the ruins of some building he probably pulled down himself.

One arm curls around you, palm wide and settling over your waist. The other settles behind his head, fingers threading loosely into his white hair. He talks softly while the episode plays, snorts at the little kid falling over a cabbage, and kisses the top of your head.

And then, while the screen flickers blue shadows across his jaw, he says, “Y’know… Suguru would never let our kid do something like this. Not without a curse glued to them.”

You exhale through your nose. Sounds almost like a laugh.

“Do you want kids?” you ask, your hand slipping down to find his. You play with his fingers, long and clever, always moving. He’s tracing slow circles on your palm, absentminded.

His smile is tired. Beautiful. It tugs at the corners of his mouth but doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Scary thought,” he murmurs. “But yeah. If they looked like you? I’d risk it.”

The ache comes in quietly.

Because you both know what he’s really saying.

Sorcerers don’t get happy endings. Not the strongest ones. Not the ones who shoulder the world.

Suguru and Satoru talk about the future like it’s a fantasy. A busy kitchen with dishes left in the sink. Countertops that used to be pristine, now have child drawings and leftover snacks. A kid in footie pajamas is following you all around the house. A little dress tucked away in the closet.

But they also hang their uniforms every night, unaware of what horror is to come tomorrow. Memorize their wills. Have their goodbyes in the form of a letter.

Maybe the reason they dream with you is because you’re not like them. Because you’re still here when the battle ends.

The one they’re willing to try for.

Satoru’s fingers thread through yours. He exhales softly.

“I think Suguru would cry if we ever had a daughter,” he mumbles, smile growing. “He’d buy them anything, give them the world if he could.”

“He already tries,” you murmur. “He has a few clothing items hidden in the closet.”

You don't add that you've caught him looking at them during his cleaning spurts. How he smiles to himself. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Satoru huffs a laugh, dragging you from your thoughts, the sound low and sleepy.

Eventually, his warmth seeping into your skin, makes your eyelids droop. You both manage to drift off there on the couch.

When morning comes, Suguru finds you like that. Satoru’s white hair mussed against your forehead. Your body curled into his. The dead phone screen resting on Satoru's tummy.

Suguru stands in the doorway for a long moment, violet eyes soft with something close to longing. He pads forward on bare feet, silent as can be. Carefully, lays another soft blanket over both of you. Then he leans down, brushing a kiss to your forehead, lingering, tender. Then one for Satoru. Just as gentle.

He doesn’t wake either of you. Doesn’t scold.

Chastising can wait.

For now, he just watches quietly. Let's himself pretend, just for a moment, that this is a future he might actually get to keep.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #geto suguru #gojo x reader #geto x reader #SatoSugu #SatoSugu x Reader #Jujutsu kaisen x reader #JJK x Reader #jjk fluff

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maskedbyghost · 8 days ago

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this is part 2 to toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni

You hadn’t planned to cry, and honestly, you weren’t even sure why your chest felt tight in the first place. It was just supposed to be a walk, nothing more, just some fresh air and sunshine and maybe a break from your own thoughts.

You thought moving your body might help. Maybe if you just walked far enough, breathed deep enough, looked up at the clouds instead of staring at your bedroom ceiling, something would click into place and you’d feel like yourself again. Like a person again.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because every corner you turned, there was another couple.

They weren’t even being obnoxious about it. It wasn’t the affection that made you roll your eyes or want to vomit. It was worse. It was the soft stuff, the connection you could feel without even hearing a word of it.

A guy was walking with his girlfriend, and his hand was resting right at the small of her back. Another couple sat under a tree with a checkered blanket spread out beneath them. She was half in his lap, trying to balance her drink, laughing at something he had said, and he was holding her as if she were made of glass and sunlight, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other brushing her hair with his hands, slowly.

An older couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers intertwined so casually that it made your throat ache. She was talking, he was nodding, and they stopped every few steps to point at the flowers planted along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world.

And you just… froze.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even sadness, just this deep yearning that settled heavy in your chest and refused to budge, this desperate ache for something that didn’t hurt, something soft, something simple, something that didn’t feel like you were holding your breath all the time, afraid of saying the wrong thing or asking for too much.

You wanted to be held. Not grabbed, nor thrown onto a bed because someone couldn’t control themselves. You wanted to be chosen in the quiet moments, when there was no sex or tension or drama to sweeten the deal. You wanted someone to look at you and think, There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

You sat down on the nearest bench, dropped your phone into your lap, and just stared at the grass. You didn’t want to cry in public, not really, but the sting was there, just behind your eyes, and you blinked fast, hoping it’d go away.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even want to check. You already knew, somehow, like a sixth sense, or maybe just muscle memory.

“Come over. I’ll order Thai. You can stay.”

As if it was some kind of prize. Like the offer of food and his bed was supposed to feel anything other than a pity invitation. Like that sentence wasn’t the exact same breadcrumb he’d been throwing your way for months, just enough to keep you following, never enough to satisfy.

He wasn’t saying I miss you. He wasn’t saying I’m sorry I hurt you or I didn’t know what I had until you were gone. He was saying Come over. Like this was still a game he was winning.

And maybe a week ago, hell, maybe even yesterday, you would’ve paused. You would’ve stared at the message with that same dull throb in your chest and thought maybe this time will be different. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s trying.

But right now?

Right now, you felt done.

Done with making excuses for him. Done with confusing attention for affection. Done with dragging your heart behind you like dead weight every time he pulled you back in with nothing more than a half-assed promise and a takeout order.

Your fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the part of you that still wanted to believe he’d ever be capable of giving you what you needed.

And then you typed:

“No. We’re done, Simon. For real this time. Don’t text me again.”

Your thumb hit send before your brain could stop you, before your heart could scream, before the echo of what if could take root and grow into something dangerous again.

And then, without waiting for the three dots to pop up, without giving yourself a chance to hesitate or soften or let him back in even a little you blocked the number.

And that was it.

Your hand was trembling, your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. And your heartbeat was steady in your chest, like it was relieved.

You looked up at the sky. Watched the clouds move slowly across the blue. They didn’t know what it meant to panic over someone who didn’t care.

You weren’t happy, not yet. But for the first time in too long, you didn’t feel chained to him anymore.

And that, in itself, felt like something.

...

You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.

No texts, no calls, no sudden knocks at your door. No glimpses of him near your job, no DMs from new burner accounts, nor mutual friends trying to convince you he was “going through it.”

And honestly? You were starting to think he’d finally gotten the message. That maybe he’d realized what it meant when you said we’re done. That he’d felt the silence for what it was: a full stop, not a pause.

But then he showed up. Of course he did.

You were walking home from the grocery store, just a quick trip for bread and milk and some random snacks you didn’t need but bought anyway because the act of filling your cupboards made you feel happier. You’d just turned the corner onto your street, earbuds in, music low, mind somewhere else entirely, when you looked up and froze.

He was leaning against your building. And he had the nerve to be casual about it too, his arms crossed, head down like this wasn’t completely insane. He looked up when you stopped walking, and his mouth did that slow curl into a grin that used to make your stomach flip but now just made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your earbuds out and said nothing.

“Hey,” he said, as if this was normal or completely not out of bounds. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“Simon,” you started, your voice flat, your pulse already kicking up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “You blocked my number and my backup email. You weren’t really leaving me a lot of options.”

You blinked, stunned at how casually he said it. “So you decided to stalk me instead?”

“That’s a dramatic word,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you like you weren’t already backing away slightly, trying to hold onto your grip. “I just wanted to talk. You made that impossible.”

“I made it impossible because we broke up,” you snapped, dropping your grocery bag onto the steps with more force than necessary. “I told you not to text me. Not to call. I said we were done—done, Simon—what don’t you get?”

He smiled again, that infuriating smirk, like you’d just said something cute instead of trying to set a boundary.

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head. “We broke up, sure. But that doesn’t mean you get to erase me.”

You stared at him, jaw slack. “Are you actually hearing yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said, stepping closer now, his voice calmer, which, honestly, made you want to scream. “You think a couple texts and a blocklist are gonna make me forget what we were? You really think that’s enough?”

“I don’t want you to forget,” you snapped. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to understand that this—whatever this was—is over. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, just a flicker. A twitch of his jaw, a tightening of the eyes. You’d seen that look before, right before the walls went up. Right before the mask slipped into place.

“You keep saying we’re over,” Simon said slowly, “but you don’t get it.”

He stepped in so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the scent of his skin, that cologne he always wore too much of, the one that used to make you ache but now just made your stomach turn.

“You and me?” he whispered. “We’re never really over.”

Your breath hitched, and for a second—for one stupid, fleeting second—you felt that pull again. That old, broken, magnetic force that lived in the space between his mouth and yours, in the memory of what it felt like to be wanted by him.

But you were so fucking tired of confusing that with love. So you stepped back.

You looked him dead in the eye, and you said:

“What do you want from me, Simon? Seriously. Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to fall apart in front of you just so you can feel something? Because whatever this is—it’s not love, it’s not real. It’s you, trying to control me. And I’m done letting you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there. And you picked up your bag again, turned on your heel, and walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t have to.

Because this time? You were the one leaving him behind.

...

It had been weeks.

Weeks of silence, weeks of healing, and pretending you were ready to move on, even when your heart still felt like a battlefield he’d walked away from without ever looking back.

So when your coworker asked you out—the nice one, the one who remembered your coffee order and always held the elevator—you said yes.

You didn’t feel fireworks, nor did you get butterflies. But you also didn’t feel dread, or the bone-deep exhaustion that came from chasing someone who only ever looked back when you were halfway out the door.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe soft was what you needed now. Safe and simple.

He took you to a cozy little restaurant tucked off the main street, the kind with candlelight and mismatched chairs and a menu written entirely in cursive. He held the door open for you, pulled your chair out when you sat, complimented your dress without looking at your chest. And you smiled, even if it felt a little forced. You laughed, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You tried...

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to the bathroom. The ladies’ room was down a narrow hallway in the back, quiet and dim, music muffled through the walls. You were halfway there when you felt it.

That shift in the air.

That awareness that only ever came from one person. And you didn’t even get the chance to turn around before he was there.

He stepped out from the shadows of the hallway like a fucking ghost, like he’d been waiting, like he knew you’d be here and timed it down to the minute. And before you could speak, before you could even breathe, he had you pressed up against the wall, one arm caging you in, the other sliding slowly along your waist.

His mouth was at your ear in an instant, voice low, thick, dirty.

“Really, sweetheart?” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “This the best you can do?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. Your hands went to his chest, pushing lightly, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in closer, body not quite touching yours but so fucking close, you could feel the heat radiating off him like fire.

“You think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?” he whispered, and it wasn’t even a question—it was filth wrapped in confidence. “You think he even knows what to do with you? Bet he doesn’t even know how you sound when you beg. Doesn’t know how your thighs shake when I’ve got my mouth on you—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, voice shaking, but your knees were already weak and your throat felt tight.

Simon smirked, eyes dark and gleaming. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you? His hands won't feel right, will they? Bet you’d picture mine every time he touches you.”

Your hands pushed harder now, but he didn’t flinch.

“And what about when he’s inside you?” Simon rasped, mouth brushing your jaw, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna close your eyes and pretend it’s me?”

“At least he’ll fucking stay,” you snapped, louder now, anger burning through the haze. “At least he won’t leave the second he gets what he wants. At least I won’t wake up to an empty bed.”

That got him. His jaw clenched instantly.

But he didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing hard, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to touch you or punch a hole in the wall beside your head.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Simon didn’t move right away. He just stood there, watching you like you’d gutted him, like your words had cut deeper than you’d meant them to—but you didn’t regret it.

Not this time.

You stepped around him, ignoring the way your legs trembled beneath you, head high, heart pounding like it was trying to tear its way out of your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You walked straight back to the table, sat down, and smiled at your date like your ex hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear in a hallway like a man possessed.

“Everything okay?” your date asked gently.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “The bathroom line was just long.”

...

The walk back to your apartment felt like an out-of-body experience.

Your date had walked you home, smiling the entire way, hands tucked into his pockets, making soft jokes that you tried to laugh at, even though your stomach had been turning since the second you stepped out of the restaurant. He was kind. He listened, he held the door open, and he even complimented your dress without leering. And when you reached your door, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and gentle, just like the kind of kiss you should want from someone like him.

And you felt nothing. Not even a flicker, not even a spark.

You kissed him back out of politeness, maybe even a little guilt, and when you stepped away and thanked him for dinner, he smiled like he’d had a good time. And you hated that you hadn’t. Hated that he was everything you said you wanted—safe, respectful, sweet—and all you could think about the whole fucking night was Simon’s mouth, Simon’s hands, Simon whispering filth and promises and pain in your ear like he was made to ruin you.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.

From this endless, exhausting loop of trying to do the right thing and still craving the wrong one.

You fumbled with your keys, cursing under your breath, eyes burning. You wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to shove Simon’s face into the fact that he’d broken you so thoroughly that now, even when someone was good to you, it felt wrong.

The door opened. And there he was.

Simon.

Sitting on your couch but he didn’t look cocky this time. Didn’t smirk or lean back with that smug glint in his eye. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he didn’t even know what to say anymore.

You dropped your purse.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” your voice cracked, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He stood, slowly, but you were already walking toward him, hands clenched, eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” you hissed. “How fucking dare you be here again. After everything.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” you snapped. “No, you don’t get to talk. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re confused about why I don’t want you in my life. You ruined me, Simon.”

He flinched, and good. You wanted it to hurt.

“You took everything I gave you, every part of me, and you made it ugly.” Your voice shook now, rage mixing with grief. “You used me when you wanted company. Tossed me when you were bored. And I kept coming back, like a fucking idiot, thinking maybe this time you’d mean it when you kissed me.”

He was quiet.

“I went on a date tonight,” you spat. “With someone who treated me like I mattered. Someone who held doors and remembered things I said and kissed me like he gave a damn, and do you know what I thought the whole time?”

Simon swallowed, barely whispering, “What?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes now.

“I thought about you,” you said, voice cracking. “I thought about your fucking mouth, about your hands. I thought about how I’d rather have your soft kiss than his perfect one. And I hate myself for it.”

Simon took a step forward. “I never meant to—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling now. “Don’t stand there and act like this just happened. You did this. You made me believe you’d never care, and now I’m so fucking broken I can’t even feel anything from someone who actually tries. I still picture you when I think about love, Simon. That’s the worst part.”

He was right in front of you now, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide as he just watched you split yourself open in front of him.

“I imagine you,” you whispered. “But better, softer, and kinder. I imagine you as the version I needed, the one I deserved, and it kills me, because I don’t even know if that version of you exists.”

Silence.

He reached out then, so slowly it made your breath catch, and placed one hand gently on your cheek, the lightest touch he’d ever given you.

“I can be him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll try. I’ll be him.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then another, on your temple. One on your cheek, your jaw, your nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You were crying now, full-on sobbing, body shaking like it had been holding this in for far too long. And he didn’t grab you, didn’t pull you into him like he used to. He just stood there, kissing every tear that fell like he was trying to wipe them from existence.

“I didn’t know how to love you right,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But I will. If you let me. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. I’ll do the work. Just… don’t shut the door on me yet.”

You didn’t answer.

Because even after everything, even through all the rage and resentment and raw wounds, his kisses still felt like home.

And that was the scariest part of all.

He kissed your tears like they burned him, as if each one that slid down your cheeks was proof of what he’d broken, and he was trying, pathetically, hopelessly, to piece it all back together with nothing but his mouth and the weight of his regret.

You didn’t say anything when he pressed his forehead to yours. Didn’t pull away when he wrapped both arms around you like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You just stood there and let yourself breathe him in, his warmth, his scent.

“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, voice raw. “Please, just once. Let me make it right.”

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, but you let him take your hand.

He led you to the bed and didn’t tear your clothes off like he usually did. He didn’t grab or push or bite. He just kissed you, like you were something fragile, something he didn’t think he deserved to touch but was begging to try.

His hands trembled when he slid your top up over your arms. He took his time with every button, every hem, because rushing would ruin it. When your bra fell away, he kissed the center of your chest—not your breasts, not your neck—your chest, right over your heart, and rested there for a second like he was trying to feel it beat.

“You don’t have to forgive me now,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m gonna earn it. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

You didn’t stop the tears. You didn’t hide from them. They slid quietly down your cheeks as he lowered himself between your legs and pressed his mouth to your stomach, your hips, your thighs—anywhere but the place you were already aching for him.

“I’m gonna learn how to love you right,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m gonna give you every soft thing I never thought you’d want. You won’t have to beg for affection anymore. You won’t have to guess if I’ll stay.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, then finally pressed his mouth to where you needed him. It felt as if he was praying with his tongue. Like this was how he was going to worship you now.

You gasped, hands fisting the sheets, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

He looked up from between your thighs, his face a mess of want and pain.

“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly, crawling back up your body. “I mean… I know why you are. But I hate that I’m the reason for it. I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You cupped his face, fingers trembling, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

He lined himself up, slow and careful, and when he pushed inside, he went still. Completely still. Just breathing against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this close again.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, you always did.”

He moved slowly, painfully slow. Like every thrust was an apology. Like he was rewriting the way he touched you, undoing every rushed, selfish fuck with something tender and earned.

Your tears didn’t stop. And neither did he.

He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, and your jaw. Whispered everything he’d never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I’m gonna do better.”

“I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.”

“No more games. No more pushing you away.”

You whimpered beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like you didn’t know how to let go anymore.

He rested his forehead against yours and kept moving, slow and deep, every thrust sending something hot and unbearable through your chest.

“You deserve flowers,” he breathed. “And check-ins. And hand-holding and fucking morning texts and someone who doesn’t make you cry every goddamn day.”

His voice cracked again. You felt it.

“And I want to be him,” Simon said, nearly choking on it. “I need to be him.”

Your body trembled beneath him. You were already so close, not just because of his cock, but because of the way he was inside you.

You came with a broken sob, your nails digging into his back, your legs shaking.

He came a moment later, groaning into your neck, and holding you tightly.

He didn’t pull out and didn’t move.

Just wrapped his arms around you, face pressed to your shoulder, and kissed you again and again and again, believing that if he just stayed close enough, the damage might finally start to heal.

...

Morning came quietly.

You woke to the pale gray light bleeding through your bedroom curtains, the kind of early morning glow that made everything feel hazy. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Warm.

And then you remembered.

The weight behind you wasn’t just a dream.

Simon.

Still here, and breathing steadily against your back, one arm draped around your waist.

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t that last night had been bad. It hadn’t. If anything, it had been too good. Too soft. Too vulnerable. It was the kind of night you used to pray for back when you thought he’d never give it to you.

And now?

Now it just felt like weakness.

You untangled yourself from his arm slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him as you sat up and slipped your legs over the side of the bed. But he stirred anyway, and you felt his hand twitch behind you, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

You stood up and didn’t turn around when you said it.

“Simon… you need to go.”

Silence.

Then the quiet sound of bedsheets rustling behind you.

“...You serious?” His voice was rough from sleep, low and uncertain in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You nodded, still facing the window. “Yeah. I am.”

He sat up, and you could hear it, the shift in weight, the creak of the mattress, the pause before the sigh.

“Last night—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Was a moment,” you said, finally turning around to look at him. “That’s all. A moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes bloodshot, hair messy, mouth parted.

“I meant everything I said,” he told you quietly. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “But meaning it isn’t enough. Not yet.”

He was quiet again, looking down at his hands, he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding you.

“Okay,” he said eventually, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

You watched as he stood, pulled on his jeans, his hoodie, his boots. He didn’t rush, nor beg. He just moved with weighted sadness, like leaving was physically hard to do.

But at the door, he paused and turned around. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. That I meant what I said. That I’m changing. You’re gonna look at me one day, and you’re not gonna feel stupid for loving me anymore.”

You didn’t reply.

You just looked at him, arms crossed, your heart pounding.

And then he opened the door and stepped into the hall, casting one last glance back over his shoulder.

“I’ll win you back,” Simon said, voice like a quiet promise. “Even if it kills me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you didn’t breathe until you were alone again.

PART 3

-----------------------------------------

@nightunite I'm not done with this bitch yet.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon riley smut

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favefandomimagines · 3 months ago

Text

But Daddy I Love Him (f.l)

Summary: being in a secret relationship with Frank Langdon isn’t all it’s cracked up to be

AN: I really hope this is well received lol after a deep analysis of ‘But Daddy I Love Him’ I felt like that title could work for a secret relationship

And obviously I’m not a medical professional so take what I wrote with a grain of salt lol

TW: mentions of infertility, miscarriage, death

They never meant to keep it a secret.

At first, it wasn’t even a thing—just the occasional coffee shared in the break room, conversations that stretched too long at the nurses’ station, inside jokes that no one else quite understood. They had always worked well together, had a natural rhythm that made even the worst nights feel a little less suffocating.

Frank had always liked Y/N. She was sharp, fast on her feet, and knew how to handle even the most chaotic situations with a level of calm that put everyone else at ease. But it wasn’t just that. She challenged him, called him out when he needed it, made him want to be better.

And maybe that was why, on that particular night after a brutal shift, he had found himself lingering in the parking lot instead of heading home.

He hadn’t expected to see her standing by her car, scrolling through her phone, her expression tired but soft under the glow of the streetlights.

“You okay?” he had asked, his voice rough from exhaustion.

She had looked up, blinking as if she hadn’t even realized he was there. “Yeah. Just… long day.”

He had huffed out a humorless laugh, stretching his neck. “Aren’t they all?”

And then, for a moment, neither of them moved.

The hospital loomed behind them, a quiet giant that never truly slept. The air was thick with the lingering weight of the shift, the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in their bones. But standing there, in the stillness of the night, something shifted.

“I don’t feel like going home,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to say it out loud.

Frank hadn’t expected her to say it, but the moment she did, something inside him clicked into place.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, tilting his head toward his car.

It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a thing.

But she nodded.

And that was it.

They had ended up at a diner just outside of town, the kind that stayed open 24 hours and served the kind of coffee that could wake the dead. They had slid into a booth in the back, the vinyl seats sticking to their scrubs, and ordered enough food to feed a small army.

For the first time that day, they had breathed.

They talked about everything and nothing—hospital gossip, the worst cafeteria food they’d ever had, the absurdity of working a job where people expected them to be superheroes but still had to fight insurance companies to do their jobs.

At some point, Frank had noticed the way she kept pushing her hair behind her ear when she laughed, the way she stirred her coffee absentmindedly even when she wasn’t going to drink it.

He liked it.

He liked her.

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the fact that he had spent the last few months pretending not to notice the way his pulse quickened whenever she was around, but when she caught him staring, something in the air shifted.

She didn’t look away.

And neither did he.

By the time they left the diner, the sky was starting to lighten, a soft shade of blue creeping over the horizon.

“I should get some sleep,” Y/N had said, even as she lingered by his car.

“Yeah,” Frank agreed, but he didn’t move to get in.

She hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, pressing her lips to his. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fueled by adrenaline or desperation—it was slow, steady, a quiet question with an answer neither of them spoke out loud.

When she pulled back, he was already reaching for her hand.

One night turned into two, then a week, then a month.

It wasn’t just about the late nights spent tangled in each other anymore. It was the way he made her coffee exactly how she liked it, the way she kept extra granola bars in her locker because she knew he always forgot to eat, the way they could sit in comfortable silence after the kind of days that left them shattered.

They weren’t just together. They were something.

But when it came to the hospital, Frank had been the one to suggest they keep it quiet.

“You know how people talk,” he had said one night, tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m paging you for consults just because we’re together.”

She had agreed, even though a small part of her hated the idea of hiding him. She was good at her job—damn good. She didn’t need anyone whispering that she only got called to consult because of Dr. Langdon.

So, they kept it a secret.

And most days, it was fine.

But some days, it was damn near unbearable.

Frank learned very quickly that keeping their relationship hidden was harder than he expected.

At first, it had seemed like a good idea. They both had careers to protect, reputations they had worked too damn hard to build. It wasn’t that dating a colleague was forbidden—plenty of doctors in the hospital were involved with each other—but when it came to the ER and OB, lines could get blurred.

He didn’t want people assuming that Y/N got special treatment just because they were together. And more than that, he didn’t want anyone questioning her abilities.

She was a damn good doctor, one of the best OBs he’d ever worked with. He never wanted anyone to look at her and think she had an advantage because she was with Dr. Langdon.

So, they kept it a secret.

But some days, it was damn near unbearable.

Like when Y/N had a bad night in OB, and he could see it all over her face. She never brought her emotions into her work, but Frank knew her well enough to spot the small signs—the way she held her pen just a little too tight, the way her jaw clenched when she was trying to hold it together.

He had seen her filling out a chart at the nurses' station one night, her hands trembling just slightly, and he had wanted to reach out, to brush his fingers over hers, to remind her that she wasn’t carrying it alone.

But all he could do was meet her eyes for a fleeting second before turning away.

Or the time Frank had lost a patient in the ER—a teenage boy who had come in with a gunshot wound. Frank had done everything right. He had worked fast, his team had been sharp, but sometimes, it just wasn’t enough.

The boy had bled out on the table, and Frank had been left standing in the trauma room, hands covered in blood, staring at the ceiling like maybe this time, God would give him a damn answer.

He had walked through the hospital in a daze that night, needing something—anything—to ground him. And then he had seen Y/N in the cafeteria, laughing at something one of the nurses had said.

For a moment, all he had wanted to do was walk up to her, hear her voice, let her pull him out of his own head the way only she could.

But instead, he had kept walking.

Because they weren’t supposed to be that for each other. Not here.

And yet, the second they were alone in one of their apartments, it was different.

On the nights they made it home at the same time, they collapsed into each other like the world outside didn’t exist. Some nights, they didn’t even talk—just sat in silence, breathing each other in, feeling the weight of the day settle between them.

Other nights, Frank would cook something half-decent, and they would sit on the couch, their feet tangled together, pretending for just a little while that they weren’t exhausted, that the hospital wasn’t still living under their skin.

And then there were the nights when it was all too much, when the weight of what they did—the lives they saved, the ones they couldn’t—felt suffocating.

Those were the nights he would find her sitting on his kitchen counter, his sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders, her fingers wrapped around a glass of wine she hadn’t even touched.

And without a word, he would step between her legs, his hands bracing against the counter on either side of her, his forehead resting against hers.

No titles. No rules. Just them.

And it was so good.

But then morning would come, and they would slip back into the roles they had chosen.

And pretending was exhausting.

Some losses were harder than others.

Y/N had dealt with heartbreak before. She had delivered stillborn babies, had placed tiny, unmoving bodies in the arms of devastated parents. She had held grieving mothers’ hands, had whispered reassurances that felt hollow even as they left her lips. She had been through it all.

But this one hurt.

Maybe because the mother had fought so hard for this baby.

She had struggled with infertility for years—failed IVF cycles, miscarriages, loss after loss after loss. And then, finally, after one last desperate round of treatment, she had gotten pregnant. It had been a miracle, a victory, the kind of thing that made Y/N believe in hope again.

And then it was gone.

Seven weeks.

The bleeding had started suddenly. The mother had rushed to the ER, clutching her stomach, praying, begging for this not to be another loss.

But there was nothing Y/N could do.

She had held the ultrasound probe over the woman’s abdomen, had searched desperately for a flicker of life. But the screen had stayed still. Silent.

No heartbeat.

And Y/N had had to look into that mother’s eyes and tell her that she had lost another one.

That her body had betrayed her again.

That she was leaving the hospital with empty arms.

The woman had sobbed, had clutched her hands like Y/N could somehow change the outcome. And Y/N had wanted to. God, she had wanted to.

But she couldn’t.

So instead, she had held it together.

Had finished the paperwork.

Had walked the mother and her husband through their options.

Had done everything right.

And then, when it was all over, when the couple had left the hospital with nothing but a pamphlet on pregnancy loss and eyes red-rimmed with grief—Y/N had walked into an empty hallway, slid down against the wall, and broken.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, her breaths coming fast, uneven. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. Her chest ached, the kind of ache that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with helplessness.

She had done everything right, and it still wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t enough.

A shadow moved in front of her, and before she could look up, a familiar voice cut through the haze.

“Y/N.”

She didn’t need to see his face to know who it was.

Frank.

He hesitated for only a second before lowering himself to the ground beside her, his knee bumping against hers.

She knew they weren’t supposed to do this. Not here. Not like this.

But when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest, she let him.

Let herself fall apart in the only place that had ever felt safe.

She clutched the front of his scrubs, her fingers curling into the fabric as a sob tore through her. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it or tell her it was okay—because they both knew it wasn’t.

He just held her.

And for the first time since she had walked into that trauma bay, she let herself feel it.

Frank saw him first.

Dr. Robby, his boss—his friend—was watching them, eyes filled with something unreadable. For a long moment, no one moved.

Frank didn’t let go of Y/N.

Didn’t pull away.

Instead, he met Robby’s gaze and silently pleaded: Not now. Please, just let us have this.

And maybe it was the look in his eyes, or maybe it was the way Y/N was still clinging to him, but Dr. Robby just nodded once.

Then he turned and walked away.

The fallout was inevitable.

By the time their shifts started the next morning, the whispers had already spread. Nurses, techs, even a few attendings—they all had something to say about it.

"Did you hear?"

"Frank and Y/N."

"Secretly dating."

"How long do you think it’s been going on?"

Frank had heard all of it as he walked through the ER, but he kept his head down, pretending not to notice the lingering looks. He was used to being the center of attention in the ER—but for his work, not his personal life.

When he finally spotted Y/N in the hallway near the OB wing, he could tell she’d heard the rumors, too.

She looked up from the tablet in her hands, her lips pressed into a tight line. “So, I guess we’re officially the hospital’s latest scandal.”

Frank sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

She leaned against the nurses' station, folding her arms. “Are you okay?”

He wanted to laugh at that. She was the one who had broken down the night before, who had let herself unravel in his arms. She was the one who had been dealing with the grief of losing that patient’s baby.

And yet, she was still thinking about him.

“Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “I just… I didn’t think it would spread this fast.”

“Hospital gossip moves at the speed of light,” she muttered.

One of the nurses walked by, giving them a knowing glance before disappearing into a patient’s room. Y/N sighed.

“Maybe we should just get ahead of it,” she said. “Tell people the truth instead of letting them make up their own stories.”

Frank hesitated. A part of him wanted to say yes—to finally stop hiding. But another part of him, the part that had fought to keep their relationship private for so long, still felt uneasy.

Before he could say anything, Dr. Robby’s voice cut through the hallway.

“Langdon. Break room. Now.”

Y/N shot him a look, and he exhaled slowly. “Well. That was fast.”

Dr. Robby was waiting for him, leaning against a table with his arms crossed. The moment Frank walked in, he gestured for him to shut the door.

Frank obeyed but didn’t speak.

Robby let the silence stretch for a few long seconds before finally shaking his head. “You could’ve just told me, you know.”

Frank crossed his arms. “I didn’t want—”

“For people to think she was getting special treatment?” Robby finished for him. “Yeah, I figured. And I get it. But come on, man. You really thought no one would notice? The way you two look at each other?”

Frank clenched his jaw. He hadn’t realized they’d been that obvious.

Robby sighed. “Look, I don’t care who you date. You’re a good doctor. She’s a good doctor. You think I’m gonna start questioning your judgment just because you’re together?”

Frank didn’t answer.

Robby pushed off the desk and clapped him on the shoulder. “Just do me a favor—next time, don’t make me find out because I caught you two.”

Frank let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “So, you’re not mad?”

“I’m annoyed you thought you had to sneak around. But no, I’m not mad.”

Frank gave a small nod. He turned to leave, but before he could open the door, Robby added, “Now go find your girlfriend before she has another existential crisis in the hallway.”

Frank smirked, shaking his head as he walked out.

He found Y/N in an on call room, sitting on a bed, staring at her hands like they might hold the meaning of life.

She looked up when he walked in. “Are we in trouble?”

“No,” he said, dropping to sit next to her. “Robby basically just called me an idiot for keeping it a secret.”

She snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Frank studied her, taking in the exhaustion still lingering in her eyes. He reached over gently, covering her hand with his.

“No more secrets?” she asked.

He squeezed her fingers. “No more secrets.”

She smiled, relief washing over her face.

And just like that, everything they had been hiding was finally out in the open.

#imagine #imagines #the pitt imagine #the pitt #frank langdon imagine #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon #dr frank langdon #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon imagine

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wandaslovey · 7 months ago

Text

ᴍʀꜱ. ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏꜰꜰ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ

➺ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader

word count ~ 7k

authors note: i’m so excited to share this with you guys - this was so much fun to write! i’m planning on writing the first few parts as chapters where one will pick up right after the other and then once i get to a certain point i’ll do random time skips within the same au. oh also! i’m starting a tag list, so comment below if you’d like to be included on the next chapter! enjoy loves! 💕 as usual, this is not proofread.

content warning(s): legal age gap (w=30, n=33, r=23), natasha and wanda being two hot intimidating lawyers (except natasha kinda steals this show in this part, especially in the beginning. don’t worry though, wanda will have her time to shine!), conversation about kinkery and reader knows very little

if you’d like to read the drabble that inspired this series, click here

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you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your white button-up blouse for the 10th time. you huff, frustrated that your wardrobe just wouldn’t cooperate with you this morning. as you look yourself over in the mirror—the rest of your outfit consisting of a mid-thigh black pencil skirt, some black nylons and black combat boots—you couldn’t help but wonder if your attire was okay for the interview.

the interview…you can’t believe you landed an interview at thee M.R. law firm. you knew how unqualified you were for the position, so you felt extra pressure to compensate somehow with your appearance.

you turn to the side in the mirror, first left and then right, scrutinizing yourself at every angle. you readjust the pieces of hair framing your face that you pulled out of your bun, before deciding you’d done all you could to look your best.

you glance at the clock on your nightstand in the reflection of the mirror, seeing it was time to go. you grab your knock-off brand purse and slip out of your apartment. when you walk down the stairs and open the door to the outside, the noise from the city fills your ears. the sounds of cars, horns, sirens, music and people all blended together, creating a sort of hum all new-yorkers were familiar with. you step out onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding some tourists that were taking a picture in front of the trendy restaurant you lived by. you hail a cab, quickly sliding into the backseat and telling the driver your destination.

now that you were settled in your seat with only the taxi drivers quiet music to distract you, the nerves you’d been attempting to snub out suddenly hit you full force. there was no way you could do this. you were sure you were just wasting your own time and the poor person who had to interview you. you knew your 6 months working as a receptionist at a dentist office nowhere near qualified you to manage things at M.R. law. you mentally curse yourself, thinking you must’ve been half asleep and entirely too desperate when you sent in your application at this place. you needed a job though—urgently. with your roommate moving back home, and no one else taking her place, you were stuck with paying the rent on your own. on top of that, you were still paying back loans for school. you knew you should cut your losses, leave new york and transfer to a much more affordable school, but you really wanted to stay as much as you could help it.

every stoplight you hit along the 20 minute drive only makes you more nervous. the fluttery feeling in your stomach turns into full blown pterodactyls by the time the driver has pulled up to the very tall M.R. building. you pass some folded up cash to the driver, mumbling out a quiet ‘thank you,’ and then step out of the car. you stare up at the intimidating building, the lettering of “maximoff-romanoff law” taunting you—daring you to step inside. you let out a stubborn exhale, squaring your shoulders and walking in with a confidence as fake as grape flavored candy.

you stride over to the front desk, noticing that the only employees in sight are all women.

“hi, i’m here for an 11 o’clock interview,” you tell one of the women behind the desk. she offers you a polite smile, giving you instructions to head into the elevator and up to the 8th floor. you nod your head, thanking her and make your way to your doomsday interview.

as the elevator doors shut behind you, you find yourself all alone in the small space. there was no background music to distract you now. you stare at the floor, noticing a slight glint to the black tiles you were standing on. you listen to the beeps counting up each floor, your eyes dragging up the stainless steel panel when the number reads 8 and the final beep sounds. the doors open and you’re immediately greeted with the sight of more women pacing around the place. some seemed to be in a rush while others were leisurely walking across the floor while chatting with a co-worker. you walk over to the front desk again, repeating what you had told the other kind lady downstairs. she gestures for you to take a seat on the couch in the waiting area, letting you know someone will grab you in a few minutes.

you take a seat on the black leather couch, figuring this piece of furniture probably costed more than the rent for your apartment. you cross your legs, interlocking your fingers together at your knee. you glance around the office, taking in the decor. it was very tasteful, some touches of greenery that went nicely with the black and dark woodsy vibe this floor was going for. you try your best to ignore the bile rising in your throat and the pterodactyls still swarming in your stomach. it was a good thing you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.

as two minutes turns into ten, and then fifteen, you can’t help but feel the urge to just get up and leave. you felt so out of place here; you couldn’t imagine working at this place with all these women who were so obviously out of your league.

just as you were settling on the idea of ditching this interview, you hear clacking footsteps making their way over to you. you didn’t dare look up yet, pretending to be very interested in the tiny hole in your pantyhose just above your knee.

“miss (y/l/n)?” the most heavenly, sultry voice calls out to you. your eyes slowly trail along the tile, up the woman’s legs covered in black slacks, her blouse and matching black suit jacket, and then finally her face. it was her.

thee mrs. romanoff.

mrs. romanoff was the person who was going to interview you? you couldn’t believe your eyes, or the situation. you clear your throat, realizing you had yet to acknowledge her calling out to you.

“yeah, that’s me,” you reply, standing on slightly wobbly legs. you watch as mrs. romanoff’s eyes slowly take in your appearance, her eyes lingering on your frame. you feel a little scrutinized, wondering if you really did mess up with what you were wearing.

“follow me.” she turns and leads the way. you stumble a bit as you follow behind her, not expecting her to have as long of a stride as she does.

“you’ll have to forgive me for the wait—we had a couple meetings run over this morning,” she talks to you over her shoulder, slowing her walk a little when she notices you’re not directly behind her like she thought.

“oh, no worries. i didn’t mind the wait.” that was technically a lie, but it wasn’t the wait that bothered you as much as the fact that you were left alone with your thoughts a little too long.

she rounds a corner at the end of the hall, pausing and gesturing for you to enter in one of the two doors that were side by side on the wall to the right. you walk through the doorframe, stepping into what you assumed was her personal office.

“have a seat, miss (y/l/n),” she says in a low voice, walking from behind you and around her desk to sit in her chair. you sit in one of the two chairs across from her, your heart thudding violently in your chest from being in such close proximity to her.

you adjust your seating position three times before finally settling in place, forcing yourself to sit still. mrs. romanoff humors you, remaining silent and patient through your nervous fidgeting.

“so, i have to say i was a little surprised to see your application come through to my desk,” she starts and you immediately feel your cheeks grow hot, the feeling of being in a place you don’t belong filling your whole body with dread.

she pauses, and you realize she was waiting for you to respond. right. this was supposed to be where you attempt to prove yourself adequate to work in this position.

“yes, um… well, admittedly i myself did think it was a stretch to apply here, but then i figured, i’m a fast learner, i’m very thorough in all i do and i enjoy learning new things. i thought i’d try my hand at something i haven’t done before.” you rattle off an answer that while it was true, it was also something you rehearsed 20 times in the mirror while getting ready before you got here. you were almost positive the slight robotic edge in your voice was noticeable.

mrs. romanoff hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly at your rehearsed answer. “how well can you handle multi-tasking in a fast paced environment?” her lack of acknowledging your first answer puts a damper on your already fake confidence. you shift in your seat again, finding it harder to maintain eye contact with the sea of green that was her eyes.

“i would say i fare pretty well. i’m usually very good at managing stressful situations.” that was a complete lie—but most people bullshit their way through interviews, don’t they?

“usually?” she echoes, tilting her head to the side. she purses her lips, half attempting to hide a small smirk. she easily picked up on all your nervous antics the moment she saw you. you averting her gaze, walking unsteadily, fidgeting in your seat and the cute rose-y blush currently coloring your cheeks.

you clear your throat, interlocking your hands together in your lap. you notice they’ve already started to feel damp with sweat. “yeah, yeah most of the time i’d say so.”

“well, miss…” she glances down at what appeared to be your application and resume sitting in front of her on the desk. “(y/n)..you don’t sound very sure of yourself.” she sits upright in her chair, crossing her arms and leaning over the desk. your heart beats impossibly faster, the feeling of intimidation settling deep into your bones.

“no, i mean, i am sure—totally 100%.” you try to laugh, but it comes out sounding as nervous as you feel.

“okay, if that’s how you’d like to proceed…” she trails off, looking down at the papers in front of her again. you didn’t know what she meant, but your eyes fall desperately to the same papers she was looking at, as if they could provide some sort of answer to you. “what are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?”

you internally breath a sigh of relief. this was another answer you’d rehearsed in the mirror, it just needed to sound less robotic this time. “i’d say my greatest strengths are, i’m very punctual—i’m always on time if not early—um, i do all things thoroughly, as i mentioned before…i’m very reliable—hardly sick or need time off for family things, and i enjoy a good challenge. my greatest weakness is that i like to be very organized and sometimes i can spend a little too much time completing a certain project before moving onto the next.” you exhale after you finish talking, your eyes flicking across her face to try and get a sense of how she’s taking in your answer.

as you speak, you can’t help but notice that she was watching you so meticulously. it seemed that she was taking in not only your words, but your facial expressions, hand gestures and body language.

she looks at you for a moment as if she’s thinking hard on something. without taking her eyes off of you, she presses a button on her desk, the small ding from an intercom sounding. “joan, please track down mrs. maximoff and have her come into my office right away.”

your heartbeat now thrums loudly in your ears, your breath picking up its pace. you were not only going to be in the presence of mrs. romanoff but now mrs. maximoff too? never in your life had you seen such a powerful couple—and that was only in photos and billboards you’d seen around the city!

“is everything okay?” you ask nervously, feeling the permanent blush on your cheeks travel to the tips of your ears.

“everything’s fine, (y/n),” she gives you a smile but it was anything but reassuring. in fact, there was something about the expression that felt more intimidating with how devastatingly beautiful she was.

she grabs a pen and starts writing something on the paper. whatever it was was brief, but you couldn’t see clearly from your seat.

a quiet knock comes from the door and your posture becomes rigid as you hear who you assume to be mrs. maximoff entering the room.

“you called for me?” mrs. maximoff asks as she walks the length from the door to mrs. romanoff’s side. she walks around your chair and stands next to her wife, placing her palm flat against the desktop and leaning some of her weight on it.

“yes, i wanted you to meet our new interviewee,” she smiles with her lips and gestures to you in your seat. you look between the two beautiful, impeccably dressed women, feeling extremely small and insignificant. mrs. maximoff turns to look at you for the first time, a warm smile gracing her features.

“hi,” she offers simply, extending her hand to shake yours. you sit forward, reaching your arm out to shake her hand across the desk. her hand was incredibly soft and a little cold to the touch, but you wouldn’t expect anything less since the office was kept at such a cool temperature.

“mrs. maximoff is going to sit in on the rest of our interview. is that okay with you?” mrs. romanoff asks, her eyes daring you to object.

you quickly shake your head from side to side, shifting once again in your chair. “no, no that’s perfectly fine,” you reply easily, though you were feeling anything but fine. you notice mrs. maximoff giving her wife a curious glance but she doesn’t otherwise question it.

“let’s move over to the couches so we’re a little more comfortable,” mrs. romanoff stands up and heads over to the long olive green velvet sofa. you follow suit, except you take a seat in the smaller sofa, designed for only one person. mrs. maximoff sits closest to you on the long couch, brushing some of her pretty brown hair behind her shoulder. you watch as she glances back at her wife, mrs. romanoff giving her a certain look that you weren’t sure what it meant.

“so, (y/n), tells us what your career goals are,” mrs. romanoff proceeds with the interview as if the interruption never happened. you find yourself even more nervous to respond now that there were two, hot, older women sitting before you.

“umm…for now i really just need something steady that will simultaneously be giving me good work and life experience.. long term though, i’d like to become a therapist once i finish my masters program.” you bite your tongue once you finish your sentence, realizing this is not the sort of job where you tell your interviewers you’d like to pursue something that has nothing to do with their company.

“what appeals to you about becoming a therapist?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side curiously, just like mrs. romanoff had done earlier in the interview.

you lean back in your chair, a little surprised at her interest in your reply. “well, it’s a cliche answer, but i’m very passionate about helping people. it’s impossible to go through this life without getting seriously hurt and dealing with trauma. the vast majority of us have no idea how to cope or process through our experiences, so just knowing what i know, i’d like to try and be of some help for those who need it.”

the two lawyers look at you thoughtfully, mrs. maximoff nodding her head as you speak.

“that’s a very admirable passion. are you currently enrolled in a masters program?” she asks, crossing one of her legs over the other as she gets more comfortable in her seat.

“i am,” you reply with a shy smile. you never wanted to come across as bragging about your education, so you always sought to speak about it in the most humble way.

“you like school?” mrs. romanoff chimes in, leaning forward as she speaks.

your smile turns a bit rueful as you reply. “yes..i do. i know so many young people my age loathe school and all the hard work that needs to be put in, but…i love everything about it. i love taking notes, making flashcards, studying, taking tests, everything about it, i just love. i know it sounds a little crazy.” you laugh once, suddenly feeling more relaxed as you speak about something so genuinely. you feel a little more surprise again as you hear mrs. romanoff chuckle with you, nodding her head towards her brunette wife.

“sounds like somebody i know. this one here was a school addict. i had to practically pry textbooks out her hands just so we could do anything other than study,” she chuckles again, mrs. maximoff joining in with her.

“i won’t apologize for being so pointed about my studies. we both got straight A’s, didn’t we?” she jokes light-heartedly and you find yourself smiling warmly at their light banter.

mrs. maximoff turns back to face you, a smile still touching her lips. “what else do you do aside from school?” her question makes your face fall slightly as you now had to admit you were technically unemployed. you knew that didn’t look good for potential employers.

“right now, not a whole lot. just keeping busy with my studies,” you respond vaguely to which they both hum in response.

the pair of them continue asking you questions, except they become progressively more personal until they don’t attain to work or working at this position at all.

“do you like living alone? or do you prefer living with others?” was one of the questions mrs. romanoff asks you after you had explained you were currently without a roommate.

even though it was strange, you find that the more you talk about yourself, the more relaxed you feel. mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff both noticed it too. they could see more of your personality showing through as the nerves slowly but surely dissipated.

it had been near 40 minutes by the time mrs. romanoff checked her watch and noticed the time. she looked at her wife, mrs. maximoff seeming to sense her eyes on her as she automatically looked to the side. they shared a look, one of them nodding to the other before turning back to face you.

“well, we’ve kept you here much longer than was intended—i apologize for that.” mrs. romanoff says as she stands, mrs. maximoff following suit. you stand also, smoothing your skirt back over your legs. as you stand so closely to them now, you notice how they were both taller than you by a few inches, making you feel small again like you had earlier.

“it’s no big deal. i’m in no rush,” you smile shyly as you look up at the two of them. you extend your arm out, shaking both of their hands before getting ready to leave. they both give your hand a gentle squeeze and when mrs. romanoff shakes your hand, she grasps on longer than her wife, holding your gaze with a certain intensity.

“we’ll be in touch, miss (y/n),” she says smoothly, calling you out by your first name, and for some reason the combination between her voice and her eye contact made your knees feel weak.

you swallow thickly, nodding your head and thanking them both for the interview before turning away. mrs. maximoff leads you to the door to exit and walks you all the way out to the elevators. you pace the short distance in somewhat comfortable silence. when you turn to face her to say your final goodbye, your surprised to see mrs. romanoff behind her. she was following so quietly that you didn’t notice her presence.

“bye! thank you again,” you smile, stepping into the elevator once the doors open. the two women stand side by side of each other, giving you a near identical smile which portrayed some sort of knowing behind it, almost like they were expecting something.

“it was a pleasure meeting you miss (y/l/n),” mrs. maximoff calls out to you as the elevator doors slide closed.

you exhale a breath you didn’t now you were holding, slumping back against the elevator walls.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

that evening, you cook up a box of mac n cheese, too lazy to try and find the ingredients to make anything else. not to mention, your mind was still a little bit jumbled after your interview with thee lesbian power couple.

mrs. romanoff’s words kept echoing in your head.

”we’ll be in touch” she’d said. but didn’t your interview totally blow? especially at the end. it wasn’t so much an interview but rather more like a conversation where people try to get to know each other better. maybe they were looking for a personality hire? you really doubted that though.

you eat your mac n cheese while staring blankly at the wall, thinking over the whole exchange with mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff. as you mindlessly feed yourself spoonfuls of your dinner, you realize you didn’t even know their first names. you remembered you had once seen them on a billboard somewhere but didn’t remember exactly what they were. mrs. romanoff’s first name was natalie or something similar? you were at a loss with mrs. maximoff. you decide to google them to put your curiosities to rest.

pulling out your phone, you google their names and the law firm. after doing just a little bit of digging, you see their full names: natasha romanoff and wanda maximoff. ah, so you were close with mrs. romanoff’s name. you wonder if they only go by their last names at the office. it definitely seemed like their vibe to have things be so professional.

as you go throughout the rest of your evening, showering and getting ready for bed, you continue thinking about them. the longer your mind lingers on them, the less “professionally” you think about them. you couldn’t help but notice how utterly beautiful they both were. they both carried themselves with a confidence that anyone would find intimidating. there was something so forceful about their presences, but not necessarily in a bad way. it seemed like natasha—mrs.romanoff—was a little more rough around the edges, but you could see she easily held a soft spot for her wife and life partner. mrs. maximoff gave off a much more approachable vibe, but she was still intimidating in her own way.

as your mind continues wandering, you find yourself becoming more tired before you finally drift off to sleep, your brain fatigued from all your analytical thinking.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the light shining through your thin curtains. you blink a few times, slowly adjusting to the light. you blindly reach over to your nightstand, unplugging your phone from the charger. as you unlock your phone, you notice a missed call from an unknown number nearly two hours ago. you shoot up into a sitting position in your bed, suddenly feeling much more awake. it was just passed 10 am. was the unknown number a call back about your interview?

your fingers furiously swipe on your phone, quickly googling the number for M.R. law. you breath a sigh of relief when you cross reference the digits in your phone and the number online, realizing it was just a random unknown caller. you let your body fall back limply on the bed, your leg dangling off the side as you clutch your phone to your chest. that would’ve been humiliating if they called offering you the job and you didn’t pick up the phone.

as you go about your morning leisurely—not having any classes this day—you try to push the two hot lawyers out of your mind. there was no point in dwelling on them if you’d never hear from them again.

you leave your face bare of makeup, not intending on leaving the apartment and you opt for wearing comfy clothes—or “frumpy” clothes as you called them—instead of something nice.

you head into the kitchen, pouring yourself a bowl of frosted flakes cereal. you let it sit there for a few minutes to soak up the milk, as soggy cereal was your favorite. you’d argue with anyone who claimed crunchy cereal was best. as you wait, you power up your laptop, intent on working on some homework.

you’re munching on your cereal, blue-light filtered glasses adorning your nose as you work on your computer screen. you were mid-bite when you hear your phone buzzing on the counter next to you. you glance down at your phone and frown slightly when you notice it looks to be the same unknown number from earlier.

you continue chewing your bite, raising the phone to your ear as you accept the call.

“hello?” you ask, your voice mumbled a bit as you still had some food in your mouth.

“good morning, miss (y/n),” you hear a warm, velvety voice greet you. after almost an hour interview with her yesterday, you’d recognize this distinct voice anywhere.

“mrs. romanoff?” you just about choke on your food as you swallow, your body tensing slightly as you feel much more alert.

“that would be correct.” you hear her chuckle softly into the phone, your tone laced with obvious surprise she must have found endearing.

“i’m so sorry! i think i missed your call earlier? i didn’t recognize the number- i had no idea it was you, i’m sorry!” you apologize quickly, thinking that if she was actually calling to offer you the job, you might have just ruined it.

“don’t worry about it. i would be surprised if you recognized it given that this is my personal number,” her voice was low and warm. it was entirely too enticing.

“oh.. umm, right. well, good morning,” you stumble slightly over your words, unsure what else to say to her.

“are you normally a late riser?” she asks with humor in her voice.

“what? oh no, not normally no. i just don’t have classes today,” you explain, a little embarrassed at her having called you out on your sleeping habits.

“i see. well, we just wanted to call and ask if you’d meet us for a coffee,” her question came out as more of a statement and you were left wondering why on earth she would want to go out for coffee with you and…wait.. did she say we?

“we?” the words echo aloud from your mind.

“yes. my wife and i,” she reiterates calmly. you look around your small excuse for a kitchen as if the reasoning behind her posing this question was written on the walls.

“like today?” you ask stupidly. of course she meant today.

“yes - today. can you meet us in 15? we’re going on lunch break. i’ll text you the address.” your eyes zip to the digital numbers plastered on the microwave. you only had 15 minutes to try and look presentable, get a cab and meet them.

“ummm..yeah. yeah sure,” you nod your head as if she could see you through the phone. you quickly hop off the stool you were sitting on, walking briskly to the bathroom with the phone still held firmly to your ear.

“perfect. we’ll see you soon.” she hangs up and you all but toss your phone on the bathroom counter, staring down at the device as if it’s offended you. you quickly snap out of it, only having 5 or so minutes to un-hobo yourself. you quickly apply some concealer on your dark spots, powder on a little blush and brush on a coat of mascara in record time. in your haste, you stumble from the bathroom to your closet, trying to find something to quickly throw on. you grab a simple white baby tee, putting it on and then aggressively stepping into some loose light wash jeans. grabbing your belongings, you half jog out the door, nearly slipping down the last two stairs of your apartment.

you quickly get a cab, thanking whatever higher power there is in your head that there was very little delay in one driving by. as the taxi driver takes you to the address you gave him, you sit forward in your seat, gathering your hair in a pony tail near the top of your head. you secure it with an elastic you always keep around your wrist and pull some pieces out to frame your face. you glance in the cab rear view mirror, seeing you looked fairly presentable. you exhale shakily, sitting back in your seat as the same nerves you felt yesterday on the way to your interview were coming back now.

what was this about? i mean, you knew it wasn’t normal to meet with potential employees for coffee. it was especially suspicious because it was mrs. romanoff *and* her wife.

your thoughts are interrupted as the taxi slows to a crawl and he pulls up to the coffee shop. you’d never been to this one before, granted there were hundreds of shops all over the city so there were probably many you hadn’t gone to. your heart leaps in your chest as you see both mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff waiting outside for you.

you pass the driver the money, thank him and slip out of the car. as you step onto the sidewalk, mrs. maximoff greets you with the same warm smile she’d given you when you first met. mrs. romanoff smiles too, though it’s not as wide as her wife’s.

“hello again, (y/n).” your heart skips a beat as you hear mrs. maximoff use your first name for the first time. mrs. romanoff had been calling you by your first name since you’d stepped foot into her office. you liked the way your name fell from both of their tongues.

“hi, good to see you both again,” you smile despite your nerves, making eye contact with both of them in a polite manner.

“shall we?” mrs. romanoff suggests as she opens the door for you, her wife placing a gentle hand on the small of your back to usher you inside. you inhale shakily, the unexpected contact surprising you in a pleasant way.

as the three of you file in behind the small line of people waiting to order, your eyes skim the menu, even though you already knew exactly what you wanted.

“cute outfit,” mrs. romanoff murmurs from behind you. you could hear what sounded to be amusement in her tone but you weren’t sure.

you turn to the side to face her, her being on your left and mrs. maximoff on your right just a half-step behind you. “thank you. i threw it on—literally. i was wearing something a lot less presentable when you first called.” you glance down at both of their outfits. the duality between yours and their outfits was almost laughable. they looked impeccably fashionable and you were just in street clothes.

wanda chuckles lightly at your comment. “what were you wearing before?” she asks.

“just an oversized tee and some biker shorts,” you shrug, crossing your arms casually over your chest. you always felt more comfortable when you had your arms wrapped around yourself.

as the line moves and you’re next, mrs. romanoff quickly stands in front of you, her body moving between you and the counter. “what’ll you have?” she gives you an expectant look, ready to give your order.

“an iced mocha?” you ask a little shyly, her show of putting herself between you and the cash register did something to you for some reason.

she nods, and turns to the barista, repeating your order along with hers and her wife’s. you’re about to protest, wanting to tell her she doesn’t have to pay for you, but you feel mrs. maximoff’s hand return to the small of your back, swiftly maneuvering you away from the line and over to the small cluster of tables.

you sit down in a chair she pulled out for you and you scoot yourself in as mrs. maximoff settles in her own seat across from you.

“you really don’t have to pay for me, you know,” you pipe gently, glancing over at mrs. romanoff who was standing at the counter waiting for the drinks before you turn back to mrs. maximoff.

“of course not, we want to. plus, neither her nor i would ever allow you to pay for yourself even if you insisted,” she smiles winsomely, her eyes gleaming with something warm and bright.

mrs. romanoff returns with all three coffees, somehow handling all three and setting them down in a graceful manner.

“thank you,” you give mrs. romanoff a gentle smile as your fingers interlock around the cup and you drag it closer to you.

they both take a sip from their coffees—which were both hot—before mrs. romanoff clears her throat, her eyes narrowing in on you as she leans forward on the table.

“so, i imagine you’re wondering why we asked you here.” she throws a glance at her wife who was already looking at her speak.

“it may have been on my mind…” you trail off, sounding as innocent as possible.

mrs. romanoff smiles knowingly, her eyes appraising you in a way that made you squirm slightly in your seat.

“it’s not about the job, as i’m sure you might have figured, but rather about offering a different type of position,” she begins. your brow furrows in confusion. what did she mean?

“a different position? like a cleaning job or something?” you immediately go to thinking about jobs that require little to no experience, figuring that might be all they’d have to offer given your background.

they both laugh at your guess, mrs. romanoff being the one to shake her head no.

“no, not a cleaning job,” she pauses, seeming to measure your expression before continuing. “(y/n), have you ever heard the term bdsm?”

your face goes blank and you look from mrs. romanoff to her wife who appeared to be watching you just as carefully.

“um…i think so? i’ve heard the term a few times before.” your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly, an unfamiliar pit settling into your lower tummy at the abrupt shift in the topic of conversation.

“what do you know about it?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side which causes some of her neatly curled hair to fall forward.

you look between the two of them, unconsciously shrinking further down into your seat. this was such a taboo subject to talk about it public; you found yourself already growing warm from just the thought of this discussion.

“well, it’s..sex stuff…right? like being tied down and whipped?” you speak hesitantly in a small voice, throwing quick glances at the strangers littered across the coffee shop.

“those things can be a part of it, yes—if all parties discuss that’s something they like to participate in” mrs. romanoff explains and then continues. “what else have you heard about it? or is that the gist of what you know?”

you shrug, your shoulders slumped forward and your head bowed slightly to try and obscure your flushed cheeks. you suck your bottom lip into your mouth—your nervous habit.

mrs. maximoff pipes in again after noticing your bashfulness. “a lot of people have that imagery in mind when they hear the term ‘bdsm,’ so it’s understandable that that’s your impression. there is so much more to it though. really, bdsm is about exploring people’s sexual interests in a safe space. you learn about your limits, what you like, what you didn’t expect to like, and so much more.” you listen to her explanation intently, your mind immediately wandering and wondering where this conversation was going to go.

mrs. romanoff picks up off her wife’s words. “some people simply dabble in certain aspects of bdsm while others treat it more as a lifestyle—and for my wife and i, it is a lifestyle.”

you nod hesitantly as they both pause for a second, watching you digest this information. you’re unsure how to respond, feeling progressively more restless in your seat.

they both give each other a look before mrs romanoff nods and mrs. maximoff speaks.

“normally, for people who live this lifestyle, they draw up contracts between themselves and the person they want as their submissive.. now we know this is all very forward, but there’s just no other way to put it. we’d like to have you as our new submissive.”

your face turns bright red for reasons you’re not fully aware of. you weren’t quite sure what being a “submissive” all entailed, but you couldn’t wipe the imagery of being helplessly tied down and whipped from your mind. you’re silent as your brain flits through one imaginary scenario to the next. you were so clueless though, you weren’t sure if the things you were thinking up were things people actually did or if they were just shown in porn.

“me…? i just..well it’s just that..i’m-i don’t know if i would be your ideal candidate,” you stumble out, your eyes glued to the table as you avoid looking at either of them at all costs.

“on the contrary, (y/n), i singled you out almost immediately at our interview. i knew i wanted you. that’s why i had wanda join us.” her face softens as she notices your slight uneasiness. being a bit of a sadist though, she couldn’t help but find your innocence and embarrassment so incredibly gratifying. it only made her want you more.

your teeth worry into your bottom lip again as you look between one set of green eyes and then the other. “do you guys normally.. share, uhm..submissives?”

“not always, but we do like to when it’s possible,” wanda shares, a reassuring smile on her face. you purse your lips, chewing on the inside of your cheek as more questions arise in your head.

“how does that work? sharing i mean.” you knew there were people who participated in polyamorous relationships, and you had no issue with it, you just had trouble visualizing the dynamic.

natasha grins wickedly to herself, realizing now how truly innocent and unknowing you were. she suspected a little yesterday at the interview, but had no idea the true scope of your innocence. wanda also found herself undeniably more attracted to you after this conversation. her hands twitch in her lap, thinking of all the things she could do to you that you probably haven’t ever dreamed of.

“it works (y/n), trust me…” mrs. romanoff says seductively.

“we know this is all very foreign to you, sweetheart. you don’t have to say yes today, just think about it?” mrs. maximoff reaches across the table and affectionately holds onto your wrist. your stomach does a little flip-flop at the term of endearment paired with the affection.

there were so many thoughts and feelings swirling around you, but one thing stuck out above the rest. you wanted to learn more. you didn’t want to say no and close a door on something that you might enjoy.

“i want to.. i mean, um, i will think about it,” you clear your throat for the umpteenth time that day, pulling your hand back from mrs. maximoff’s light grasp. it was suddenly feeling like her hand was searing your skin.

“you want to what?” mrs. romanoff presses, her eyes looking at you with intensity again.

“i just meant that i want to learn more..about this,” you reply quietly, peeking at mrs. romanoff through your lashes. you notice her clench her jaw and flex her fingers that were resting on the table, but you weren’t sure what it meant.

“well, there’s a lot to learn, but luckily i’d say we’re both pretty good teachers,” mrs. maximoff grins more wickedly this time, her expression giving you a new glimpse into something you hadn’t seen in her until this point.

“why don’t we meet up again sometime this weekend? we can answer any questions you have—help you learn more about what we’re asking from you,” she adds, to which you surprisingly feel eager to agree to the idea. you find yourself already wanting to learn more, especially if the people who were going to educate you were two of the hottest women alive.

“yeah…let’s do that,” you nod once, your blush slowly creeping off your cheeks though a slight honey glow was still present.

you all begin to gather your things, mrs. maximoff noticing their lunch break was just about up. the three of you hardly touched your coffees, the conversation too intense to take swigs of the drinks.

the two of them walk you out of the shop, mrs. romanoff hailing down a cab for you. you turn to say goodbye to mrs. maximoff and find that she’s standing closer to you than expected.

“i look forward to seeing you again so soon, dragotsennaya veshch’,” she murmurs, reaching to give your arm an affectionate squeeze. you smile at her, unsure what she said but not caring much to know now.

you step closer to the cab after mrs. romanoff opens the door for you. before you can slip inside the car, mrs. romanoff leans down, murmuring in your ear.

“if you have any questions before the weekend that simply can’t wait, don’t hesitate to text me. you have my number.” her voice was a little rough which makes you shiver.

you nod slowly, sucking on your bottom lip again. you give mrs. maximoff a shy hand wave which she mimics with an amused grin. you sink down into the car seat, mrs. romanoff shutting the door behind you.

as the taxi drives away, you can’t help but look behind you as the two women grow smaller and smaller on the sidewalk. as the car turns a corner, the couple remain standing there until you disappear. you sigh and turn back around in your seat, resting heavily against the cushion behind you.

what just happened?

——————————

tag list:

@poppyshuman @wandamaximoffsbadgirl @xenaizogie @ashadash0904 @kittnii @hayeeonn @gh0sstss @beggingonmykneesforher @natashalover3000 @msvenablesbitch @ihartnat @leesromanova @alwaysgoodnight @lowlifejuliett @azaleavolkova @caramelcat123 @daretodream1307-blog @ctrlaltedits @sweetmissnothing @gecko1 @karmasgxrl @marvelwomenarehot0 @elle161989 @waaayoutofline @snazzysprig @simpforlizzie @just4natasha

#venturing is inevitable: series #vii #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wandanat smut #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader

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svtiddiess · 19 days ago

Text

Search My Body

Synopsis: What's better than 1 hot DILF? 2 hot DILFs.

Pairing: dilf!officer!Seungcheol (SVT) x afab!reader x dilf!officer!Jeonghan (SVT)

Genre: smut, established relationship, non-idol! au

Rating: mature

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: age gap, threesome, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), daddy kink, manhandling, creampie, overstimulation, orgasm denial, dom!Seungcheol, dom!Jeonghan, sub!brat!reader, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: We're so back.

Thank you papa @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping me with the title! Thank you twin @tomodachiii for helping me with the banner! Thank you @bella-feed and @supi-wupi for betaing! @sanaxo-o I promised you dilf!Jeonghan, so here you go, I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Click here to join my taglist!

Read part 1 here!

Read on ao3

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

Sunlight peeks through the blinds, illuminating the room in a soft glow. A soft groan comes from behind you, and the arm resting on you pulls you closer. You turn around and snuggle your face into the firm chest that you've come to love so much.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Seungcheol mumbles, voice still heavy with sleep.

"G'morning, daddy," you murmur, voice muffled against his chest.

Seungcheol groans, nipping at the shell of your ear in warning—you giggle, fully aware of what that nickname does to him.

"Such a brat," he rasps out before placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

"Can't help it when it comes to you," you tease.

"I really need to put you in your place," he huffs playfully.

"Who says that's not exactly what I want?" you grin.

"How did I get so lucky with you?" he chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

"Well, I did blatantly flirt with you and basically begged you to fuck me," you reply matter-of-factly.

Seungcheol laughs, shaking his head at the fond memory of your unhinged antics. It's been several months since then, and while neither of you has put a label on it, the relationship between you two is unmistakably real, filled with care, affection, and something that feels a lot like love.

Seungcheol spoils you endlessly, even encouraging you to quit your stressful job, assuring you he'd take care of everything. And at this point, you've practically moved into his penthouse.

"I'm going to be late," Seungcheol mumbles as he shifts to get out of bed.

"No~" you whine, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close.

"Sweetheart, I have to go to work," he chuckles, gently rubbing your back.

You look up at him with puppy eyes and a pout, silently pleading for him to stay a little longer—and, as always, he gives in, wrapping his arms around you and cuddling you for just a bit more. You let out a contented sigh, snuggling closer, soaking in his warmth for as long as you can.

"There's a surprise coming later," he murmurs.

"A surprise?"

"Mhm. Just something I think you'll look gorgeous in," he says with a soft smile.

"Cheol, another gift? You're seriously spoiling me," you whine.

"Can't help it when it comes to you," he grins, throwing your own words back at you.

"You're seriously acting like a sugar daddy," you tease with a chuckle.

"As long as I get to be your daddy," he shoots back, earning a playful slap from you.

The two of you laugh before settling into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other's presence in the quiet morning.

Your ears perk up at the sound of the front door opening. You furrow your brows in confusion—Seungcheol usually isn't off work until way later. Thinking he probably got out of work early to surprise you, you quickly head to the living room, excited giggles escaping your lips.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see that the man who entered was, in fact, not Seungcheol. A tall, slender man stood in the middle of the living room. His chocolate eyes raked over you, a subtle smirk on his lips.

Eyes widening in alarm, you quickly look around to see if there's anything nearby to protect yourself from the intruder.

"Ah, you must be the girl that Cheol has been fawning over," he muses, his honey-laced voice breaking the silence.

Your eyes dart back to him, confusion and alarm etched onto your face.

"Calm down, Dollface," he chuckles, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a friend of Cheol's."

"A friend?" you ask, guard still up.

"His best friend, actually," he states. "I'm hurt he hasn't told you about me."

"Oh," you mumble, still not trusting the stranger.

He steps closer to you, his long legs easily reducing the distance between you two. Your mouth slightly goes agape when your brain registers just how tall he is—he easily towers over you, making you feel small next to him.

"I'm Jeonghan," he smirks, stretching forward his hand to shake.

Hesitantly, you place your hand in his—his fingers are long and slender, but rough with calluses, much like Seungcheol's.

"Y/N," you mumble.

"Pretty name for a pretty face," he murmured with a subtle smirk. "Pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He then leans down and places a kiss on the back of your hand, lips lingering a moment too long.

Heat rushes to your face at his actions—you quickly withdraw your hand away, mumbling a stuttered response, earning a chuckle from Jeonghan.

"Shame Cheol isn't here, I would've loved to spend more time with you," he said, voice low and laced with something unreadable. You shift in place, feeling a weird warmth spread throughout your body.

"I shall take my leave then, see you soon, Dollface." He smirks before turning around and leaving. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding as he steps away from you.

He pauses just before leaving, turns back around, and says, "Cheol's a lucky man to enjoy this view every day." With a wink, he steps out.

Your eyes widen, and a wave of heat rushes through you as you realise you'd been standing there the entire time wearing nothing but Seungcheol's shirt—one that barely covered anything.

Grabbing a pillow from the nearby couch, you scream into it, mortified and praying for the ground to swallow you whole. God, you really didn't want to ever see Jeonghan again.

Opening the car door, Jeonghan slips into the passenger seat right before Seungcheol takes off.

"What the—get out!" Seungcheol screeches when he spots him.

"Nope. I'm carpooling with you," Jeonghan says with a cheeky grin.

"No, you're not. Now get out!" Seungcheol hisses.

"Wow, that hurts, Cheollie," Jeonghan says, clutching his chest dramatically.

"Don't call me that," Seungcheol grumbles."Now, get out, I'm gonna be late."

"For what? A date with Y/N?" Jeonghan teases, and Seungcheol freezes.

"How did you—"

"I have my ways," Jeonghan smirks. "So, when are you introducing her to me?"

"Never," Seungcheol mutters.

"Ah, my heart. It aches," Jeonghan gasps, earning an eye roll from Seungcheol.

"I want to meet her," Jeonghan says plainly.

"No."

"I'm going to annoy you until you let me," Jeonghan grins.

Seungcheol lets out a long sigh, already knowing Jeonghan won't stop once he sets his mind to something. It actually reminds him a bit of you.

"Fine," he grumbles.

"Great!" Jeonghan beams. "Dinner this Sunday at my favourite restaurant."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but mumbles an agreement. Satisfied, Jeonghan fastens his seatbelt and settles in, while Seungcheol shoots him a look of pure disbelief.

"Uh, get out?"

"Nope. Still carpooling," Jeonghan replies, unbothered.

Muttering curses under his breath, Seungcheol starts the car anyway, knowing full well that arguing with Jeonghan is a battle he's never going to win.

"Cheol, stop we're in public," you giggle, trying to remove his hand that's groping your ass.

"But your ass looks so good in that dress, sweetheart," Seungcheol purrs, hand still kneading your ass. "I knew you'd look gorgeous in this."

You squeal and giggle, trying to swat Seungcheol's hands away. He's brought you out for dinner, saying he wants to introduce you to a friend of his. You're doing your best to stay composed and make a good first impression, but it's hard to focus when Seungcheol seems very fixated on your behind.

You finally manage to pry his hands off as the two of you step into the private room he reserved. But the second you walk in, you freeze, eyes widening at the person already seated.

"J-Jeonghan?" you gasp, jaw dropping.

Jeonghan, who had been scrolling through his phone, glances up and smirks. "Y/N," he says smoothly, "I did say I'd see you soon."

Seungcheol looks between the two of you, clearly confused. "Wait…you guys know each other?"

"Told you I have my ways," Jeonghan winks, then gestures for you both to sit.

You take in Jeonghan's appearance as you settle into the seat beside Seungcheol. He's wearing a silky black blouse with a deep V-neckline, offering teasing glimpses of his chest. His slightly long black hair is styled in a half-up, half-down look, perfectly framing his angelic features. You can't help but marvel at how he manages to look both effortlessly masculine and delicately feminine at the same time.

"So, how do you two know each other?" Seungcheol asks, still visibly thrown off.

"I already told you—I have my ways," Jeonghan replies with a cheeky grin.

"Jeonghan," Seungcheol warns, tone sharp.

Jeonghan laughs. "Alright, alright. I ran into her when I stopped by your place the other day. You weren't home, but lucky for me, Dollface was."

Your cheeks heat up instantly at the memory of that unexpected and very awkward encounter.

"Dollface?" Seungcheol mutters, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. Suits her, don't you think?" Jeonghan smirks.

Seungcheol grumbles something under his breath while you shift in your seat, your body growing warm under the weight of the situation.

"God, Dollface, you look absolutely delicious in that dress," Jeonghan purrs, his eyes shamelessly raking down your figure.

"O-Oh, thank you, Jeonghan," you mumble, quickly taking a sip of water to hide your burning face.

"Please, call me Hannie," he adds with a wink, and your heart skips a beat.

Seungcheol scoffs, rolling his eyes at Jeonghan’s antics, prompting a snicker from the latter.

"What's wrong, Cheollie?" Jeonghan teases, and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing at the nickname.

"Stop doing that," Seungcheol grumbles.

"Doing what?" Jeonghan asks innocently, raising a brow.

"You know what," Seungcheol hisses.

"I'm just making conversation with Y/N," Jeonghan grins, all faux innocence.

Sensing an opportunity to tease Seungcheol, you chime in, "Yeah, Cheollie, Hannie's just trying to talk to me."

"Y/N," Seungcheol groans, already regretting bringing the two of you together.

"See? Let me chat with the beautiful lady," Jeonghan beams. "Cheol's always such a party pooper. At the precinct, everyone calls him the lame boss."

"Wait—you guys work together?" you blink in surprise.

"Unfortunately," Seungcheol mutters, while Jeonghan chuckles.

You bite your lip, your curiosity piqued. Something about Jeonghan being an officer just made him even more attractive.

"I didn't expect you to be a police officer," you mumble shyly.

"Looks can be deceiving, Dollface," Jeonghan says with a wink—and once again, your face burns red.

"Oh, and I'm single, by the way," Jeonghan adds with a smirk, making your heart skip a beat.

"She doesn't need to know that," Seungcheol scoffs.

"Just thought she might want to," Jeonghan grins, completely unbothered.

"Are you a DILF too?" you tease, making Jeonghan burst into laughter while Seungcheol groans in disbelief.

"Oh, I've definitely got plenty of experience," Jeonghan purrs, voice low and smooth, making your body flush with heat. "How about I show you just how experienced I am?"

Seungcheol's hand suddenly lands on your thigh, squeezing it in warning; you simply shoot him a cheeky grin in response.

"I think I'd love that," you smirk, deliberately provoking him.

"Brat," Seungcheol mutters under his breath.

"You know you love it, Cheollie," Jeonghan says with a teasing grin, and you can't help but giggle.

Seungcheol abruptly stands, and your smile falters, unsure if you've taken things too far.

"Cheol, I'm sorry, I—"

"Let's go," he says, grabbing your arm firmly.

"You too," he adds to Jeonghan, who rises with a lazy grin.

"But we haven't even ordered yet," you mumble as Seungcheol leads you toward the car, Jeonghan trailing close behind.

"I have a feeling he's more in the mood for dessert right now," Jeonghan snickers.

Seungcheol swings open the back door of the car. "Sit," he orders, and you obey without protest, suddenly feeling the shift in atmosphere. Jeonghan slips in beside you, and Seungcheol gets behind the wheel, heading straight for his penthouse.

The air inside the car is thick with tension, every breath you take laced with anticipation. You shift uncomfortably, goosebumps trailing along your skin.

You gasp softly when Jeonghan places a hand on your thigh. It doesn't move—doesn't slide up or down—but the weight of it alone has your pulse racing. You glance toward the rearview mirror, only to meet Seungcheol's sharp, unreadable gaze locked directly on you.

You're playing a dangerous game…but god, do you love it.

Jeonghan's hand stays still, yet it's enough to have you squirming in place, heat pooling under your skin.

The drive to the apartment felt longer than usual—your mouth dry like it was stuffed with cotton, and your body tense beneath the weight of Jeonghan’s hand. The air was thick with anticipation, and not a word was spoken; only the low hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal filled the silence.

When you finally arrive at the penthouse, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. Seungcheol steps out first, opens your door, and without a word, pulls you close by the waist. His grip is firm, possessive, and grounding. With Jeonghan following just behind, the three of you make your way into the building and toward the elevator, the tension crackling like static in the air.

"Cheol I—" you start once you enter the living room.

"Did I allow you to speak, brat?" Seungcheol hisses, grabbing your face.

You let out a squeak, shaking your head in protest. Seungcheol hums in response, fingers squeezing your cheeks until your lips purse into a pout.

"Since you're both determined to be brats," he muses, a smirk playing on his lips, "why don't you fuck each other right in front of me?" Your eyes widen, heart stuttering at his words.

Before you can react, he closes the distance, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. A whimper escapes you as you melt into it, kissing him back.

"You can stop whenever you want, sweetheart," he murmurs against your mouth, breath warm. "Just say your safeword, and everything ends. No questions."

The reassurance sends warmth blooming in your chest. You can't help but smile as you nod, heart fluttering.

You kiss him back, the heat between you electric, and Seungcheol growls as his hands roam your body. A breathy moan escapes you when he grips your ass, his touch possessive.

Then, lips press against the back of your neck, and you gasp. Seungcheol's gaze snaps over your shoulder, a low warning rumbling in his chest.

"Did I say you could do that?" he growls.

Jeonghan's voice drips with mischief. "I was getting impatient."

You giggle, twisting around to loop your arms over Jeonghan's shoulders—only for Seungcheol to let out another possessive growl. Jeonghan smirks before sealing his lips over yours.

His kiss is nothing like Seungcheol's. He teases, pulling away just as you lean in, leaving fleeting nips along your lips. A frustrated whine slips out, and Jeonghan laughs against your mouth.

"So adorable," he purrs, "No wonder you kept her, Cheollie." Your cheeks flush at his words, and behind you, Seungcheol chuckles, dark and pleased.

Jeonghan's lips trail slow, teasing kisses down your neck, his fingers toying with the buttons of your blouse. A gasp slips out when his hands slide beneath the fabric, sending goosebumps skittering across your skin.

"I wanna see you," he murmurs against your throat, breath hot, "all of you."

With deft, playful fingers, he undresses you, and you shiver as cool air kisses your heated skin.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Jeonghan breathes, his gaze raking over you as his fingertips trace delicate paths along your bare waist.

You flush under his heavy stare, suddenly hyperaware that you're the only one exposed. Your hands lift to his shirt, eager to even the playing field—but he catches your wrists with a smirk.

"Ah, ah, not yet," he purrs, pressing a soft kiss to your fingertips.

Heart pounding, you bite your lip as Jeonghan slowly sinks to his knees in front of you, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

A whine rips through your throat as he leaves teasing bites on your inner thighs, so close to where you need him most.

"Barely touched you, and you're already dripping," he hums.

"Jeonghan, please," you beg, growing impatient.

With a smirk, Jeonghan dives into your core, lapping up your juices. You moan and throw your head back as his tongue circles your sensitive nub. His movements are playful, teasing—giving you what you want but taking it away just as quickly.

Your legs tremble from the pleasure, and you can barely hold yourself up—you grab hold of the couch behind you, not trusting your legs to keep steady. A tight coil of pleasure winds low in your stomach, throbbing with need—you're so close, but not close enough. Desperate, you rock your hips harder against Jeonghan's mouth, chasing your release as you ride his face. A deep, approving moan vibrates against you, spurring you on—he loves how frantic you've become.

"Don't you dare cum." Seungcheol's command cuts through the air. You whine as you look at him.

"I-I can't—"Your voice breaks into a whimper as the tension coils tighter, teetering on the edge of release. "I can't hold back anymore—"

"No—!" The broken cry escapes as Jeonghan withdraws, stealing your climax at the last possible second. Your body arches uselessly, chasing what's already gone, frustration burning through every nerve.

Jeonghan straightens up, clicking his tongue as he wipes his mouth. "Ah-ah. No rushing." His thumb swipes over your lower lip, silencing your whimpers. "I want to watch you fall apart for me, Dollface."

Jeonghan whirls you around, bending you over the couch in one swift motion. Your core is completely exposed now, vulnerable to their hungry gaze—a rush of embarrassment floods your cheeks before you can even protest. But all thoughts of modesty vanish when his palm cracks sharply against your bare ass.

The sudden impact makes you yelp, the sharp sting blooming into a delicious throb that shoots straight to your core, and you squirm instinctively. Jeonghan's low chuckle behind you tells him he knows exactly what it's doing to you.

The sound of Jeonghan's zipper cuts through the air, and you start to turn—but before you can even look, he's already sheathed inside you in one brutal thrust, your slickness making it easy. A choked gasp tears from your throat as he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips stealing your breath.

His fingers dig into your waist, holding you in place as he fucks into you relentlessly. Your vision whites out when he bottoms out, the sharp pleasure-pain of his tip hitting your cervix drawing a wanton moan from your lips.

"I'm—I'm close!" you sob, teetering on the edge.

"You're not allowed to," Seungcheol snarls—but it's too late. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body clenching around Jeonghan as you fall apart. He follows with a few more ragged thrusts, spilling inside you with a groan that sends shivers down your spine.

When he pulls out, you whimper at the trickle of his cum down your thighs. Seungcheol strides forward, yanking Jeonghan's hair back hard enough to make him whine.

"Did I say you could fill her up?" he sneers.

Jeonghan flashes a Cheshire grin. "Whoops."

With a growl, Seungcheol shoves him away—then turns his burning gaze on you, a mess of oversensitivity and Jeonghan's claim.

Seungcheol strips in seconds, his clothes discarded in a heap before his powerful hands are on you again. In one effortless motion, he spins you to face him, those beefy arms lifting your trembling body like you weigh nothing. Your legs, weak and useless now, dangle as he holds you flush against him, the heat of his bare skin burning into yours.

His lips press against yours in a searing kiss, hungry lips desperate to reclaim what's his. You moan as you open your mouth, fully submitting to him.

"I'm going to fuck his cum out of you," Seungcheol growls against your lips, his hands tightening possessively on your hips. "Until there's nothing left but me. Until you remember who you belong to." A shiver wracks your body at his words, equal parts threat and promise, as his breath burns hot against your mouth.

A choked moan escapes your lips as Seungcheol sheathes inside your spent hole, the oversensitivity making your toes curl. He wastes no time and starts to thrust into you with an animalistic pace.

"D-Daddy!" you choke out, eyes rolling back as every nerve in your body lights up.

The pleasure builds too fast—Seungcheol’s ruthless pace turning you into nothing more than a writhing, overstimulated mess beneath him. Your hazy gaze drifts past his shoulder to where Jeonghan lounges naked in an armchair, lazily stroking himself as he watches with a smirk that makes your stomach flutter.

"Eyes on me," Seungcheol snarls, and you obey instantly, his dark stare pinning you in place.

Then it hits—your orgasm shatters through you with a broken cry, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer. But he doesn't stop. His thrusts stay brutal, dragging you through the aftershocks until tears streak your cheeks from the sheer too much of it all.

He finishes with a feral growl, spilling into you so deep you feel it leaking out almost immediately, warm and sticky between your thighs. Across the room, Jeonghan arches with a quiet groan, painting his stomach in streaks of white—his eyes never leaving your ruined, trembling form.

The three of you take a moment to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling as Seungcheol gently lowers you back down. His hand stays firm on your hips, not trusting your legs to hold you up just yet.

Jeonghan watches the two of you with an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

"Round two in the shower?" he offers with a grin.

"No," Seungcheol says flatly.

"Yes," you chime in at the same time.

You and Seungcheol exchange a look before you break into a giggle.

"Daddy, c'mon~" you pout, eyes wide and pleading.

Seungcheol groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Insatiable little brat," he mutters before pulling you into a kiss that has you giggling all over again.

Without another word, he scoops you up into his arms bridal-style, making you squeal and laugh as he heads toward the bathroom. Jeonghan trails behind with a lazy smirk, clearly enjoying every second of the chaos.

After all, when it comes to you, Seungcheol just can't help but spoil you.

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