#the first time he was around i literally had to take breaks from the show | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

enhaflixer · 2 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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gf2bellamy · 2 months ago

Text

birthday — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you show up at spencer's door, ready to celebrate his 30th birthday, which he thought everyone forgot about content warnings: best friends who are in love with each other , literally just pure fluff, tiny mention of spencer saying he hasn't eaten dinner yet , reader is sort of bubbly ! , a/n: hiii !!! i was scrolling through tumblr and saw the gif of spencer celebrating his birthday and then felt inspired to write this !! <3 i hope you all like this :)

You let out a loud sigh as you reached the top of the building, breathing heavily. Why did Spencer have to live on the top floor? You thought to yourself, momentarily pausing to set the bag down and catch your breath.

You glanced down at the bag you were holding, checking to make sure everything inside was intact. You had spent hours preparing this surprise for Spencer, and you didn’t want anything to go wrong.

Taking a deep breath, you picked the bag back up and walked the few remaining steps to his door. You knocked twice—long, deliberate raps—and then a quick one, the pattern you'd always used when it was just you and Spencer.

It was your little code.

You'd requested the day off from Hotch, making up some excuse about needing a mental break, but in reality, it was because you had something special planned for Spencer.

Moments later, you heard the familiar sound of footsteps approaching the door, and then, there he was.

Spencer opened it, his usual surprise at seeing you evident, but something seemed a little off.

You greeted him with your usual cheerful grin, “Hellooo!”

Spencer’s smile was there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hi... What are you doing here?” He brushed his hair out of his face.

You grinned wider, trying to lighten the mood. “Celebrating your birthday, silly!” you teased, as you stepped closer. You slipped your arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “Happy birthday.”

At first, Spencer stiffened in your embrace, his body unmoving.

He had been confused earlier when he’d seen you had taken the day off. More than confused, he was hurt. He had hoped, that at least you would remember his birthday.

Because, everyone else hadn't.

As you held him, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, you could feel his body slowly warming up against yours. His hands, at first unsure, finally found their place around your waist, pulling you in closer. It was an awkward hug, with your right hand still holding the bag, but you didn’t mind.

For a moment, you both just stood there, until you felt his hands slowly loosen around you. You leaned back, resting your hand gently on his cheek, your thumb brushing over the soft skin of his cheekbone.

“You’re an old man now,” you chuckled softly, teasing him lightly, and then letting your hand fall from his face, still smiling. You playfully poked him in the ribs, hoping to draw a smile from him.

Spencer’s lips quirked just a little at the teasing. He glanced down at the bag you were holding, and then back at you, curious.

You tilted your head with a grin, raising an eyebrow. “You going to invite me in?”

Spencer finally stepped aside, motioning for you to come in, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Of course,” he said quietly, his voice a bit softer now. “Come on in.”

You stepped into Spencer’s apartment, kicking off your shoes by the door. “I hope you haven’t eaten dinner yet,” you said, already heading toward the kitchen with the bag in hand.

You’d been here so many times that you didn’t even have to think about where anything was anymore.

It felt like home in a way.

Spencer followed behind you, still processing the fact that you remembered his birthday. There was a quiet confusion in his eyes.

“No, I haven’t yet,” he replied, watching you with a bit of hesitation.

As you set the bag on the counter, you mumbled quietly under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, “I hope they’re still okay.”

Spencer’s curiosity piqued, and he leaned forward slightly. “What is?”

You didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you began pulling out items from the bag, setting them down on the counter one by one. First, chocolate donuts, then chocolate chip cookies, and finally, some fresh muffins. Spencer’s eyes widened as he took in the spread.

“Do you know how hard it was to not eat these on the way here?” you said, half-laughing, half-complaining. You smiled up at him, the excitement of the day bubbling out in every word.

Spencer still didn’t say anything, though he continued to watch you intently. You, on the other hand, had been so excited for this moment that you just couldn’t stop talking.

“The guy at the counter was so rude,” you continued, shaking your head as you opened the box of donuts. “He kept huffing and puffing every time I told him what I wanted. Honestly, I don’t know what his problem was.”

You handed Spencer a donut, watching him take it silently. “I was perfectly nice to him, too. I think,” you added, pausing to reflect. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly smiling,” you muttered, “but I had been searching for your gift all day. I was absolutely exhausted.”

You looked over at him now, your smile widening as you leaned against the counter.

“My gift?” Spencer asked, his voice slightly confused.

“Yes,” you said, your tone playful as you tilted your head, as if the answer should have been obvious. “You know how on birthdays you usually receive gifts?”

Spencer shook his head, a grin finally spreading across his face as he took a bite of the donut. “Yeah, I know,” he said, the happiness in his eyes undeniable.

You watched him eagerly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Good?” you asked, your voice light with amusement.

“Perfect,” he replied, his eyes softening as he swallowed. He paused for a moment, his expression shifting as the smile faded into something more sincere.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, a beat of silence passing between you.

Your heart fluttered as you smiled at him. You shook your head, brushing aside the compliment.

“Don’t thank me,” you replied, your voice gentle. “I’m sorry for not being at work today.” You glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall. “I was just trying to get everything ready on time.” You paused, offering him a soft smile. “And I did.”

“I know you like to watch Doctor Who at 7 p.m.,” you continued, your grin widening. “So I thought you should at least get to open your gift and have some food before then.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, his gaze locked onto yours. His heart seemed to skip a beat as he stared at you, breathless, like your words had left him momentarily speechless.

Without warning, he lowered the donut and stepped toward you. The sudden closeness caught you off guard, but before you could react, he engulfed you in a tight hug. His arms wrapped around your waist as his face buried into your shoulder.

The suddenness of the embrace made your breath catch, but you relaxed into it, your hands instinctively finding their way to his back.

“Thank you,” he whispered again into your hair, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. You smiled softly.

Without thinking, your hands gently moved to his hair, the same comforting habit that had developed between the two of you over time.

You remembered the first time you had done it—how he’d stiffened at the touch, his face turning bright red when you’d leaned back to look at him. You’d teased him playfully, but in the end, he had admitted that he liked it. And ever since then, you found yourself doing it without a second thought.

His grip on you tightened, and you felt a surge of tenderness wash over you.

Then, as if to reassure you, Spencer pulled back slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. His hands lingered on your shoulders.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing.

“You should open your gift,” you said, nodding toward the bag on the counter. Your words were light, but there was a slight nervousness behind them.

Spencer’s hands slowly dropped from your shoulders, and he turned to the bag, carefully opening it. He started pulling out the wrapped gifts, one after another, each one more awkwardly wrapped than the last.

You couldn’t help but shrug your shoulders with a small, embarrassed smile.

“I gave it my best shot,” you muttered, pointing at the lopsided, crumpled paper and the hastily taped corners of the packages.

You tried to mask your discomfort with a laugh, but Spencer's gaze softened as he glanced at you.

With a loving, almost amused look, Spencer reached for one of the smaller gifts. He carefully untaped the edges and pulled it open, revealing mismatched socks. Each one was unique, some with strange patterns, others with quirky designs.

One sock had the Star Trek symbol, another had Doctor Who references, one was Halloween-themed, and the last one had books printed all over it.

"All mismatched," you said nervously, but there was pride in your voice. “The Star Trek one… that one took me ages to track down,” you added, pointing at the sock with the iconic symbol.

Spencer couldn’t help but smile, glancing from the socks back to you. “Feel how soft it is,” you encouraged, still a little anxious but excited to show him the thought you’d put into it.

Spencer did as you suggested, rubbing his fingers along the material, and he looked up at you, his expression brightening with genuine appreciation. “This is really nice,” he said softly, his voice filled with admiration. He looked at the socks again, and you could see the happiness behind his eyes.

You smiled, watching him as he took in the gift. “I thought they were fun,” you said with a playful grin.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and full of gratitude. "I love them," he said, shaking his head with a soft laugh.

“Open the next one!” you urged excitedly, practically bouncing on your heels as you pointed at the second gift.

Spencer chuckled at your enthusiasm and carefully tore the wrapping paper apart, letting it fall onto the counter. His hands stilled when he saw what was inside—a navy blue candle. He lifted it out of the box, his fingers tracing the smooth glass.

“It’s supposed to smell like libraries and books,” you explained, grinning.

Spencer immediately brought it to his nose. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment before he exhaled, a small, content smile forming on his lips. “It really does,” he murmured, sounding almost in awe. “This is amazing.”

Also tucked inside the wrapping were new knitting needles and a bundle of deep red yarn. Spencer’s eyes lit up as he gently pulled them from the box.

“You told me you were going to that Doctor Who convention in a couple of weeks, so I thought you could use these,” you said, watching his reaction closely.

His head snapped up, his face beaming. “Yes! Yes, I wanted to knit the Fourth Doctor’s scarf!” His grip tightened around the needles and twine, a spark of pure excitement shining in his eyes. “This is the perfect color.”

You let out a relieved sigh at his words, your smile widening. Seeing him so happy made all the effort worth it.

“Okay, last one!” you clapped your hands together, your excitement peaking. This was the gift you were the most proud of—the one you had spent the most time on.

Spencer set the knitting supplies aside carefully before reaching for the final gift. He unwrapped it quickly, revealing a small notebook with a simple but elegant cover. He flipped it open, and as his eyes scanned the pages, his entire body seemed to still.

Inside, the pages were filled with your handwriting. Some contained quotes—ones he had mentioned in passing, ones he had shared with you before, ones you knew he loved. Others had fun facts, little puzzles (which you knew he’d solve in mere seconds, but still), and inside jokes scribbled along the margins. But what stood out the most were the pages filled with descriptions of your favorite memories with him.

Spencer was speechless.

His ability to read at lightning speed meant he was able to skim through much of it quickly, his eyes flickering across the words. But even though he could read the entire thing in minutes, he didn’t. Instead, he slowed down. He flipped back to the first page, going through it with real intent now.

You stood there impatiently, watching him, waiting for his reaction. You had spent weeks working on this, carefully picking what to include.

Each page was scattered with stickers, each one tied to a specific memory.

One page had a small sticker of a horse. You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, remembering why you had put it there. It was from that case you had worked together on a farm—when Spencer hadn’t realized a horse was standing right behind him. When it nudged his shoulder, he had jumped nearly a foot in the air. You had laughed about it for ages. Spencer had let you, despite his embarrassment, because he secretly loved hearing you laugh.

Another page had a small rainbow sticker. That one was for the night you had walked back from Penelope’s Halloween party together.

It had started raining just as the sun peeked through the clouds, creating a perfect, vivid rainbow in the sky. You had gasped in excitement, pointing at it, taking in the beauty of the moment.

But Spencer… he had been staring at you. You hadn’t noticed at the time, too caught up in the sight before you, but in that moment, he hadn’t cared about the rainbow at all. He had been memorizing the way your eyes lit up, the way you looked when you were truly happy.

Spencer continued flipping through the notebook, his fingers brushing over the pages, over the words you had written just for him. His lips parted slightly, his breath a little uneven, his emotions evident in the way his hands trembled slightly as he held the book.

Finally, after a long, stretched-out silence, he looked up at you. His eyes were glassy, his expression unreadable at first, like he was struggling to find the right words.

“You…” His voice faltered for a second before he swallowed thickly and tried again. “You made all of this for me?”

You nodded, suddenly feeling a little nervous under his intense gaze. “Yeah. I—I wanted to make something special,” you admitted, brushing hair out of your face nervously. “Something that—” You hesitated, feeling vulnerable now. “Something that reminds you of how much you mean to me.”

Spencer blinked, his jaw tightening slightly as if he were trying to keep his emotions in check. Then, without saying a word, he set the notebook down and took a step toward you. And then another.

Before you could react, he pulled you into another hug—this one different from the last. It wasn’t hesitant or brief.

It was firm, filled with love and adoration. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You felt his breath hitch slightly against your skin.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “This is… this is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you exhaled softly, wrapping your arms around him in return. “You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you held him just as tightly. “Just… happy birthday, Spence.”

Spencer didn’t let go. And honestly, you didn’t want him to.

#criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic

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valalice · 4 months ago

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✮ YOU'LL ALWAYS BE A GAMEGIRL .ᐟ ft. 𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼.

ʚɞ summary. a collection of streamer ellie headcanons.

warnings. streamer!ellie. modern au. fluff i guess? this is basically crack. ellie's chat can't give her a break. loser!ellie also if you so fancy it. talk about a strap on but it's nothing serious. ellie fights with kids for a living. wc. 1.4k

a/n. and the crowd BOOO'S... i know, i know literally everyone to ever exist on this app has their own thoughts on streamer!ellie, but i thought it would be fun to do my own thoughts on her <3 remember to support your writers by reblogging & commenting !

m.list | tlou m.list

࿐ streamer!ellie who grew to stardom during quarantine. much like everyone else in the world she had a lot of time on her hands, so what's better than increasing her addiction to gaming and worsening her already bad eyesight by staring at a bright monitor in the dark? it's not like she had much school work (she did) to care about anyway.

࿐ streamer!ellie whose fan base are her biggest haters that always clown on her. many of the fans who have been around since the start still joke about younger ellie, ellie who was in high school and still cringe when she started streaming. “so, yeah i graduated college. that's the reason why there wasn't a stream on saturday.”

[user000] did you get a degree in loserology?

[user001] bro has a whole college degree and still streams 💀

“i’m talking about my accomplishments and you guys are clowning me!?"

࿐ streamer!ellie who succumbed and adopted a kitten a few years ago, a ginger one at that. her face lighting up when she realizes she has yet to introduce her son to chat. taking off her headset (for once) setting it down on her desk, “i’ll be right back, chat.” leaving her room to find where the small kitten could be.

when she comes back, she holds the small ginger puff of fur in her arms with a cheeky smile. taking the kitten in her hands and holding him to the webcam “say hello to little bro, chat. haven't named him yet, was thinking we could do a poll.”

it was best and worst decision ellie ever made adopting a cat. the best because she loves the little stinker. and the worst because anytime she's on the chat is filled with

[user002] DONTTT CAREEE WHERES RICK

[user003] show us the child

࿐ streamer!ellie who has the worst eyesight ever. she wears glasses and still squints whenever she has to read something in game or the chat.

࿐ streamer!ellie whose desk is some second hand desk she got years ago. it’s gone from place to place with her and chat jokes that it's her emotional support desk. it's often littered with pop cans, various wrappers, notebooks and sketchbooks, figurines, comic books, scratched up stickers, and guitar picks. if she's lost anything her best bet is that it's somewhere on her desk.

࿐ streamer!ellie who swears she's not a scaredy cat when playing horror games, but the moment she hears any sound she's freaking out “chat, you heard that right?” "I'M NOT GOING FUCKING INSANE!" and when out of nowhere her character is getting chased her voice will pitch a little higher “HE’S CHASING ME! HE’S CHASING ME!” when the character ultimately meets their doom she’ll deadpan the webcam, “that game wasn't even that scary.”

[user004] whatever you say bud

[user005] that clip of u screaming like a little girl says otherwise

[user006] now we all know who's dying first in a horror movie

࿐ streamer!ellie who starts to get an inflation of views on her streams from clips of her being posted on tiktok (her audios have gone viral a few times). and who rolls her eyes at all the ‘wuh luh wuh?�� comments, “is the sky blue? are there forks in the kitchen? is the grass green? i love women, women love me.”

[user007] women may have we in it but we do not love you

[user008] is the women in the room with us???

[user009] BRO NO NEED TO LIE WE KNOW U DONT PULL

࿐ streamer!ellie who's mic blows out the any time she screams from a game.

࿐ streamer!ellie who is genuinely so shit at shooting games. chat knows that within the first few minutes without a fail ellie will get shot and killed, yet they still get hyped as ellie gets focused on the game. and when she does get killed, her hands will come down crashing on her desk, causing her setup to shake before stretching out in her chair stretching, letting her hands come on top over her headset before falling down over her face.

[user010] just load up roblox bro

࿐ streamer!ellie who hits a milestone and decides to do those ‘letting my followers spend my money’ it's very short lived because chat is just as unhinged and chaotic as her. “why the fuck is there a maid’s costume? fuck no.” and when her eyes rake over the cart to see that someone added a strap harness and dildo, “YO CHAT? THE FUCK?”

[user011] now thats just sad

[user012] AINT NO WAY

[user013] guys stop being mean :/ we all know it's just going to collect dust and cobwebs :/

[user014] ellie bitchless williams

࿐ streamer!ellie who enjoys doing more laid back and casual streams like building lego sets or setting up a new action figure. she’s done quite a few cooking streams which all end in disaster, “chat is there a huge difference between baking power and baking soda?” “i don't give a fuck if i shouldn't be eating raw cake batter, salmonella fears me.” “uh, should the oven be smoking like that?”

[user015] can't believe i'm witnessing ellie burn down her place in real time

or even once in a blue moon an outside stream.

[user016] ayeeee the gremlin is out of its dungeon

[user017] how does it feel to see sunlight again?

࿐ streamer!ellie who rarely post besides the casual spam of her stories, but is somehow extremely chronically online.

࿐ streamer!ellie who got banned from her mic privileges in roblox and later completely banned. all because she has no self restraint when arguing with little kids, “your avatar is ugly.” some random kid would say, “yo daddy is ugly.” ellie would bite back. and when she finds herself in yet another shooter esc game and a kid thinks it's smart to say "your aim is butt!" ellie’s retaliation to the critique is “that's not what your mom said last night you little fucker!” then shooting the kid’s character.

[user018] kid sounds like he's 8 MAX

[user019] ellie desensitizing these kids young

[user020] TO A CHILDDDD?????

[user021] bro can only get a kill if it's a child

࿐ streamer!ellie who thinks all her jokes are knee slap worthy, but her chat couldn't be less phased.

[user022] pack it up

[user023] 🍅🍅🍅🍅🍅🍅🍅

࿐ streamer!ellie who met you in a lobby when she's coincidentally not streaming, her team needed one more player so she shot her shot, “uh, hey,” she's totally cool right now, her palm totally isn't sweating off of her mouse “would you like to join my team? we just need one more player.” and she plays it chill when you accept “cool, cool. thanks.” but afterwards she put herself on mute and jumped out of her chair, all while her phone is blowing up with text from the groupchat.

࿐ streamer!ellie who tells her chat about it the next time she streams. “had a pretty girl on my team. i've never seen her, but i don't need to. i know it in my soul, it's my spidey sense.”

[user024] u sure u weren't dreaming???

[user025] didn't happened unless we have proof

࿐ streamer!ellie who hopes she'd see you in another lobby, but in reality it's probably a few weeks or months before she notices your handle in a lobby again, but she's always on the lookout for it. and when she does she thanks whoever is out there that she's streaming. she's solo playing this time so there's no opportunity for her to be on a team with you again, but she swears she could ascend into the heavens when you giggle at her wishing you luck in the game, covering her face from her webcam to hide that her face is turning bright red, "good luck to you too."

[user026] we all know she needs it

[user027] OKAY ELLIEEEEEE WE SEE UR GAME

“chat, i’m threw the roof. calling it know we're winning this.” ellie in fact did not win. she yet again got killed in recorded time, by none other than you. she couldn't even be upset over it “pretty and talented, damn.”

[user028] bffr u were her easy kill

࿐ streamer!ellie who by the end of it you initiate a conversation with her “i would apologize for killing you, but i just couldn't help myself.” “oh no, no. it's no problem. i’m shit at this game, it's all good.” "well maybe you could get better if we play together more?” and chat could just see the wheels turning in ellie’s head “uh—” her voice fucking cracked, “shit, yeah!” realizing she's getting a little too excited, so she's gotta tone it down “that would be cool.” smoothing a sweaty hand on her sweats. to say her chat explodes is an understatement.

[user029] WE ARE WITNESSING HISTORY

[user030] WINNERS LOVE WINNING

[user031] U BETTER DUST OFF THAT STRAP!!!!

#𓊆 𝓐 writes. 𓊇 #ellieྀི txt.#streamer!ellie.#the last of us #tlou pt 2 #tlou x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fluff #lesbian #wlw

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digiflora · 1 year ago

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𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐓 '𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐎𝐓!

╭─────────────────────── ( 🍭 )

he just can't get enough of your pussy !

› 〉 📂 .ೃ | 🚨🚨🚨SMUT !! (f!reader receiving oral & fingering), uhhh pussydrunk hsr men who are MUNCHES <3, i think this is the first time writing smut on this blog so hereee we gooo, uhh clit slapping (only once thanks blade), overstim, nothin toooo crazy, ever so slight dom!reader for sampo (that man needs to get topped so bad) + you call him a pervert idk, squirting (shoutout luocha 😙)

╰─➤ 💌 ₍₁₎ I HAVENT WRITTEN SMUT IN AGESSSS SO PLS BE NICE AND TO MY MUTUALS SORRY THT THIS SHOWS UP ON YOUR DASHBOARD LETS STILL BE FRIENDS PLS 😭

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 JING YUAN.

this is a dangerous game when he's involved

as a general, jing yuan is very accustomed to being in charge, of taking charge and ensuring that things happen

and as a man who cares more about the hours outside of his work than during, who can blame him for wanting to commemorate each time that he comes home to you?

he's always been very giving as a lover, that much is true. and as a man with a tendency to be more on the... spontaneous side, you were no stranger to a quickie in a slightly less than convenient location. he just couldn't bear to leave you uncared for, after all.

so really, you should have expected that he would quite literally stoop to this level. one minute he was walking through the front door, you calling out a greeting to him from the sink as you washed some dishes.

and the next minute, he was on his knees behind you, your skirt flipped up over your hips and panties tugged to the side as he began to eat you out with some type of renewed fervour.

it had you slapping one hand over your mouth, the other white-knuckled as you hold on for dear life to the kitchen counter. your legs were very quickly turning to jelly due to his ministrations, the feeling of his tongue fucking into you rendering you unable to form sentences.

and even worse than the sensation was the sound of it- every lick and slurp reverbating through the empty room, every squelch of your pussy making you go a shade darker as jing yuan moaned, the bastard, and delved even further into your pussy. your hips pushed against him, his hands snaking their way around your thighs to keep you pinned in place while he ate you out like his life depended on it.

you bit back a squeal as you felt his tongue flick against your clit before running back through your folds, circling the hole before fucking back into you.

"fuck, i love this pussy so much," he moaned out, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh as he came up for air momentarily. "love comin' home to you every day- you taste so good, so good f'me-"

any attempts at muffling your noises were extinguished as you let out a sob, tears welling up from the pleasure, making you fold over so that your torso rested against the counter. your legs were spread wide by now, giving jing yuan all the access that he needed.

he relinquished one of your thighs in favour of using his fingers to pump into you, curling them just right against that spongy spot that had you shaking like a leaf, feeling the pressure build inside you much quicker than you anticipated.

"fuck- fuck- i can't, 's so good-" you were babbling now, trying in vain to break free or push his head away, the pleasure bordering on too much. it was comically easy how ineffective your attempts to hinder him were,

"you can." his voice was some soothing reprieve, and the warmth of his hands squeezing against your hips helped to ground you as he otherwise brought you to the edge.

your thighs were trembling, barely supporting your weight and you could feel your release fast approaching, though something was holding you back.

"cum f'me." jing yuan's rasped voice is what finally coaxed you to let go, to let that string snap with a final cry as you collapsed fully against the countertop.

always diligent, jing yuan continued to eat you out, making sure not to miss a drop as you spasmed against him, hips finally stilling after you ride out your high.

"bastard." your voice is muffled, head resting on your forearms as your regain your strength. jing yuan merely chuckles, placing a kiss with his wet lips to your inner thigh again, one last jolt of pleasure running through you before he stands, fixing your clothes for you.

"but you love it."

you give him a halfhearted kick in the shin.

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 SAMPO.

he's the type of man who's best in small doses

the amount of times you get annoyed while he's on another tangent or trying to scam you sell you a product is..... a bit more than infrequent

but there's ways around that

"sampo, do you ever shut up?"

ironically enough, you asking him that made him do just that, pausing for a second to lick his lips as his smile widened, cheshire-like, as you watched the cogs turn in his head.

"no, but for a small standalone price-"

if youuu put a buck in my cup i will shut the fuck up (sorry)

"sampo."

the man cackles, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in to his side.

"sorry, doll, but a man has to make a living somehow."

you turn to glare at him now. you really weren't in the mood.

"either shut up or i'll make you."

you watch as his smile drops for just a second, his pupils dilating ever so slightly at the underlying hint of what's to come. and bless his heart, the man decided to push his luck.

approximately five minutes later, you were grinding on his face. the only noises that he really made now were occasional grunts and moans as you rocked back and forth, and you decided that you liked him much better when he wasn't talking.

the man with a silver tongue had his uses, after all.

he was so eager to please, too- from what you could tell with the way he was eating you out. if it weren't for the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling, you would be convinced that he was enjoying it more than you. his moans reverberated around your clit as his tongue flicked over and sucked it, leaving you keeling over and your thighs quaking against the sides of his head.

every moan you let out had him eating you out with a renewed fervour, almost desperate for you to reach your high. you let your hand snake into his hair, getting a full handful before yanking on it, hard. sampo whines from the sensation, and you almost miss the muffled plea for you to do it "again".

his fingertips are digging into your thighs almost painfully, keeping you seated firmly against him (not that you were going to move, anyway).

your eyes land on the tent in his boxers, and an idea pops into your head as you snake your hand past his abdomen to pull his waistband down, letting his cock spring free. it looked painfully hard, the tip already leaking pearls of precum, and you spat in your hand before starting to jerk him off, ever so slowly.

he whined again at the pressure, his hips thrusting up to meet your hand, desperate for any sort of friction.

"you're getting off to this, you pervert?" you laughed as he shook his head desperately, still plunging his tongue deep inside you even as his hips bucked wildly. he was already so close, it almost made you laugh.

you yourself were beginning to feel the coil deep within you start to tighten, a telltale sign that your own orgasm was approaching.

"so if i were to just... stop, you wouldn't mind?" to emphasise your point, you loosened your grip on him, grinning to yourself as he whined pathetically.

"hm... that's what i thought."

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 BLADE.

blade's mean when he eats you out

he's one of those who eats it for his own pleasure, and whether it's until you orgasm once or multiple times, he's not stopping until he's satisfied, overstimulation be damned

"you still alive there?" the man between your thighs snickers at your fucked-out state, not even able to form a sentence to answer him.

how many times had he made you cum by now? six? seven? you'd lost count long ago, and you don't think it mattered much to blade. sometime after the second one, it began to dawn on you that his goal wasn't to simply make you cum then call it a day.

"c'mon, eyes on me." you squeal at the sensation of his hand slapping down against your clit, the raw flesh stinging for a few moments before his hand smooths it over, soothing the skin.

"you can handle one more, right?" you lift your head weakly to meet his ravenous eyes, somehow even hungrier than when he had first started peeling your clothes off. the look in his eyes made a shiver run down your skin, and you gave him a sheepish nod.

"attagirl."

blade's one to keep you on your toes, never knowing just what to expect from him. he ducks his head down, leveling it with your still pulsing hole, and you gasp as you hear, then feel him spit on it.

there's a blunt intrusion as he sinks two of his fingers into you, knuckles deep, crooking them just right to hit that spot inside you. your leg twitches as an automatic response, making the man snicker again.

"you're so sensitive," he coos, and you hide your embarrassed face with your arm. "i bet if i just..." your body seizes up as you cum, again, more sudden than you ever expected as blade presses harder against you. a strangled moan flies out of your mouth, writhing at the pressure.

he's nice enough to let you ride out your high, pathetically grinding your clit against his palm, whimpering at the tenfold sensitivity and the little aftershocks wracking your body.

and when you're finally breathing normally again, you hear his voice break you out of your stupor.

"one more?"

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 GEPARD.

what he lacks in experience is made up for doubly in enthusiasm

because let's be real, this man is too busy with the silvermane guards to have enough time to be dating and fucking around

but for you? he'd make the time. and he'd learn how to get you off while he's at it, too

"so if you just, slide your fingers in, slowly." gepard follows your instructions dutifully, and even then you still winced at the feeling of his large fingers stretching you out, the slightest of burns already kicking in.

"like this?" he looks up at you, all puppy dog eyes, so eager to learn. his face was too innocent for what he was doing.

"mhmm." you smile down at him, his face rested against one of your thighs as his gaze returns to your cunt, glued to the way it stretches around his digits. he feels you pulse against him and he shudders, trying to hold back for your sake. he was here to learn what you liked, after all.

"and then you kind of... curl them a bit? and move them too." his ministrations are soft to begin with, and even there's still an unmistakeable squelch each time he pumps his fingers into you, the lewdness of it all making him turn pink.

"does that feel good?"

"y-yeah, so good, baby."

he's so close to your pussy, you can feel each time he breathes, his little pants hitting your clit, making you even wetter. the anticipation of it all had you practically squirming where you lay propped up on your elbows, watching him.

his eyes are still transfixed on you, mouth hanging open at the way your hips rolled ever so slightly, meeting each of his shallow thrusts.

"you see that bit above? if you lick it, it'll feel really good f'me." gepard nods, all too eagerly leaning forward, licking a thick stripe from your hole to the clit with his tongue, before starting to flick his tongue against it gingerly.

"yeah, fuck, you're good at this." he hums against you, starting to move his tongue with a little more fervour, his hand still pumping into you. he always had been a fast learner.

he settles into a rhythm, one that has you steadily building the pressure in your core, soft moans escaping your lips.

"just like that, fuuuck," you pant out, letting your head roll back and your eyes closed as you focused on the feeling. it's then when gepard decides to wrap his lips around your clit, sucking ever so deliciously to make your toes curl.

you let out a particularly loud moan at the sensation, one that your ever so perceptive boyfriend latches onto, increasing the pressure in a way that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

"geppie m'gonna cum- don't stop-" he obeys your every word, slurping at your cunt with a hunger that sends you over the edge. you convulse, hips raising off of the mattress to buck against his face, his fingers curling around your quaking thighs.

"use my face, darling," he murmurs into you, so eager to please. the way the ridge of his nose bumps against your clit helps you ride out your high, grinding against his mouth a few more times before you finally flop back down against, the bed, limbs turning to jelly.

"no fucking way that was your first time eating someone out." gepard merely grins, wiping some of your juices off of his face before crawling up the bed to meet you.

"'m sure it was, now give me a kiss."

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 LUOCHA.

your life will be CHANGED after this man eats u out for the first time i just know it

like.. he's got skills. he's a certified munch i know this in my SOULLLLL

"just relax, honey, let me take care of you." his velveteen voice is what has you finally lying back, letting the tension in your body leave you as his nimble fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, sliding them off of your legs ever so tantalisingly.

he groans at the string of slick that stays connected to them- no surprises there as you had been sat on his lap kissing him for the past half an hour- and you covered your face in embarrassment.

"don't go shy on me now, hm?" you peek between your fingers, catching the glint of his emerald eyes, the way his smile widens when he makes eye contact with you from his place between your legs.

"hi, pretty."

"hi."

"we can go as slow as you want, okay? tell me what you're comfortable with." luocha's thumbs rub gentle circles into your thighs, coaxing you to open them and let him settle more comfortably.

"do you want me to touch you?" you nod, watching as luocha's smirks almost imperceptibly.

"use your words, darling." you whine, kicking at him lightly.

"quit teasing me."

"do you want my fingers or my tongue?"

"luocha!" he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

"i'm sorry, love, you're just so cute when you're flustered." he presses another kiss to your thigh now, lips inching upwards ever so slowly, holding himself back as he waits for your go-ahead.

"could you... eat me out?" your face feels so warm just from asking the question, but the nerves are quelled as luocha smiles brightly, shifting his weight on his hips to lower himself down closer to you.

"gladly."

there's a few seconds of anticipation, of his breath hitting your core before another entirely new sensation- something wet and muscled sliding against you as luocha licks a flat stripe through your slit. his tongue sharpens, flicking against your clit as he pulls away after his experimental first taste.

you're already feeling something inside you coil in anticipation, and it tightens even more at the blissed out expression on luocha's face.

"you taste divine, my love."

and then he's delving in for more. your usually so composed boyfriend lying flat on his stomach, buried facefirst in your pussy and eating it like a man starved.

the slurping and squelching noises are obscene, echoing off of the walls and filling up the room along with your wails and moans. your head was in the clouds right now, too fucked out to even scream his name. and he hadn't even put his tongue in yet.

as if reading your mind, luocha finally shifts his attention to your hole, his tongue circling it, teasing it open, before he plunges in along with his fingers, the size of them and his fingertips grazing against your g spot bringing you to the verge of tears.

everything just felt so good, and he was going to make you cum hard and fast.

the regular pressure of an impeding orgasm kept building up, more than it regularly would, until it became an entirely new sensation altogether.

"w-wait, baby, i'm gonna pee or something-"

luocha pauses, pupils blown wide with lust as he meets your gaze.

"you're not, honey, just trust me, alright?"

and because it's him, because you'd do just about anything for him right now if it meant continuing to feel this good, you lie back down, feeling him bring you back to that point again.

his fingers are drilling into you at an almost inhuman pace, the sound enough to make you cum, let alone the sensation. his soft lips suction around your clit, warm tongue flicking against your bundle of nerves repeatedly, making you squeal and throw your head back.

"'m gonna-" luocha nods encouragingly, his nose bumping against your clit in a way that has your vision go white as you writhe in ecstasy. there's an odd feeling, of something shooting out of you, and you look down to see a spray of clear liquid. luocha's fingers rub against your pusy frantically, making you writhe again, prolonging your orgasm as he milks you for every last drop.

you finally come back down to earth, vaguely feeling a warm wet cloth wipe away at you, at the mess you had made.

and luocha's gazing at you with nothing but adoration, a pussydrunk smile on his lips.

"aren't you glad you trusted me, love?"

𝜗𝜚 honkai star rail masterlist

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sincerelyneo · 7 months ago

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no control | l.jn

“i can't contain this anymore, i'm all yours i've got no control”

💿now playing: no control by one direction

❯ summary: The guy sitting at the bar next to you seems pretty smitten - and Jeno hates it. He wants to be the one making you blush…or more accurately, scream his name.

❯ pairings: jeno x fem!reader

❯ genre: smut, friends with benefits

❯ words: 3.7k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), jealousy, arguing, wall sex, swearing, back scratching/marking?, possessiveness, public sex, reader uses she/her pronouns, pet names, slight begging, a bit angsty, porn with feelings, literally just jeno being petty and jealous.

Jeno hates to admit it, but Mark was right. Casual, no-strings-attached sex does in fact suck. And God does he know it. It’s hard to forget when his friends keep bringing you up.

“Who’s she talking to?” Renjun asks.

Jisung replies with a simple shrug before Chenle chimes in with a quick, “I don’t know, haven’t seen him before.”

Him. Jeno feels that pronoun hit harder than expected, but he forces himself to keep cool. He doesn’t turn around to see who’s got your attention, even though every fiber of his being screams and begs for him to look.

His spying friends keep giggling amongst themselves as they sit on the stools at the bar. But it wasn’t until Renjun throws back the last of his whiskey and says: “He looks pretty into her.” That Jeno’s gaze is forced to find you.

Jeno’s too proud to admit it but he finds you instantly, you’re like a magnet, a force that he’s drawn to. And truthfully, he considers it a talent that he can seek you out of a crowd in seconds.

There you are, with some guy. Some guy he didn’t know. Some guy that, from what he could see from the side of his head, was probably good-looking. The good-looking ones always liked to try and talk to you.

Not that it matters, Jeno reminds himself, dragging his eyes away from you for his own sake. You hadn’t come to this party with him; he never even asked you. He agreed to keep this casual. You could spend your time with whoever you damn well pleased.

Even if that wasn’t him. And even if that’s a bitter pill for him to swallow.

“Leave him alone guys,” Jisung finally speaks up. “They’re probably just talking. Besides aren’t you staying over at Y/N’s tonight anyway Jen?” He asked.

Jeno takes his eyes off you for a second to look at his friends, he’s thankful for the reminder that he was supposed to be coming over to your place tonight. But now his mind is racing. Maybe you would change your mind, ditching him to hang out with that good-looking man instead.

You’re not like that, he tells himself. While you hadn’t attended the party with him, you had promised to spend the night with him, and you weren’t one to break promises. Besides, you didn’t bring strangers you just met home, either. He had nothing to worry about.

Except…what if he did?

When he dared to glance over to the last spot he had seen you across the lavish bar, he wasn’t expecting to still find you there. Surely, you would’ve found an opening to excuse yourself and re-join the friends you’d arrived with, but there you were. Still talking to that asshole. Smiling at him. Enjoying yourself.

Maybe it was just the whiskey talking, but Jeno felt like he was being replaced as if he was across the world and not merely across the room. Because it had been well over half an hour since he had first seen them together. And who knew how long you two had been talking before he or his friends even noticed?

Jeno doesn’t like this feeling. So he orders another drink.

He tries to ignore you – tries to focus on his friends but they keep mentioning it. Mentioning you. Which makes it so damn difficult to stop his eyes from sliding over, and noticing every little detail about you.

The short dress that had ridden up from where you’d sat down and crossed your legs, showing off more than enough of your toned thighs. The deep black of it suited you, and not just because it was Jeno’s favourite colour, but because it complemented the tumble of hair falling over your shoulder. You looked like a goddess, untouchable. Especially when you smile. God, he loves when you smile.

Just not when he’s not the one doing it. He should be the only one to make you laugh, to make you feel more relaxed at a party. Because he knows you, all the little things and your quirks.

But not once did you glance his way; and he’s fully aware of that because Jeno has definitely been staring. You’re ignoring him, and he hates it. So fucking much.

Maybe the alchohol was catching up to him, finally settling into his bloodstream and mixing dangerously with his jealous streak because he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that he has to do something.

Impulsively, Jeno abandons the conversation he had already half checked out of with his friends, and doesn’t waste a second marching over to you and the man. Ideally, Jeno wanted you to be thrilled to have him sweep you away, but when he arrived at the booth you and him had been sitting at, Jeno sees your eyes flash with an undeniable ‘what the fuck are you doing over here?’

“Nice to see you, Y/N,” Jeno greets you charmingly, sliding right into the booth on your side without an invitation, blatantly interrupting.

“Hi, Jeno,” you reply, keeping your tone polite despite not moving to give him more room.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” It hasn’t. “I thought I’d get you a drink and we could catch up?”

Jeno’s attempt to get you away is feeble, but it’s not exactly like he had enough time to devise a good plan. He was being impulsive, jealous, reckless – acting on instinct and he instinct was telling him that he need you, by his side.

“Maybe later, yeah Jen?”.

“Why? You having too much fun already?” he asks, which was rather a loaded question, considering you had company sitting right across from you.

“I’m having a lot of fun,” you emphasise a little more than necessary, glancing at the brunette across the table and playfully rolling your eyes. It had the man smiling in understanding, which was quick to piss Jeno off.

“Really?” he said flatly. “You don’t look it.”

“Maybe you don’t know what I look like when I’m having fun.”

“I think I know better than most.”

That’s when Jeno squeezes your knee, and you want to disagree, but you couldn’t. Because Jeno knew, alright. He knew pretty damn well.

The guy opposite you shifts in his seat, probably aware that he had suddenly become a third wheel, thanks to the flirty tone in Jeno’s voice. Jeno gets a sick sense of enjoyment watching the man get uncomfortable – all the confirmation that whatever little plan he had going on was working. It made him only want to do it more.

So Jeno oh so casually reaches to tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear. You try not to react, but your head tilts slightly towards him, and your features soften.

“You look beautiful,” Jeno compliments, fingers trailing down your hair, brushing over your shoulder before they settled back on your knee. “Black suits you.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Are you two friends?” The man asks, reminding you both of his presence.

“Sort of,” you began to say, just as Jeno declares, “Very close friends.”

With your cheeks now flushing, you cut him a look that he largely ignores, before feeling the need to explain yourself to the friendly guy you had just met. “We catch up sometimes. Occasionally.”

“We’ve known each other for ages.” Jeno emphasises because he liked that fact. Liked knowing he was here first, having that leverage and advantage over any guy you’d ever meet.

“I should leave you to it then, let you two catch up,” the man says through a tight lipped smile as he began to slide out of the booth. He knew exactly what Jeno was trying to do. “Nice meeting you, Y/N. See you around sometime.”

“I hope so!” You reply trying to sound enthusiastic. You didn’t want to give Jeno the satisfaction he was clearly hoping for.

Once the man turned his back on you, you grab your glass and take an extra generous gulp of your drink.

Before Jeno had the chance to open his mouth and say something else that was only going to irritate you, you lean into him.

“What the fuck was that?” you hiss. “Out. Get out. Let me out.”

Shuffling along as he was told, Jeno watches dumbly as you hastily slip out of the booth after the stranger, tugging the hem of your dress down with one hand and clutching your nearly empty glass in the other.

Jeno blinks for a second as you try to parade away from him. Then it registers in his mind and he’s chasing behind you and out of the bar. That’s when he tugs on your arm to stop you in your tracks.

“Y/N. Stop, please.”

Much to Jeno’s surprise, you do as he says, turning around and holding up a commanding finger. It almost seemed like a joke, but there was no humour in your tone when you asked, “What were you thinking?”

Jeno tilted his head to the side, tonguing the side of his cheek.

“We weren’t at that party together! You knew that,” you continue your rant.

“I didn’t know it was a crime to speak to you in public,” Jeno replies naïvely with an innocent shrug of his shoulders.

“You know that’s not what we do. We don’t hang out at social events, Jeno. We agreed on casual. I don’t want a relationship.”

Casual. Yeah, you seemed to really not want a relationship when you were chatting up that guy for ages. The thought makes Jeno scoff, his gaze dropping to his feet.

You cross your arms over your chest, exhaling, “What?”

“That guy,” he simply says, his eyes flashing with a slight fury when he looks back up at you. “You were with that guy.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It does matter when you refuse to even speak to me in public, but spend your whole night with him.”

Jeno’s smile is long gone, and almost, almost, you wanted to forget this whole thing and bring it back. You hated when Jeno was mad at you, not that he was very often, but he was being irrational right now.

“I just met him, it was all friendly” you explain. “I can’t believe you’re jealous!”

“I’m not jealous!”

Jeno knew he was, but there was not a chance of him admitting that seeing you with any other man drove him absolutely insane. Every single damn time. Still, you know better.

“You obviously are! Jeno, you know how I feel about you–”

“Do I? You didn’t seem to be into me tonight.”

“Because you came out of nowhere and acted like I was all yours!”

“You are mine!”

That was the wrong thing to say. Jeno knew it as soon as it came out his mouth, saw it in the way your expression tightened slightly. Even so, he wouldn’t take back what he thought was true.

“We haven’t defined anything–” you fumble, “Infact, I think we did the opposite—”

“How would you like it if I’d been flirting with another girl all night?” He cuts in.

“It wouldn’t matter,” you lie. “You can do what you want.

Jeno takes a few steps towards you, and it makes you unconsciously hold your breath. He’s so tall and intimidating and goddam sexy—wait you’re mad at him right now!

“What I really want, Y/N, is to be with you,” he spells it out frustratingly slowly. “Seeing you all night long in that short dress that barely covers your ass and knowing I can’t touch you, claim you, fucking kills me.”

Your eyes betray you, because despite every brain wave in your mind telling you to yell at him for that slightly misogynistic statement—your eyes still soften.

“Well, you should’ve just said that,” you try to explain instead of lecturing him. “If you’ve been feeling like that you should’ve talked to me instead of acting like a caveman.”

“You don’t listen.”

“I’m listening now.”

Jeno blinks at you, his jaw loosening as his eyes watch your gaze drift down to his lips. The action is loud enough for him to not waste another second before his hands move to your waist, pulling you in to the kiss he had been dying to give you all night.

It’s harder than he would’ve given you earlier, more possessive – oh, definitely possessive when he forces your back against the brick wall at the side of the bar and your arms have no choice but to hastily wrap around his neck. You stumble a little, but he keeps a firm grip on you.

If you wanted him to tell you how he felt, well, that’s exactly what you’re going to get.

He tells you in the desperate way that he kisses you, lips parting and unwilling to leave yours. He tells you by the way he presses his body flush against yours, pinning you to the brick so you can’t slip away from him, not again. He tells you in the low moan that escapes him when your hand tangles up in his hair and your own lips work just as eager.

When he breaks away for a moment, he takes his time to just look at you. So pretty, so desperate, and so undoubtedly all his.

And when you gaze back at him through long lashes and eyes radiating with lust, he has to groan because he’s the one making you like that. He’s the one getting you to bite down on those pretty lips, lips that were made for him, belong to him.

But you’re feeling too desperate and he’s taking too long. So within a mere few seconds, you’re reaching for him again. It has him thinking maybe you’re trying to tell him the same thing. But there was no need to do that. Jeno had made it abundantly clear that he was yours.

There was still a lingering frustration fuelling the two of you – mostly from you; it was jealousy for Jeno. He is jealous that someone else – another man – had gotten to spend the night at the party with you. He needed you to know that he hated to see you with him, and that this – this was never going to be better with anyone else.

No matter how hard a man would try, they could never know you the way that he did. They could never make you feel the way he did.

Ridiculously, you want to apologise despite him reading the situation all wrong. You hadn’t been flirting with anyone else, and you thought it didn’t matter who you chose to simply talk to. You never knew he’d feel this threatened. Never suspected it would upset him this much.

You proposed the idea of keeping things casual to not get hurt. Jeno was unbelievably attractive and could have his pick of any woman. You thought keeping him at arm's length would protect you—figures it’s only hurting him.

Regardless, no matter the context there was no denying that he was being a jealous ass tonight and the two of you had argued. An argument that you were both getting very turned on by and had you conflicted between getting down on your knees for him or letting him fuck you against the wall, outside and all.

You always found great thrill in surprising him: breaking from the feverish kisses, you reach up under your dress and yank down your underwear. The delicate fabric falls around your ankles, and you kick them off to the side, inviting him to what he so clearly wanted.

I’m yours right here, right now, your eyes tell him.

And you really thought you had won at the whole surprising thing, until he hooks your legs around his waist and presses his hips harder against you. You never pegged yourself or Jeno for being an exhibitionist but something about him taking you against the wall of the very same bar he thought a man was flirting with you at, awakens something feral inside him.

All of a sudden the wall seemed like the perfect spot for make up sex. Honestly, Jeno just wanted any sex. As long as it was with you.

He exhales heavily when he starts to ease his pants down and you fumble to undo his shirt buttons. But you get far too distracted by his lips beginning to trail down your throat. He reaches for your thigh, smoothing up your soft skin, as he hitches up your dress around your hips.

You’re so desperate for him you can’t help but whimper. And just when you think ‘Yes, finally,’ a cocky grin spreads across his face as his finger slips effortlessly (and too goddamn slowly) over your centre. His teasing is somewhat annoying, but it’s so hard to be pissed at him when he’s touching you like that. Hell, it’s hard to be mad at him in general—you’re weak to him and that’s exactly why you’re pushed up against a wall.

Jeno picks up his pace as soon as he begins stroking you with another finger. You squirm against the wall and he watches that hungry expression grow as he rubs you rhythmically, fingers sliding up and down, up and down, so easily from how wet you are. Pride swells in his chest because he did that.

Every moan that leaves your lips is his own little reward, one that he is dying to receive more, and more, and more of. Forever.

Jeno knows you’re close. It would’ve been easy to get you off right there, and he would’ve, had he not abruptly pulled away from you. You curse under your breath at the loss of contact.

“Jeno!”

He smirks, loving the way you squirm as he nudges your legs further apart. His breath is hot against your skin as he murmurs, “Got to tell me what you want, baby.”

You groan frustratingly, since apparently he wasn’t going to give it to you unless you said something. “I want you, now. Just need you inside me.”

He smirks, the grip he had on your thighs tightening and the muscles in his arms flexing beneath his shirt. He shifts his hips, pushing the crown of his cock against your entrance — slowly, sensually, tormentingly.

You lean into him, nails digging into the fabric on his back as he presses his forehead against your neck, soft hisses escaping him as he feels you — wet and tight.

“This pussy was fucking made for me,” he growls, cock buried to the hilt. He could stay there forever, selfishly he wants to, but he can hear your whimpers and the need to please you becomes priority.

He bottoms out and then his hips are snapping forward hard, fast, possessive. Whatever words you wanted to say dissolves into a senseless moan. His thrusts become more erratic and needy and the pace has you clenching down around him. Fuck.

Jeno stills. His breath ghosts over your collarbones and his fingers dig even further into your hips. You know that look, he’s struggling to keep himself under control, which, given the circumstances is the last fucking thing you want.

“Not gonna last long if you keep doing that baby.”

He’s trying to reason with you, but before you really have time to think about what you’re doing you’re clawing at his back, tightening your legs around and digging the heels of your shoes into his back hard enough that he growls, low and frightening in a way that makes your spine tingle.

“Fuck,” he grits out thrusting into you hard. The sound of skin hitting skin is loud and vulgar in the middle of the street, but you don’t care and can’t care because fuck, all you can think about is how it feels as he rocks into you, again and again and again.

“Jeno,” you gasp out, grip digging into his shoulders as he fucks you, ruthless and unforgiving.

He’s relishing in it, you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he’s trying to fucking burn the sight into his brain forever, the sounds you’re making and the way you shiver in his arms and the sheer force of it all. He groans and when he kisses you again it’s nearly violent, a clash of lips and tongues and teeth.

“All mine,” he groans against your mouth. He hisses as you bite at his bottom lip, retaliating with a growl and driving his hips into yours with a newfound ruthlessness. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Oh—fuck please,” you gasp out, breaths coming out in little huffs in time with the movement of his body.

“Not what I asked,” he lowers his voice, serious. His pace slows down and it has you squirming and crying out.

“Fuck yes—yours Jeno. Always been yours. Just please don’t stop—”

Jeno groans and kisses your neck. He picks up his pace again. The same low tone in his voice as he promises, “I’m all yours too.”

You swear those three simple words were the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard. Your walls flutter around him and you don’t miss the prideful grin on his face as his hand moves down from your hip and his thumb presses against your clit.

His fingers move hurriedly and the pleasure is suddenly blinding and white and fuck fuck—

“Jeno yes just like that I’m gonna—”

“Good fucking girl,” he chokes out, your orgasm shaking him to his core, making his thrusts half-desperate.

His rhythm falters and his own breath catches. He digs his fingers into your hip hard enough that it makes you hiss and then he falters and slows and gives one, two, three more thrusts before pinning you harder with a shaky, breathless sigh.

The two of you stay like that for a beat before he lowers you back to the ground, pulling down your dress. Then slowly, he brings his fingers to his lips and licks, tasting you with a roll of his eyes.

“I mean it, you know,” He quietly says. “I’m all yours.”

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into a revering kiss, and you tell him the exact same thing back.

#nct smut #nct dream smut #jeno smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #jeno x reader #kpop smut #nct hard hours #nct one shot #nct scenarios

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throttleheart · 8 days ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Daylight savings ( Night Bravings)

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader (pre-relationship)

Genre: Fluff, slow-burn

Summary: When Lando shows up uninvited to your backyard with iced coffee and taking his hoodie off, you know trouble is ahead.

⸻

The sun was unapologetically bright, the kind that soaked into your skin and made your bones feel like they were humming. You were stretched across an old striped towel in your backyard, sunglasses crooked on your face, legs lazily splayed and still damp from the garden hose.

Your phone lay beside you on the grass, playing soft music. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. Boring, even.

Until your back gate creaked.

You didn’t move at first—too content to be concerned. “If you’re a murderer,” you called, “at least bring me a cold drink before you kill me.”

“No promises,” came a familiar, smirking voice.

You turned your head and squinted over your sunglasses. There stood Lando, curls slightly wind-tossed, wearing a hoodie far too warm for the weather and a self-satisfied grin.

And in each hand? A large iced coffee.

You stared. “You actually came.”

He raised the drinks. “You sounded like you were melting. I figured it was a caffeine emergency.”

“I was also enjoying the solitude,” you teased, sitting up slightly.

“Sure you were.” He kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the towel next to you without hesitation. “Your Spotify taste says otherwise.”

You snorted. “You mean excellent and unbothered?”

“I mean chaotic and vaguely nostalgic.” He set your drink beside your knee and then—without warning—reached behind his neck and peeled his hoodie off in one slow motion, tossing it to the side.

You blinked as your brain short-circuited.

He was already tanned from traveling, the sun catching golden on his shoulders and arms. He was only wearing swimming shorts underneath. No shirt. No warning. Just him, stretching out beside you like it was nothing.

You took a long sip of coffee mostly to hide your face. “Okay. You can stay.”

He gave you a smug little smile. “I already did.”

The two of you sat in the sun, quietly sipping, the air warm and comfortable. His bare shoulder bumped yours once. Then twice. You didn’t move.

After a moment, Lando said, “You know, this could be a trap.”

You tilted your head. “Me, in a swimsuit, sunbathing in my backyard, drinking iced coffee… is the trap?”

“No, the trap is me letting my guard down because you look like that,” he said, casually, but with just enough edge to make your stomach flip.

You choked slightly on your coffee. “Excuse me?”

Lando turned his head to look at you, eyes glinting. “I’m just saying, you know what you’re doing.”

“I literally look like a swamp witch trying to get a tan.”

He leaned in a little, voice low and amused. “And yet, here I am. Flustered.”

You raised a brow. “You’re flustered?”

He hesitated. “Slightly. It’s the sunglasses. The smugness. The legs.”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “Wow. So much power I didn’t know I had.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he said, sipping his drink again to hide his face.

You smirked. “Want me to cover up?”

He shot you a quick look. “Don’t you dare.”

Silence settled again, thick with amusement and a little bit of something heavier.

You were the one to break it. “You’re not usually this easy to fluster.”

“I’m not usually around you when you’re laying in the sun looking like a smug little goddess.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “…Okay. That one flustered me.”

He grinned wide, triumphant. “Finally.”

You shook your head, leaning back beside him. “You really just show up in my yard with coffee, take your shirt off, and make me blush?”

“Apparently.”

“Rude.”

“Effective.”

You both laughed, and something warm settled in your chest. Something that wasn’t just the sun.

After a while, you whispered, “You said you were flustered…”

He hummed. “Mhm.”

You grinned slowly. His eyes flicked to yours. That familiar smirk returned—but fainter this time. Softer.

He leaned back again, arms folded behind his head like this was just any normal day. His stomach stretched as he yawned, obnoxiously comfortable.

“You still drinking that coffee?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Good,” he said. “Because I think I’m staying a while.”

And you let him.

⸻

The sun had started to sink, lazy and golden, casting long shadows across the grass and dipping everything in that soft, almost-fictional light that made the world feel dreamlike.

You were still lying beside Lando, half on your towel, half on the warm grass, your now-empty iced coffee cup abandoned somewhere by your foot. The silence between you was easy, broken only by the occasional flutter of leaves and the soft clink of ice in the cup Lando kept swirling around just to annoy you.

But then the breeze picked up. Subtle, but cool. Enough to make your skin prickle.

You shivered just slightly.

Lando noticed instantly. “Cold?”

You considered lying. Then considered freezing. Then gave up. “A little.”

Without a word, he reached over to the spot beside him, grabbed his hoodie—the one he’d casually stripped off earlier, ruining your afternoon in the best possible way—and tossed it onto your stomach.

“Put it on,” he said. “You look like a sun-drunk cat who forgot the temperature drops after 6 PM.”

You made a face. “It probably smells like you.”

He grinned. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

You narrowed your eyes but tugged the hoodie on anyway. It was warm. It was soft. And—ugh—it smelled like him. That mix of sun, something expensive, and just a little bit of mischief.

It was also so soft.

He snorted. “You look like a child who stole from the laundry basket.”

“You chose to give it to me,” you said smugly, pulling the sleeves down over your hands. “Now you’ll never get it back.”

“Oh no,” he deadpanned. “What a loss.”

You turned your head and looked at him, his curls now glowing from the dying sun, his bare chest freckled with gold. He looked… calm. Too calm.

So naturally, you had to ruin it.

“You know,” you said sweetly, “it’s getting a little unfair how good you look shirtless in this light.”

His head whipped toward you. “Don’t start.”

You batted your lashes. “I’m just appreciating the view.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“No, I’m trying to enjoy my evening.” You stretched dramatically, arms above your head, hoodie sleeves flopping uselessly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Too late.”

You swallowed. The air suddenly felt warmer again.

After a beat, he shifted a little closer. Not a lot. Just enough that his knee bumped against yours.

You didn’t move.

“Do you do this often?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Lay out here like this?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “When I want to escape my brain.”

“Is it working?”

You looked at him. The way his fingers played with a stray blade of grass. The way he wasn’t looking at you, not really—just watching the sky above with a soft frown.

“Yeah,” you said honestly. “But you’re kind of making it worse.”

That caught him off guard. “Me?”

You smiled gently. “My brain doesn’t shut up around you.”

Lando blinked. You could see the moment he froze, like his brain couldn’t decide between laughing or running away.

“You just say things like that?” he muttered.

“What, the truth?”

He finally looked at you. “No one’s supposed to say that stuff out loud.”

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand. “Then why are your ears red?”

He groaned and flopped backward, covering his face with his arm. “I’m never going to recover from this afternoon.”

“You’re welcome.”

He slowly peeked out from under his arm, curls sticking in every direction. “You’re dangerous.”

You leaned a little closer. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t let you suffer.”

That got him. He laughed—bright and surprised—and reached over to flick your hoodie sleeve.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” he accused. “You just know it shuts me up.”

“And yet,” you said, dramatically flopping onto your back again, “you’re still here.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You’re mine.”

Silence.

Too much silence.

You panicked a little and added quickly, “I mean—technically. Just in the sense of—like—this backyard? I claim it. You’re on my turf. So.”

He was still staring at you.

You were not going to scream into the grass again.

Then—softly: “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t like that.”

You blinked.

He was still staring.

You were 90% sure your heart had just stopped.

And then—his voice broke the quiet. Light. Casual. But not.

“Move over.”

“What?”

He nudged your leg. “The grass is poking me. Your towel’s softer.”

You slid an inch away. He slid in, closer than before. Your arms brushed. Your knees touched.

And just like that, the sun disappeared behind the trees, and all the light that was left seemed to be coming from him.

⸻

By the time the last of the sunlight dipped below the fence line, everything had quieted. Even the breeze held its breath.

You could hear the distant buzz of summer—bugs, maybe, or far-off lawnmowers—but it all felt miles away. Here, in the tiny world you and Lando had carved out on one towel in your backyard, there was only warmth, silence, and the sharp, steady beat of your heart.

He hadn’t moved much since sliding in beside you. Maybe his breathing had slowed. Maybe yours had quickened. All you knew was that every inch between you felt alive.

Lando exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding something in. “You know,” he said, so quietly it almost didn’t register, “I wasn’t planning on staying this long.”

You turned your head slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at you, just traced a faint line in the grass with his finger. “I was just gonna drop off the coffee. Make a dumb joke. Leave.”

You smiled faintly. “You still made the dumb joke.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. But now I’m here. And I… don’t really want to go.”

That made your chest ache a little. The good kind. The kind that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one caught in this slow-burn spiral.

You tilted your head, voice gentler. “Why’d you stay?”

He glanced at you then. Not a full look—just enough for his lashes to catch the light. “Because it’s quiet here. And warm. And I like the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your breath hitched. You opened your mouth to deny it. To joke. To change the subject. But nothing came out.

Lando finally turned to face you fully, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for permission he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And then he said, very quietly, “Can I try something?”

You nodded before you even understood the question.

His hand moved slowly—almost uncertain—as he reached up and pushed your sunglasses up into your hair. His fingers brushed your temple, lingered just a second too long. The world seemed to pause.

“I like your eyes better when I can see them,” he murmured.

And just like that, your body forgot how to function.

You were still processing that when he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, leaning in—not fast, not demanding, just close enough that your noses were nearly touching.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, like the words might break if he said them any louder.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just closed the space between you.

The kiss was soft. Careful. So much tension threaded through it that it almost came apart at the seams. It wasn’t desperate—it was deliberate. A question wrapped in warmth. A quiet confession dressed in sunshine and old towels and iced coffee.

When he finally pulled back—barely—he pressed his forehead to yours and sighed like he’d been holding that breath for years.

“Well,” he murmured, “there goes my afternoon.”

You laughed. Quiet. Breathless. “I think it was already gone the moment you took your shirt off.”

“Tragic,” he whispered. “But fair.”

He shifted again, this time flopping back onto the towel with the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard. His arm, without really asking, found its way beneath your head, pulling you gently to rest on his shoulder. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stayed there. Together. Quiet. Close.

And when the stars finally began to show up—one by one like shy guests—you felt his thumb trace idle circles along your arm.

“Hey,” he murmured eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Next time,” he said sleepily, “can I still be flustered? Or is that a one-time deal?”

You smiled against his shoulder, heart impossibly full. “Depends on how short your shorts are.”

He snorted. “Evil.”

“You knew what this was.”

“I didn’t. But I really, really want to.”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached down, tangled your fingers with his, and held on.

And in the cool night air, wrapped in his hoodie and something that felt like the start of everything, you stayed.

⸻

Eventually, the stars multiplied—spilling across the sky like someone had cracked it open and let the light leak through. The warmth of the day had faded, replaced by something quieter, something slower. Lando was still beside you, arm beneath your head, fingers linked with yours.

You weren’t sure how long you lay like that. Long enough for the last bits of light to vanish. Long enough for your heart to settle into a rhythm that matched his.

And then his voice broke the silence, low and hesitant: “So, uh… do we just… sleep out here now?”

You turned your face into his shoulder to hide a smile. “You’re the one who said you were staying a while.”

“Right. I meant like… emotionally. Not physically.” He paused. “I didn’t bring a toothbrush.”

You laughed softly, and it made him grin. “You’ve stayed over before.”

“Yeah, but that was Mario Kart and couch blanket territory. This feels different.”

You lifted your head just slightly, enough to look at him. His curls were a little messy now, his expression open in a way that made something in your chest twist.

“It is different,” you said quietly.

Lando blinked. Like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

Then, “I don’t want to ruin it.”

You tilted your head. “Lando…”

“I’m serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I don’t want this to be a moment we pretend didn’t happen.”

You studied him. “Do I seem like someone who forgets kisses that easily?”

He smiled faintly. “You’re kind of intimidating, actually.”

That made you laugh again. “You’ve literally watched me cry over a burnt quesadilla.”

“And I still showed up in your backyard with iced coffee. Clearly, I’m in too deep.”

You hummed. “Yeah. You kind of are.”

Another beat passed.

Then: “Wanna come inside?”

He blinked, surprised by your question.

You added, “There’s leftover pasta. And probably a blanket that doesn’t smell like grass.”

“And toothbrushes?”

You grinned. “I might even let you borrow mine.”

Lando sat up, stretching with a dramatic groan, and then offered you a hand. “You’re the worst host ever, but I’m weirdly into it.”

You took it, standing slowly, a little cold now that you’d left the towel behind. His hoodie still hung around you, the sleeves long past your hands.

“You are keeping that, aren’t you?” he said, eyeing it.

You nodded solemnly. “Forever. It’s mine now.”

He just smiled, slipping his hand into yours again like he didn’t even have to think about it.

The two of you wandered back inside—quiet footsteps, soft laughter, the sliding glass door clicking shut behind you. You didn’t bother with lights. The moonlight spilling in through the windows was enough. Familiar shapes, soft shadows, the comfort of a home that already knew him.

You tossed your empty cup in the sink. He leaned against the counter, still shirtless, still golden from the sun.

And he was still looking at you like he hadn’t quite recovered from earlier.

You gestured toward the hallway. “Blanket or pasta first?”

He hesitated. Then crossed the room in a few slow steps and tugged gently on the hoodie sleeve that hung from your arm.

“I think I want you first.”

Your heart gave a traitorous skip.

You didn’t say anything—you just stepped in closer, arms looping around his waist, forehead resting against his chest.

And in that quiet, kitchen-lit moment, Lando wrapped his arms around you and held on like he wasn’t going anywhere. Like this was exactly where he was always supposed to be.

He kissed the top of your head. “This is a very emotionally reckless hoodie.”

You mumbled into his chest, “Should’ve thought of that before you took it off.”

He chuckled. “Next time, I’m bringing two.”

You felt his laughter vibrate through his chest where your cheek rested. It was warm, steady. Familiar.

Then came the quiet again—the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled. His arms stayed around you, fingertips tapping a slow rhythm against your back like they had nowhere better to be. Like they already belonged there.

But after a moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him. “You’re still not getting it back, by the way.”

Lando raised a brow. “The hoodie?”

You nodded. “It’s legally mine now. Common law ownership.”

He grinned, lips twitching. “I see. You’re going for emotional squatter’s rights.”

“Exactly. It now lives in my closet, between my emotional baggage and the sweater I stole from my sister.”

His smile softened again, like it always did with you. “What if I asked nicely?”

You stood on your toes just a little, nose brushing his. “Then I’d let you visit it. Supervised.”

His breath caught, almost too quietly to catch. But you did. You always did with him.

“I think I’d rather visit you,” he said.

It was barely above a whisper.

You stepped back first, only because you had to. “Okay, Casanova. Pasta’s going to get lonely.”

He groaned, throwing his head back like you’d just delivered the greatest tragedy known to man. “You can’t just flirt like that and then pivot to carbohydrates.”

You smirked, already padding toward the kitchen cupboards. “Watch me.”

He followed you anyway, of course. Still barefoot, still a little dazed, like gravity didn’t quite work right when you were near. You grabbed the pasta container from the fridge, popped it into the microwave, and leaned against the counter while it warmed—arms crossed, hoodie sleeves bunched at your elbows.

Lando watched you in that quiet way he sometimes did. Less teasing, more observing. Like he was memorizing you in the mundane.

“You really gonna let me use your toothbrush?” he asked finally.

You tilted your head, playful. “I said maybe.”

He squinted, suspicious. “So that wasn’t a flirty offer? That was a trap?”

“Everything’s a trap with me. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

“I’m learning it the hard way,” he said, inching closer. “Still here, though.”

You looked up at him just as the microwave beeped, loud and ridiculous between you. He didn’t move away. Didn’t stop smiling.

“I’m not kidding,” he added softly. “I think I could get used to this.”

You opened the microwave door to buy yourself a second. “Leftover pasta and emotional sabotage?”

He bumped your hip with his. “Exactly.”

You plated the food—he stole a bite before you could even grab forks—and the two of you ended up curled on the couch with a shared bowl, legs tangled under the blanket you found in the linen closet.

He fed you a spiraled noodle with way too much ceremony. You retaliated by flinging a bit of basil at him.

The laughter came easy. So did the closeness.

Eventually, the food was gone, the bowl abandoned on the coffee table, and your head found his shoulder again like it was meant to. The room was dim, TV humming low in the background, some sitcom neither of you were really watching.

Lando shifted slightly, resting his cheek on top of your head. “So… this is definitely not Mario Kart and couch blankets anymore, huh?”

You hummed, content. “Nope. It’s hoodie theft and pasta-based intimacy now.”

He grinned against your hair. “God, you’re dangerous.”

And you smiled—because he said it like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You stayed like that for a while, the kind of while that made time stretch and slow and feel like it didn’t need to be counted. His arm stayed around your shoulders, your legs draped across his like they’d done it a thousand times before.

The TV murmured some laugh track in the background, and you could feel him breathing—steady, calm, like the day had wound down into something safe.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice soft, “I used to think nights like this only happened in movies.”

You glanced up at him, your cheek brushing his collarbone. “Because of the pasta?”

He smirked. “Because of the girl who keeps stealing my clothes and making me feel like I belong somewhere.”

Your chest tightened. That quiet, aching, warm kind of tight.

“I’m not trying to make you feel that way,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said, eyes on you now. “That’s what makes it worse. Or better. I haven’t decided yet.”

You reached up, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “You belong, Lando.”

His breath hitched again—barely. But it did.

The teasing was gone now. So was the grin. What was left was this soft sort of awe, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know what to do with how he felt.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he said.

You blinked.

Not because it shocked you—no. You’d felt it, too. In the way he looked at you. In the way he always came back, always stayed.

But hearing it out loud made something inside you crack open.

So you whispered, “Then maybe you should start bringing a toothbrush.”

Lando stared at you. Then laughed—quiet, breathless, full.

“I’m serious,” you added, your fingers playing with the hem of your stolen hoodie. “I can’t exactly be seen dating a guy with poor dental hygiene.”

He pulled you in again, arms tight around your middle, face buried in your neck now.

“You’re unreal,” he mumbled against your skin.

“You’re unreal,” he mumbled against your skin. His voice was muffled, warm, a little dazed.

You felt the soft brush of his curls against your neck as he lingered there—breathing you in, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just ran your fingers gently through his hair, slow and steady, until his grip loosened enough for you both to breathe again.

“Come on,” you whispered, nudging him slightly. “Bed before one of us falls asleep on the kitchen floor.”

“I’d risk it,” he said, but let you lead him anyway.

The hallway was dim, the kind of quiet that made the whole house feel softer somehow. Familiar shadows, creaking floorboards, your hoodie sleeves still swallowing your hands as he followed close behind. His fingers brushed your back lightly as you walked, never quite letting you get too far ahead.

You pushed the bedroom door open and turned back toward him, only to find him already watching you.

“You sure?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want you here.”

He didn’t say anything—just stepped closer and kissed your forehead in a way that made your knees go a little weak.

It wasn’t rushed, what came next. It wasn’t fumbling or heavy or unsure.

It was slow.

He waited as you pulled back the blankets. Let you crawl in first. Crawled in after, his arm sliding beneath your head like it belonged there, like this was already routine. And when you turned to face him, eyes adjusting to the moonlight slicing in through the blinds, he was already looking at you.

You tucked your hand beneath his shirt, just at his ribs, fingers brushing warm skin. He didn’t flinch. Just sighed, a little content noise, and moved in closer.

His nose bumped yours.

“Still not over today,” he whispered.

You smiled sleepily. “Me neither.”

You leaned in and kissed him once, soft and slow—no pressure, no rush. Just two people who had been circling something for far too long finally letting it happen.

And when you pulled back, his eyes were still half-closed, his lips still curved.

“I like falling asleep next to you,” he murmured.

You buried your face against his chest. “Then don’t stop.”

His arm tightened around you. “Not planning to.”

And with your heart steady against his, the two of you drifted—wrapped in borrowed clothes, lingering affection, and the quiet kind of comfort that didn’t need any more words.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

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shockercoco · 9 months ago

Text

Chasing Feelings

Tyler Owens x reader

warnings - mutual pining, jealous!reader, some swear words, fluff

word count - 2838

a/n - this was literally supposed to come out within a week of the release of twisters, but I’ve been gone for a month lol. I took so many breaks while writing this, so I'm not completely sure everything goes together, but it should. thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy :)

You’ve had a crush on Tyler ever since the day you met him, and to you, he was way out of your league. You also weren’t the only one who felt this way; the amount of girls who showed up at empty fields just to meet Tyler was insane, but could you really blame them?

Tyler has so much charisma to the point where it seems like he’s attracted to everyone he meets.

When he stares directly into everyone’s eyes, giving them his undivided attention, and flashes that charming smile of his, it’s kind of hard to tell who he actually is or isn’t flirting with.

You, of course, were no different, so how the hell were you supposed to know that he liked you back?

Tyler was from Arkansas and he and his team decided to move to Oklahoma to storm chase several seasons ago. When he first showed up that day at the gas station with Boone filming his every move, you thought that he was just another adrenaline junky wanting to see a tornado up close for views. At the time you were a part of another group of chasers from Oklahoma, and since you had already made up your mind about him, you decided it was best to ignore him.

But, he made it hard.

You were surprised to see him walk over to your group and start chatting it up with a couple of your teammates. Turns out, they knew him from his youtube channel and were fans. Having him so close to you made it easier to check him out, which Tyler had noticed, but never called you out for it.

He came up to introduce himself to you, giving you a smile and taking off his sunglasses as he walked towards you.

“You’re a long way from home,” you had told him – you had overheard him talking about his hometown in Arkansas.

“This is my home now,” he had said.

He had pointed out that he was familiar with some of your work and began joking around with you so casually like he had known you his whole life. Unfortunately, you became immediately hooked.

You spent that night binging all of his videos and past live streams because you were oh so wrong about him.

That day led you to where you are now, a part of Tyler’s crew and regularly going out on chases for the fun of it.

“How are you doin’ today, Bambi?” you hear Tyler walk up and come stand next to you as you adjust the lens on your camera. You, and all the other crews, were currently at a gas station preparing for the coming storm.

When he had first given you that nickname, you had told him it was basic, which resulted in him smirking and saying, “Ain’t nothing basic about you.”

You still think about that moment to this day.

“Just fine, Tyler, is there something I can help you with?” you answer, not taking your eyes off your camera.

“What, I can’t talk to my favorite person?” he asks.

You can hear the smile in his voice, and when you finally turn around to look at him, you aren’t surprised to see it spread across his face. “I thought Boone was your favorite person?” you tilt your head at him.

“I can have more than one favorite,” he says, nudging you with his soldier.

You raise your eyebrows and glance over at Boone, who was already looking in your direction with a knowing smile, and say, “I wonder how Boone would feel about that.”

Boone was Tyler’s best friend and had known you had a crush on Tyler the day you joined the team, and since then has repeatedly told you to confess to Tyler. Every time you tell him no, he just tells you yes because according to him Tyler feels the same way about you. It didn’t take long for Dani and Lily to catch on either, but unlike Boone, they don’t pressure you.

“No need to start any trouble,” Tyler jokes, and you laugh at that. He opens his mouth to say something else, but stops when he hears the sound of more vehicles pull up.

The two of you turn around in time for you to see the crew exit their vehicles, including Javi and what you know to be Kate. You’ve never met Kate given the fact that she rarely decides to come back home to Oklahoma, but from what you’ve heard she’s really good with tornadoes.

You watch as the pair head towards you – Javi coming up to hug you while Kate goes to hug Tyler. Javi shoots you a look as he glances over at the two, and you quickly give his shoulder a shove, causing him to let out a laugh.

Javi is also amongst those who know you like Tyler. This crush is honestly starting to become a little pathetic.

Kate pulls away from Tyler and looks over at you with a kind smile, holding her hand out for you to shake. “Hi, I’m Kate. I’ve heard a lot about you from Javi, so it’s nice to finally meet you.”

According to Boone, Tyler couldn’t keep his eyes off of Kate the last time she was here. At the time your migraines had started to come back so you had decided to sit the chase out, and good thing you did because there was no way you could handle watching that scene unfold.

You offer Kate a smile back as you shake her hand. “Same here, it’s nice to meet you.”

“What brings you city folks out here?” Tyler jokes.

Kate rolls her eyes at the nickname. “I’m doing the same thing the two of you are doing – storm chasing,” she replies as she looks out at the horizon at the clouds forming, her hair moving with the breeze.

“I thought you left Storm Par,” you say to Javi as you motion your head towards the white trucks

“We did, but that doesn’t mean we can’t use their equipment. They have some really high tech stuff – we might as well put it to good use,” Javi explains. He then looks over at Kate and gives her a nudge. “Not like we need it since Kate’s here.”

Kate gives him a small smile at the compliment.

“Well, city girl, which direction are we going in today?” Tyler asks as Kate bends down to take a dandelion into her hand. Tyler takes his sunglasses off in order to get a better look at the sky.

It’s a question Tyler usually asks you when it’s just the two of you in his truck with the rest of the crew following behind in their vehicles. You have no right to be jealous, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of jealousy from growing in your chest. Choosing to ignore it, you take a deep breath and watch Kate, waiting for her answer.

You watch as a gust of wind blows the specks of dandelion out of her hand, causing Kate to look up into the sky at a dark funnel beginning to take form.

“That one,” Kate points.

“Are you sure?” Tyler questions in a teasing manner, one of his eyebrows raising.

“I’ll tell you later,” Kate replies, and then follows it with a question, “ do ya mind if I ride with you?”

“Not at all,” Tyller answers, but then turns to look at you,” as long as my trusty navigator doesn’t mind.”

What the hell are you supposed to say? No?

You don’t even notice your tense jaw until you open your mouth to answer. “Of course not, you two go ahead,” you tell Tyler, looking between him and Kate as you offer up a smile.

“Well then it’s settled, let’s ride. Just make sure you don’t get me lost,” Tyler smirks as he turns to walk towards his truck. Kate rolls her eyes as she follows him, a small smile on her lips.

Javi turns to you once the pair are out of earshot. “You don’t mind?” he repeats your words, not believing you for a second.

“I don’t,” you give him a shrug as you begin walking towards his Storm Par truck. Javi follows right behind you, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Mhm. You look like you were about to pop a blood vessel,” Javi lets out a laugh.

You stop in your tracks and turn to face him. “Was it that obvious?” you ask, your eyes wide.

“Relax, I’m kidding,” his smile drops once he sees the look on your face. You release a breath and continue walking. Once the two of you are in the safety of his truck, Javi asks, “you really like him, huh?”

“Unfortunately,” you huff out. “I’m slowly trying to get over it, though.”

“Why?”

“Because it's a useless little schoolgirl crush, and it’s not like he’s actually going to like me back, so there’s no point in continuing to suffer.”

Javi just hums in response, starting the vehicle and placing his hands on the steering wheel. Then he glances over at you, “I say you should hold out, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Before you can answer, Tyler’s truck pulls up beside you guys on Javi’s side of the car. Tyler leans forward to look over at the two of you before moving his finger in a swirling motion and driving off.

“That’s your man, huh?” Javi gives you a questioning look, his tone light.

You let out a small laugh, “Just drive the damn truck, Javi.”

The chase was eventful as always. Kate’s instincts were right and led the group right into the tornado’s path, where Tyler stopped to anchor his truck. The rest of you hung back as you watched Tyler shoot fireworks into the eye of the storm.

Even though you had some distance on them, you could still hear the hoots and hollers coming from their spot in the field. The group of tornado watchers that had decided to join the chase got out of their vehicles to join the celebration.

Javi looks over at you and shakes his head in fake disappointment, resulting in you rolling your eyes.

After the chase everyone decides to go out for drinks before heading to the motel. From your spot at the bar next to Javi, you can see Tyler in the back of the bar throwing darts with Kate.

“You know, you should blink every once in a while,” you hear a voice say in your ear. You jump and turn around to see Boone standing there with a grin and a beer in one of his hands.

“I don’t think she cares at this point, she has been ignoring me all night for that redneck,” Javi jokes.

You scoff, “No, I haven’t.”

“Oh really? What was I just talking about then?” Javi looks at you with his eyebrows raised. Boone joins him and turns his attention back to you.

Your mouth opens, but you quickly close it when you realize you don’t have an answer. You let out a sigh as you drop your head into your hands. “I’m sorry,” you say in defeat.

“Don’t worry about it,” Javi says, “I just can’t wait for the two of you to finally get together so this can end.”

“You and me both, brother,” Boone says, clinking his beer bottle against Javi’s.

As the night starts to come to an end, you say your goodbyes to the group before heading back to the motel. It was just across the street, and the majority of the people in the area were tornado chasers, so you had no problem walking back by yourself.

After making your way up the stairs and into your room, you decide on taking a quick shower before heading off to bed.

When you get out, you’re about to turn the lights and the tv off so you can go to sleep when you hear a knock on your door. Assuming it was Boone, Dani, or even Lily, you open the door without hesitation, only to reveal Tyler on the other side.

He stands in front of you, his hands in his pockets as he looks down at you with a gentle smile and his clothes still on from the day. “Hey, there. You left without sayin’ goodbye.”

“Well I told Boone, Javi, Dani, and Lily goodbye, so technically I did,” you tell him. A gust of wind from the night breeze blows through the doorway, causing you to cross your arms over your chest.

“Ouch, I see I’m not important anymore,” Tyler says.

You let out a small laugh. “I’m pretty sure you don’t need me to tell you you’re important.”

“You know I do,” he says.

You let out a small hum in response before asking, “So where’s Kate?”

“I’m actually not sure, last time I saw her, I think she was talking with Javi,” he answers, his eyebrows furrowing as he glances back at the parking lot. Then he shrugs and says, “I had to leave her since she was kicking my ass in darts so who cares.”

“Didn’t enjoy having your ego bruised, huh?” you joke, and Tyler rolls his eyes.

“Hey, I don’t have a problem with gettin’ beat by a woman,” he chuckles.

“Whatever you say,” you smile at him. “Was there something else you wanted? I was just about to go to bed.”

Tyler clears his throat. “Uh yeah, there is actually,” he tells you as he stands up straight. You raise your eyebrows as you wait for him to continue. “I was wonderin’, well hopin’, you would want to do somethin’. You know, just the two of us,” he says.

Is he - No, let’s not jump to conclusions.

“Don’t we always?” you question.

“Well, yeah, but I meant…you know,” Tyler begins to scratch the back of his neck, and glances down at the ground, “Like a date.”

You blink. And blink again. And again.

Then when Tyler notices your silence, he adds, “But I totally understand if you don’t want to.”

You blink again. “Like seriously?” you finally ask. Your eyebrows are furrowed, still not completely believing him.

“Yes,” he says.

“Okay,” you nod, a small smile starting to form on your lips.

Okay? That’s all you have to say?

“Yeah?” Tyler perks up, and you nod again.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

Tyler chuckles. “You know, I don’t know why I was nervous. I already knew you had a crush on me.”

You choke on your spit as you give him an incredulous look. “You what?”

“Yeah, and you know I figured you would catch on to me by now, but I wasn’t sure if you were and just ignoring me or what,” he smirks.

“And how exactly was I supposed to catch on?” you ask, adding air quotes at the end.

“I’ve been flirting with you this whole time,” he tells you like it’s obvious.

“Tyler, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you flirt with anyone,” you tell him.

“No, I don’t,” Tyler’s face twists up, and you give him a look. He thinks for a second before saying, “Well, yeah, I guess I do. Kind of.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘kind of’?”

“I feel like my serious flirting is different from my usual charming self,” he shoots you a wink.

“No. No it’s not Tyler. Your usual charming self made me think you like Kate,” you tell him, causing his eyebrows to raise in amusement.

Well…maybe you should’ve kept that last part to yourself.

“You thought I liked Kate?” he smiles, leaning in a little bit more.

You roll your eyes and decide not to answer. Tyler takes your silence as a greenlight to keep talking shit.

“Were you jealous?”

You scoff as your eyes widen, “how dare you!”

“You were!” he exclaims, your reaction giving you away.

Feeling your face begin to heat up and wanting to hide from the embarrassment you back up to be able to close the door in his face. “Goodnight Tyler,” you mumble, fully ready to be alone once again, but of course Tyler puts his hand up to stop you.

“Oh come on, Bambi, don’t shy up on me now,” he smirks, going back to leaning on the door with his palm still on the door.

“Says the one who got nervous to ask me out,” you point out, causing Tyler to laugh. “Goodnight,” you repeat, and once again you try to close the door, but you’re met with resistance.

Tyler’s laughter dies down. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” he tells you. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, giving him a stern look.

“Come on, I promise I won’t tease you anymore.”

You sigh. “Fine.”

Tyler thanks you as you step aside to make room for him to enter the room, but as he walks past you, he says, “But Kate? Really?”

Yeah, he isn’t going to let this go anytime soon.

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