Summary: When sharing a motel room, things can get boring. â you may also like Priveate Lessons as a continuation to this
Warnings: MDNI - smut. brief mentions of violence, blood, suicide, death (reader and Will are working together on a case); voyeurism, unprotected P in V, creampie, chocking, biting, etc
A/N: sooo, Will might be a little out of character but I tried my best. english is not my first language so I apologise in advance.
It was cold and rainy when you stepped out of the SUV, West Washington tends to be that way, relentless drizzle blurring the edges of the world, the scent of wet pine heavy in the air. The BAU Team had been send to help local authorities with a series of strange suicides; all middle-aged women with good husbands and children who jumped into their deaths. Three. Until now.
After spending most of the day interviewing witnesses and family members, your muscles ached from tension and the endless note taking, you finally got a moment to rest.
The weight of the case pressed down on everyone, thick and suffocating like the damp air outside.
Since Jack had a ânewâ member added to the team, you had to cut out budges, which meant sharing shitty motel rooms down by the road. Will Graham was still an incognita to you; he was smart, really smart, brilliant detective but with some unusual methods, but after all, unstable. What he did to the crime scene today was amazing. It was like he was there himself, inducing that poor woman to dive into forever sleep like an demon on her ear. But the aftershock came quickly for him, a strong migraine that had him rushing out to the car, pale and shaking.
The picked motel was an interesting choice Batez Motel. You scuffed at Jim for being the one who suggested, turned out, they only had a few rooms left and the team would have to share it. Of course, Jack Crawford was the one to choose the room with only one bed to remain alone, and left you to decide your own roommates.
âIâm already at Bates Motel, I rather not sleep with Normanâ Jim said, looking back at Will.
âCut it off.â Katz said. Her dark eyes also darting to his direction.
âMaybe we should let luck decide. Here.â Brian said picking up a used hashi from the lunch you shared earlier. He broke the wooden stick in 4 pieces and spread them carefully behind his fingers. âWhoever gets the shorter shared a room with Psychoâ
âGimme that.â You said, slapping his hand and watching as the four little sticks fell to the floor. âIâll share with him. You assholes.â
You gathered your things and left them discussing whatever argument they had going on and crossed the patio towards Will, who was sitting at a bench petting the ownerâs dog.
âLooks like weâre roomies.â
âYou picked the shorter stick?â He asked with a low voice.
You shrugged, trying to mask the flicker of sympathy you felt for him. Maybe he knew, maybe he overheard, or used his abnormal power of profiling and imagination or maybe he was just making a usual joke. But deep in your heart you knew he feared ending up sleeping alone, not because he wouldnât have any company but because others wouldnât want his company.
You liked Will, you really did. But he was ever so distance you could barely remember the last long conversation you had with him, or being alone with him for that matter.
âCome on. Letâs go insideâ.
You opened the door nÂş505 with a squeaky sound; the cramped room smelled like a forgotten lavender scented sachet and humid wood. The walls were painted a muted dark green, the curtains heavy and drawn, matching the worn fabric of the two twin beds that sat awkwardly close together. A small table with two mismatched chairs occupied one corner, while a tiny TV perched silently on a dresser, its screen flickering softly; and a bedside table with a battered lampshade. You and Will shared a glance of conformity and he closed the door behind you.
âIâll take the first shower, if you donât mindâŚâ You said, opening the door to your left.
Will shook his head and went over to one of the beds, the one closer to the window, left his bag there and sat at the table, hiding his face between his hands. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was always this quiet, or if he just chose to be quiet around you. Maybe he preferred silence with most people, or maybe silence was simply his refuge. You didnât mind thought, silence feels nice with him, natural, not uncomfortable or weird, justâŚnormal.
Entering the small bathroom you stepped out of your boots and let your hair down, feeling your sore muscles as you stretched a bit. Opening the shower, you swore under your breath, the water was cold as ice, you decided to let it running for a few minutes, hoping itâd warm up. You stared at your reflection in the mirror; dark circles shadowed your eyes, your face pale and worn from too many restless nights. The kind of exhaustion that comes from chasing a career you dreamed of since you were a kid.
âSo⌠our guy, he just convinces them to kill themselves? How? What do the victims have in common?â You asked, more to fill the silence, with the only subject you and Will ever talked about: work.
Will answers calmly and methodically.
But his voice is low, like your hearing from far away, you cannot make out the words as they seemed to blend in to the sound of the running water.
âI canât hear you, I left the water running. Come closerâ You said, rustling around your bag to find your shampoo.
There was a faint shuffle as Will got up from his chair and padded quietly down the narrow corridor. He hesitated just outside the bathroom door, leaning against the wall with a slight awkwardness, trying not to seem like a creep. You opened the door just a crack, the steam starting to thicker inside the room.
âI said thatâ, he cleared his throat and raised his voice âthose types of manipulators often choose people disconnected from support, like isolated cult members. He preys on their vulnerabilities, breaks them down until they see no other way.â
âOk. But how does he chooses, them? I doubt those women were ever on a cult.â
Will shift his head to the site, his eyes heavy and unfocused, he scratch them for a while.
âNo. But maybe, cult-like activities, the most common one of them: Church.â
Your eyebrows shoot up. Brilliant.
He hesitated, his voice dropping to almost a whisper now. âFaith can isolate as much as it can comfort. When beliefs become rigid cages, they cut people off from reason, from outside help.â
You nodded, feeling the weight of his insight settle between you. It wonders you how easily he can understand others mind, especially without even meeting them; itâs like magic. But itâs also frighten how he manages to see so much darkness and still beâŚgenuine.
âHeâs leading them to salvation.â You said, more than a guess than a real statement.
You looked over to Will from behind your shoulder, wondering if he could read you as he reads murderers. Willâs gaze met yours for a moment, brief, searching, before he turned his eyes to the floor again.
The silence stretched, but it wasnât empty.
Sighing, you pull out your shirt in one quick motion, letting it fall to the floor. The warm air of the steam kissing you skin; it calmed down the cold. Youâve always been cold, ever since you remembered; grew up in California, golden coast and sparkling summers, until your parents divorced and you moved to wet and humid Virginia. Been cold ever since.
You hair falling into pieces at you back caught Will of guard, darting his eyes away from your figure, but something whitin him couldnât bare looking at another thing if not you; But his gaze kept pulling back, magnetic and relentless. The curve of your spine and the porcelain skin of your back; your dedicated hands unclasping your bra, following your shirt to the floor.
âYou think this could turn into Jonestown?â You asked, nonchalant.
He felt a sting into his heart, you knew he was staring, and you didnât care.
âNo.â He responded, voice as quiet as a step in the dead of night, âI donât think so. He just..He really belives heâs saving those women.â
âSaving from what?â
He wanted to say more. Wanted to explain how he believed in the darkness those women were trapped in, how the man convincing them truly thought he was saving them. But the words caught in his throat, swallowed by the heaviness of watching you, feeling both anchored and adrift in the moment.
The sound of your zipper being opened wore louder than your voice, or at least thatâs what if felt like to Will.
âI donât knowâŚYet.â
âUhm.â
You slid the jeans down your legs, easily kicking them to the corner.
The final tug to his clasping reality as he looked away, turning his head to the ceiling, closing his eyes and wishing this was real and not just another trick from his twisted mind.
You finally stepped into the shower, the hot water burning where it fell down your skin, only your silhouette could be seeing from behind the tainted glass; Will stretched out his arm to close the door, when your voice cut trough his running wild mind.
âPromise I wonât use all the hot waterâ it sounded more shy than you wanted it to be.
The next day went down like a train wreck.
You sat in the back of the SUV, the hum of the engine a dull, meaningless sound against the pounding in your ears. Blood speckled your cheeks and collar, not your own.
Martha OâNeil. Forty-one years old, mother of two, wife to a man who still called her âsweetheartâ after twenty years, a teacher who stayed late to help struggling kids. She died because you couldnât save her.
Youâd been the one Jack sent to talk her down. She was standing on the roofâs edge, her fingers white-knuckled around the railing, the wind whipping her hair into her tear-streaked face. You didnât even remember exactly what youâd said, the words had come out of you in a rush, raw and desperate. But something worked. Marthaâs eyes softened, her foot stepped back, and she reached for you. You took her hand. She was safe.
Until a bullet split the air.
The sound was sharp, almost surgical. Marthaâs body jerked in your grip, her blood spraying warm across your cheek. Her head slumped forward before her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the wet concrete at your feet.
Another shot rang out, this one whistling past your ear. You ducked behind the rusted metal door, pressing yourself into the cold wall, the rain soaking through your jacket. Martha lay sprawled in the open, the rain pooling in her hair, mixing red with black.
Voices blurred in your earpiece, Jack barking orders, boots hitting pavement, but they didnât cut through the ringing in your head.
By the time paramedics reached the roof, you were shaking, adrenaline eating away at the edges of your control. They guided you down the stairwell and into the back of an ambulance. The heat inside made you nauseous. One of them pressed a blanket over your shoulders and checked you for wounds. You werenât injured, but you felt like you should be.That didnât stop the hollow ache in your chest.
âShe was right there,â you said, your voice barely audible over the siren. âShe was safe. I had her. Iââ Your throat tightened. You couldnât finish.
Jack appeared at the doors, rain dripping from the brim of his coat. His eyes were sharp, but there was something softer underneath. âIt wasnât your fault. Weâll get him.â
The killer was still on the loose. That truth was more grounding than anything else.
When the search closed in on an industrial park three blocks away, you left the ambulance before anyone could stop you. Your weapon felt heavier than usual, but your grip didnât falter.
You found him in a narrow alley, holding a woman in front of him like a shield. She was crying, her hands clawing at his arm, his pistol pressed to her temple. He was backing toward the street, scanning for an exit. You watched the scene from behind, the Team were all poiting theis guns ate him
âFederal Agents. Put the gun down!â you heard Katzâs voice cut through the rain.
His eyes flicked to the back of the alley, missing you in the shadows, a cold, calculating assessment, and then back to the street. He tightened his hold on the woman, shifting her between him and the team.
You stepped sideways, slow, patient, closing the distance. One mistake, one twitch, and sheâd be dead.
He was shouting something now, threats, demands, but you werenât listening. You saw the angle. The line. The back of his headâŚ
You fired once.
The impact was immediate. His body went slack, the woman wrenching free and stumbling toward safety. He hit the pavement face-first, the rain quickly swallowing the last of the red pooling beneath him.
Your hands didnât shake. Not this time.
Itâs weird to keep remembering something that happened just a few hours ago, but in the way back to the Motel it just wouldnât slip your mind. Marthaâs eyes, glimmering with hope as her shaking hand took yours, and just them it was gone, she fell to the ground. You failed her. The stains on your white shirt were the proof of it.
Shaking, you took Jackâs hand as he helped you out of the vehicle, leading you to your room with ease, telling you some reassuring words your brain didnât wrapped around, your own thoughts were too loud for that.
âAre you okay, Agent? Would you like to talk to Dr. Bloom?â He suggested.
âNo. NoâŚIâm â I just need a showerâ
You were too much aware of the drying blood over your skin. Jack nodded, resting a hand on your shoulder as opening the door do you.
Will was already inside, pacing around the tiny space between the beds, his glasses falling to the tip of his nose like a little kidâs. He look over to you and his eyes softened.
âI let the water running. Almost boiling now, actuallyâ He said, voice calm and almost boyish.
âThanksâ you said, dropping your thing onto the table. âIâll go in a minuteâ
âTake your time.â He eased, sitting at his bed. âHow are you feeling?â
âI donât know.â You thought about sitting in the old chair, but it was so cold and Will seemed to be so warm in his plaid shirt and worn out jeans. You sat beside him, mattress shaking to adjust to both of your weight. âI guess you would knowâ
âYeahâ His voice came out as a raspy laugh. âI would knowâ
His shoulder brushed yours, his hand coming to caress your back awkwardly.
âWas this how you felt when you shot Garret Jacob Hobbs?â You both felt the heaviness of the question and you regretted it instantly. âIâm sorryâ
âItâs okay.â He said.
He didnât look at you for long, but you could feel his gaze, reluctant, searching, as if he wanted to know whether you were going to crumble, or whether youâd already decided never to.
âMartha Oâneil wasnât your faultâ He said, his hands drawing circles to the small of your back. âDonât overthink. Itâll kill youâ
âI know. But I canât get her eyes out of my headâŚAnd when I convinced her, she seemed soâŚgratefulâ.
Tears burned hot at the corners of your eyes before you could stop them, and you let yourself lean into Willâs side. His body was solid, grounded, like leaning against a wall that might just hold you up when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
âYouâre so warm,â you slipped, not caring if it sounded strange. It was true. He felt like a fireplace in the winter.
Will gave a soft laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.
âIâm burning up a fever,â he said, then added quickly, almost self-conscious, âBut itâs nothing. Donât worry.â
His hand came up to your hair, fingers combing through gently, like he was afraid to tangle or pull. The motion was soothing, the kind of touch that made it hard to tell whether he was comforting you, or himself.
You lost track of how many minutes you stayed liked that, but the ache in your bones was restless, and the hot water seemed more than inviting.
The water hissed in the bathroom, a steady curtain of sound that blurred the edges of the motel room into something smaller, quieter. Steam seeped under the door in faint wisps, curling into the air like smoke. Will sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, glasses slipping low on the bridge of his nose.
He told himself he was just giving you space. Letting you rinse off the day â the blood, the rain, the weight of what youâd seen. But his mind wouldnât stay in neutral.
Youâd walked into the bathroom without a backward glance, stripping off the blood-stiff clothes that still lay in a crumpled heap near the door. He could almost hear the drops hitting your skin, imagined the way your muscles might finally loosen under the heat. The image was intrusive, uninvited, and yet it stayed.
He hadnât realized, not really, until now, until seeing you hunched in the SUV, shaking from more than the cold , how much he noticed you. Not just the way you worked a case, or the little quirks in your voice when you were tired, but the way you carried things you didnât deserve to carry. How much it hurt him to watch you break under something that wasnât your fault.
It was that fragility â not weakness, never weakness â that caught him off guard. Like it was pulling some thread in him he hadnât felt in years, a thread that, if he kept tugging, would unravel everything he thought heâd neatly tied up inside himself.
The shower kept running, a soft roar. He wondered if you were leaning your forehead against the tile, eyes closed, breathing through the heat. He wondered if you were crying where no one could see.
You stepped out in a motel-white robe, cinched loose at the waist, hair dripping wet down your shoulders in dark, lazy strands. The faint scent of soap and heat trailed behind you, replacing the sharp metallic tang of blood that had hung in the air earlier.
âYou lookâŚâ Will started, then stopped. His eyes flicked away, a shy half-smile tugging at his mouth. ââŚless like an extra from a horror scene.â
You snorted, running a towel over your hair. âWell, weâre in Batez Motel after allâ
âIâm saying the absence of blood really works for you.â
You glanced at him over your shoulder, eyes narrowing in mock offense. âSo youâre saying the blood didnât work for me?â
âNot unless you were going for⌠a kind of Carrie-at-prom look,â he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.
You laughed, it was quite morbid, but it neither of you seemed to mind.
You tossed the towel onto the chair and flopped back against the pillows, robe loosening slightly at the collar. Will was still sitting on the edge of the other bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching you like he was still working something out in his head.
After a long beat, he asked quietly, âDo you think Iâm weird?â
You turned your head toward him, one eyebrow lifting. âYeah. But so what? Everybodyâs weird.â
He shook his head just a little, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. âYouâre not weird.â
You laughed, a short, surprised sound. âI study mutilated bodies for a living, Will.â
His smirk grew into something almost boyish. âYeah⌠but you make it seem normal.â
You werenât sure if that was a compliment or something that should worry you, but either way, it made your chest feel a little lighter.
The rest of the night was filled with conversation. Conversations you never thought of having with Will; he seemed to be so calm tonight, so well cantered. You ate pizza and drank an unknown brand of Tennessee Whisky that was forgotten inside the minifridge. Will told you about his dogs, about fishing and Dr. Lecter, his ability and his unimaginable sympathy.
Right now, it was almost 1am, you were both sitting on the floor, trying to fill up the crosswords from the local newspaper.
âAlrightâŚAnother word forâ, you squint at the tiny print, pen poised, ââsubdueâ?â
Will leans over the paper, breath warm against your ear. Heâs close enough that you can feel the slight tremor in his shoulder when he laughs softly. âQuell,â he offers, voice low. âOr âsuppressâ if you want something longer.â
You write QUELL underneath and grin at him. âYou always make it sound like a lecture.â
He looks up, something like embarrassment flaring and dying on his face. âI donât mean to. I just⌠used to it by now.â
âI never been to one of your classesâŚMaybe I should.â
âMaybeâ he agrees.
You sip the cheap Tennessee whiskey, feeling it burn in a way that makes you smile. âOkay, Professor Graham,â you tease, nudging his knee with your foot, âtry this one: three letters, clued ânot aliveâ.â
Willâs eyes slide to the clue, then to you. His brow knits. âDead?â He says it as if testing the sound of it in his mouth. The word hangs there, absurd and heavy in the small room.
âYep.â You tap the D into the grid. âSimple and honest.â
He studies the paper as if itâs a crime scene, looking for patterns. âYou make it sound less clinical,â he says after a moment, then almost immediately, quieter, âThank you.â
You bump your shoulder against his. âWeird compliment.â
He gives the faintest, embarrassed smile. âI can do weird compliments.â
Another pause. Outside, rain ticks its steady tempo against the window. Inside, the motel light hums low and safe. You both lean over the crossword, shoulders touching.
âOK,â you say, handing the pen to him. âYou get the ending down. One word: âone who understands criminalsâ.â
Will blinks, the phrase settling in like a puzzle piece. He taps his lip with the pen, thoughtful. âProfiler?â he guesses finally, then laughs at himself. âThatâs too on the nose.â
âPut it in anyway,â you say. âOn the nose is where we live.â
He writes it down.
âThere,â he says, pleased with himself. âDone.â
You both sit back, the crossword nearly complete, and for a few beats neither of you speaks. Willâs hand hovers near yours, inches away, as if waiting for permission.
The clock ticks heavily and both of you glare at its direction. 1:15. It´s late.
âTime flies, uh?â He says, putting the paper away. âWanna call it a night?â
âNo. Not really, IâŚIâm afraid that, if I fall asleep Iâl see her again.â You admit, timidly bracing yourself.
âItâs okay. I rather not sleep either.â He says, hand finally pressing over yours.
âAnd what would you rather do, Professor Graham? Or do you prefer Special Agent Graham?â
He laughs to himself, leaning in towards you like a magnet, some strays of your hair already scratching his face.
âIâll think of something we can doâŚâ
His breath is warm against your face, his big brown eyes staring down at you half lined.
âYeah?â You ask, almost out of breath.
He nods, while bringing his face impossible closer to yours. The way heâs looking at you now is different, not guarded, not distant, but like heâs fighting himself over something.
His hand is still over yours, warm and steady, but you feel the faintest flex in his fingers, like heâs testing whether he can pull you closer. Will leans in a fraction, then stops, eyes flicking between yours as if heâs measuring every breath you take.
âWill?â you murmur, and even to your own ears it sounds unsteady.
He nods once, slow. âYeah.â
Thereâs a pull now; magnetic, undeniable. You donât remember leaning toward him, but suddenly the space between you is thin, too thin, his knee brushing yours, the edge of his plaid shirt grazing your arm. His breath fans over your cheek, warm, carrying the faint burn of whiskey. You feel the ghost of his nose brushing yours before his lips even touch you.
For a heartbeat, he just hovers there, as if giving you the chance to move away. But you donât. You canât.
Then his lips are on yours; barely there, the kind of kiss that could still be mistaken for an accident if one of you decided to pull away.
You inhale sharply, feeling his hesitation like a wire stretched tight between you. The scent of him â rain, soap, and that faint trace of whiskey â wraps around you, and before you even think, your mouth moves against his in answer.
Thatâs all it takes for something in him to snap.
The careful Will, the measured Will, vanishes.
His hands come alive, sliding from your jaw to the curve of your neck, then lower; one broad palm spanning your waist, the other pressing into the small of your back as if heâs afraid you might dissolve into smoke. He pulls you closer as possible as he can, the kiss deepening with a hunger that feels long-buried, unpractised, almost desperate.
Your fingers find his hair, damp at the ends from his earlier shower, and you curl them into it. The soft curls slip between your knuckles, and you tug just enough to hear the quiet sound he makes into your mouth, something low and almost pained.
He breathes hard between kisses, his nose brushing yours, thumbs drawing restless patterns at your sides. Itâs not neat, not choreographed. Itâs searching, hands roaming over your hips, up your spine, over your shoulder blades.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, you see him: eyes darker now, lips parted, chest rising like heâs been running. His gaze drops to your mouth again and then back up to your eyes, and you know heâs already falling forward to claim you again.
Bruised lips crashing into yours, even harder, hungrier, needy.
He shifts his weight, guiding you back until your spine meets the motel wooden floor, the crossword puzzle crushed somewhere beneath you both. Will hovers over you only for a second before his mouth is back on yours, insistent, relentless.
You break just enough to breathe, whispering against his lips, âYouâre⌠a good kisserâ
The smile that flickers over his mouth is wicked and fleeting before he dives back in, kissing you so deeply it makes your toes curl. âNot good,â he mutters between kisses, his voice rough, âjust⌠starving.â
Then his mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your throat. He bites, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, and then soothes the sting with a slow, wet pull of his lips. He lingers there, sucking lightly at the soft skin, marking you in ways he doesnât seem to care about hiding.
Your hands grip tighter in his hair, pulling him closer, and he lets out a low growl, shifting his body fully over yours. The heat of him, the weight of him, pins you in the most intoxicating way. His lips find yours again, and this time itâs not tentative or careful; itâs raw, carnal, the kiss of a man whoâs gone too long without touch and doesnât want to stop now that heâs found it.
His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating through the layers of clothes, chasing away the chill clinging to your skin. Heâs solid, unyielding, every muscle coiled tight like heâs holding back from something that wants to rip free.
Your legs shift beneath him, knees brushing his hips, and the movement draws a sharp breath from him; a sound almost too raw to be human. He doesnât pull away. If anything, the air between you seems to vanish completely. His hips settle lower, and you can feel him through the hard line in his jeans, proof of just how much this is undoing him.
The kiss turns messier, wetter, his mouth claiming yours over and over as if each one is the only one heâll ever get. His stubble rasps against your skin, his teeth catching your lower lip before he draws it into his mouth, sucking until you sigh against him. That sound â your sound â makes him chase more of it, more of you, like a predator following the scent.
Your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders, fingers spreading against the tense heat under his shirt. Heâs warmer than you expected, almost fever-hot compared to the coolness of your own skin, and every inch of him that presses closer seems to sink deeper into you.
When his mouth leaves yours again, itâs to find the hollow of your throat. He noses into the spot like an animal scenting his territory, breath hot and uneven, lips dragging slowly before fastening in a deep kiss against your pulse. The weight of him is everywhere now: across your ribs, over your hips, caging you in.
The motel light hums overhead, the rain patters outside, but all you can register is him: the heavy, deliberate way he breathes against your skin, the almost feral sound low in his chest when you arch into him, and the insistent, undeniable hardness pressed against you, reminding you of the tension heâs barely keeping contained.
When he lifts his head again, his lips are flushed, damp, parted. His gaze catches yours as your hands slips under his shirt, fingers digging into his skin; it sends a shiver down his spine.
âYouâre freezing,â he murmurs, dipping to kiss along your jaw again.
âIâm always freezingâ you said, and youâre well aware you voice doesnât sound as controlled as his.
Then heâs kissing you again, harder than before, heat and hunger and the steady, unrelenting weight of him driving the cold from your bones.
Willâs hands slid down your sides with a slow, deliberate hunger, fingers tracing the edges of your nightgown. His touch was feather-light at first, then firmer, as if he needed to confirm you were real, tangible beneath him.
With a sharp, almost desperate tug, he pulled the thin strap off your shoulder, and you shivered, the cool air rushing in where warmth had been trapped. He caught the bare skin, lips grazing your collarbone before dipping lower. His mouth trailed hot, possessive kisses along your chest, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force. His hands gripped the hem, fingers curling into the delicate fabric, and with one swift motion, he peeled it up over your breasts, revealing your skin to the cool room air. The chill made the sharp rise and fall of your chest all the more apparent, and his lips found one nipple, teasing and sucking until you gasped beneath him.
His other hand roamed lower, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, tracing the sensitive curve of your hip. The hardness pressing against you was impossible to ignore, an urgent reminder of the need pulsing through him: fierce, primal, undeniable. And yet, he is driven to your ache first, to trace the line of your wetness trough the thin fabric.
You hissed as he bite down your breast, easing the sting with a kiss before drawling his lips lower. Lower. Lower; deliberate and unhurried. Down your ribs, across the curve of your waist, until he found the wetness pooling beneath the thin fabric of your underwear; your core aching and begging for his attention. Will nudged at your covered heat, his nose hitting a soft spot that made you lose your breath.
âYouâre so prettyâ He says, opening your legs wider, resting his face on your inner tight as he glazed within hunter eyes towards your cunt. âSo pretty for meâ
âWillâŚPleaseâ you ask, hips involuntarily swaying in his direction.
A wicked smile passes through his features, bringing his hands to slowly remove your panties, tossing them aside. He used both hands to spread you open, exposing you completely to his hungry eyes. The quiet room held only the sound of your breaths mingling, the rain pattering softly beyond the window, and the steady beat of your hearts racing together.
He offered one quick kiss to your pussy lips, savouring the traces of your arousal; his breath warm and slightly ragged as his index finger traced slow, deliberate patterns along your folds while his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you shiver. You whined, helpless to the sensations flooding your body.
âShhh. Iâll take care of you nowâ he smooths.
You were about to beg for more, to plead for him, when he dove into your core with an urgency that stole your words. Your mouth fell open, breaths hitching, as your hips bucked hard against his mouth, craving more of the wild, desperate hunger you found there. Willâs tongue moved expertly: up, down, swirling; coating every inch of your wetness with deliberate, skilful devotion. Then his lips closed over your clit, biting gently but possessively, pulling it between them. The sting made your head fall back, eyes fluttering closed as waves of pleasure crashed through you.
âWill!â you moaned, hands tangling in his rebellious curls, desperate to anchor yourself to him. âFuckâŚâ
His eyes squeezed shut as he steadied you with his arms, curling around your thighs and pulling your hips higher, pressing you flush against his relentless mouth. The grip of his fingers around your skin was firm and grounding, tethering you to the moment, to him, to the unbearable heat between your bodies. Your breath hitched and your entire body trembled under his touch, every nerve ignited with want and need.
You clung harder to his curls, fingers threading desperately through the damp strands, urging him on.
âYouâre so fucking good at thisâŚâ you said, eyes closed with trembling emotion.
You can swear you feel his smirk pressing against your burning skin; that seems to only intensify his actions, every flick of his tongue itâs like a calculated brush of painting on a masterpiece.
The coil of tension inside you tightened, a slow but inevitable build toward release, like a wave rising just before it crashes. But Will knew exactly when to pull away.
His lips left your core reluctantly, wet and swollen, trailing a path upward with soft, teasing kisses that made your pulse race anew. He nipped gently at your hipbone, the slight sting sharpening the delicious ache coiling tight inside you.
âWhyâd you stop?â You ask, breathless.
He didnât answer immediately. Rising from beneath you, he steadied himself with one arm braced beside your head, his gaze flickering down to the glistening traces of your wetness clinging to his beard and lips. A raw, intimate mark that seemed to belong to him alone. It suited him perfectly.
âWant you to cum somewhere else firstâŚâ He whispers.
Willâs eyes locked onto yours, dark and burning with need, and the room seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the heat between you. His hand slid down from your hip, sliding beneath your thighs to grip them firmly, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush.
You moved now, lifting your upper body to meet his, crashing a hard, messy kiss onto his swollen lips. The taste of yourself lingered there, sharp and intoxicating. Your teeth met his in a fierce collision, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.
âYouâre not the only one whoâs hungry,â you whispered into his ear, lips trailing hot kisses down his neck as your hands hurriedly undid the bottoms of his shirt.
âYouâre making me crazy,â Will grunted, tasting his own blood, the metallic tang spurring his growing need.
His heart thundered like a wild engine, every button you freed sending a new pulse of desire through him, his cock pressing harder against you, aching and impatient. Your nails raked down his back, sharp and electrifying, making him curse softly as the sting spread over his skin.
Will is like a living furnace, a thin line of sweat graces his features, pink coloured cheeks and heavy breathing. All because of you.
Finally reaching his throbbing erection, you palm him eagerly, undoing his belt.
âSee what you do to me, uh?â He says, his nose buried into your hair, his eyes watching every move of your hands.
Will kicks his pants and underwear away, standing bare on top of you.
Your mouth watered at the sight of him: hard, red-tipped, desperate, aching for release. You stroked his length a few times, eliciting a whine from deep in his throat, different from any sound heâd made before, raw and pleading.
âIâŚâ He started, voice faltering as he fought with himself.
âWhat?â you asked, lifting your gaze from his cock to his eyes. His forehead pressed against yours in a moment of fragile confession.
You gave him a hard, teasing pump, making him squint against the pleasure, sighing heavily.
âI want to use you,â he said, almost ashamed, voice low and rough.
âUse me, then,â you answered, planting a deliberately innocent kiss on his chin, eyes dark with challenge.
That broke the dam. Will pushed you down, capturing both of your hands above your head in a single motion, pinning you completely beneath his heat and weight. Your breath hitched as you felt the tip of him teasing your dripping folds, pressing insistently against your entrance.
Will barely holds himself together, his breath ragged, eyes dark with a desperate hunger. The moment fractures like lightning. He doesnât give you any warning, no gentle build-up, just a fierce, primal drive that shatters all hesitation.
With a sharp, urgent thrust, he slips fully inside you, filling you completely. You both freeze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sudden, exquisite intensity of connection; the raw heat, the slick pressure, the way your bodies fit together perfectly, impossibly tight.
Will collapses onto you, his weight settling heavy and warm. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged, mixing with the quickening pulse beneath your skin.
Your nails find their way into the tense muscles of his back, digging in hard, grounding yourself against the overwhelming flood of sensation crashing through you. The sharp press of your claws makes him shudder against you, a low, guttural sound vibrating from deep inside his throat.
For a moment, the world narrows to just this; neither of you speaks.
You fell his cock buried deep inside of you in a way you never imagined to be possible, you feel him fighting back the urge to move his hips against yours, but he knows you need to adjust to him first, he doesnât wanna hurt you.
ââS so tight. Fuck. Youâre so tightâ He whisper.
âMoveâ You plea, eyes closed. âUse me.â
He moans, weighting himself on top of you again. He traces his hips back, sliding out of your pussy almost completely before sliding back in. Itâs raw. It ignites a shared cry between you two.
He tries again. Willâs breath hitches as he pulls back, just barely, then slams forward with a harshness that steals the air from your lungs. His hips pound into yours, relentless and fierce, every thrust heavy and unyielding like a storm breaking loose.
âSo fucking tight⌠so fucking perfect.â
You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, matching his intensity. You gasp, voice trembling with need.
Heâs moving slow, his hips stuttering, hesitation flickering in his eyes. His breath hitches, voice low and rough with uncertainty.
âHarder.â You plead.
He shook his head, trying to regain control of his own actions, trying to win over the primal lust that seems to have a hold of him.
You cup his face gently, your fingers tracing the tense line of his jaw. Your voice is steady but firm, laced with both encouragement and desire.
âFuck me harderâ
He answers with a sharp grunt, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper, like heâs desperate to bury himself inside you completely.
âIâm gonna lose it,â he warns, voice raw, eyes dark with hunger. âYou feel that? Youâre driving me insane. Take it.â
Your body arches, meeting every savage thrust, every growl, every whispered claim. The room echoes with the sounds of skin slapping skin, your breaths ragged and mingling.
He tightens his grip, thrusting harder, faster, as if trying to etch the moment into your very soul. Willâs movements grow more erratic, your cunt is pulsing so good around him, so warm and so tight. Your moans are loud, you canât help it, not when heâs using you like this.
Your body is arching into him as his thumb brushes over your hardened nipple, sending sparks of fire through your body. His mouth finds your neck again, biting lightly while his hand continues its intimate exploration, rolling and squeezing with a fierce tenderness that contrasts with the harsh rhythm of his hips. The sensation of his lips sucking on your nipples is enough to make your eyes loose focus, darting up to the ceiling, which is nothing but a blurred grey sky.
âFuck,â he growls from between your breasts, voice rough and broken, âYou feel so damn good. So fucking perfect.â
You tighten around him, your body responding to his intensity, craving more.
âTaking it so good for me.â
His other hand roams from your breast to your back, fingers digging in as he pulls you impossibly closer, seeking every inch of you with an insatiable hunger. Your nails rake down his spine, anchoring you both to this storm of sensation.
âGod, youâre mine,â he murmurs fiercely against your skin, voice trembling with need.
You donât know where this sudden possessiveness came from, but itâs something that just snaps inside of your brain like a match that lights up a dark room.
âAm I?â You ask, hands dancing in his chest, leaving red trails from where your nails digs his skin.
His gaze sharpens at your challenge, a dangerous glint sparking in those storm-dark eyes. The air between you thickens, charged with something deeper than lust; something primal, claiming.
âYes,â he repeats, slower this time, each syllable like the strike of a hammer, âYouâre mine.â
You smirk, the defiance in your eyes a deliberate flame meant to test him. âMaybe,â you murmur, tilting your head, pretending like youâre not falling apart at this hands.
He stops. Will presses his cock inside of you as much as he can, punching the air out of your lungs. He stops there, letting you feel it.
His hand leaves your back, trailing upward, fingers curling around the delicate column of your throat. The pressure is firm: not enough to cut off your breath, but enough to make your pulse drum against his palm, to remind you of the control heâs taking.
Your moan catches in your throat, your body shuddering under the heady mix of restraint and hunger. His thumb strokes lazily along your jaw, a mockery of gentleness that only highlights the rough, relentless rhythm of his hips from a few moments ago.
âYou will be.â His voice is low, dangerous, each word vibrating through your chest where his body cages yours. âIâll make sure you feel me every time you close your eyes.â
Your lips part, but no words come out: only a gasp when he pulls out completely off your aching cunt, just to buries himself to the hilt again, fingers tightening fractionally on your throat, pinning your gaze to his.
Your nails dig into his bicep as your head falls down into the floor, a low scream leaving your body as he starts to set a slow but harder pace: each thrust is like a lightning that strikes your body. Your body starts to quake beneath him, the tension thatâs been coiling in your core snapping all at once. Pleasure floods through you in violent, shuddering waves, your cunt clenching tight around him.
âWillâŚfaster!â you manage to gasp, voice breaking with urgency. âPlease, oh my God.â
He doesnât hesitate. His grip on your throat loosens just enough for you to drag in a ragged breath before his hand slides back to your hip, holding you still as he pounds into you. The change is immediate, his pace brutal, each thrust driving you further into the floor, making your whole body jolt with the force.
Youâre still coming, your orgasm stretching out under the relentless assault, every nerve screaming with overstimulation, but Will doesnât slow. Heâs using the grip on your body to take exactly what he needs, chasing his own release with single-minded focus. His jaw is tight, teeth bared, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest as he fucks you through every aftershock.
âFuckââ his voice cracks, deep and strained, âWhere⌠do you want it?â His thrusts are losing rhythm, growing desperate. âTell me.â
You meet his eyes, your breath hitching. The answer comes out without hesitation, almost a plea:
âInside.â
For a second, his expression darkens, something between hunger and surrender. âYou sure?â he rasps, hips still slamming into yours, barely holding together.
You donât answer, simply pulling him impossibly closer by the shoulder while lacing his low back with your legs, caging him inside of you.
His control shatters. He drives into you harder, deeper, each thrust reckless and final, as if heâs trying to bury himself inside you forever. His groan is guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and you can feel the hot rush of his cum spilling into you as his body locks tight against yours.
Even then, he doesnât stop right away, grinding, pulsing inside you like he needs to make sure every drop stays exactly where you told him you wanted it.
Youâre not sure what happened next. Itâs all a blur, a burning sensation that irradiates through your whole body.
After a few moments, you seem to regain conscience.
Will is still on top of you, still buried in you. His hand finds your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like heâs memorizing it, sealing something unspoken in the space between your pounding hearts.
âYou sure did find something for us to doâ You joke.
He smiles, but thereâs a softness in it now, something almost reverent. He dips his head, pressing a slow kiss to your temple before leaning back just enough to look at you fully.
âYou make it too easy,â he murmurs, voice low and threaded with warmth. His fingers trail from your cheek, down the line of your jaw, then over the column of your throat as if heâs savouring the feel of you: every breath, every shiver.
Your legs are still wrapped loosely around him, and you can feel the steady weight of him between them. Thereâs a comfortable stillness, his hand slides down to your side, palm flattening over your hip, thumb sweeping lazy circles there.
âI could stay here all night,â he admits, and it doesnât sound like a throwaway line. Itâs quiet, almost vulnerable. His other hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
The air between you feels heavier now, not from lust, but from the gravity of whatever youâve just stepped into together. You donât know if you want to break it, or if you even could.
âThen stay,â you say simply, and the way his expression shifts.
He leans down again, mouth finding yours in a slower kiss this time, his movements unhurried, almost tender, as if youâre both learning the shape of something neither of you had planned for.
You break the kiss in a laugh.
âJust not on the floor, please. My back is killing meâ
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actually dying for a cooper howard x vaultie!reader smut where they have some slow burn longing steaminess, but coop thinks sheâs too good for him UNTIL she comes in contact with a sex pollen-esque chem and he finally gives in to save her 𼾠please work your magic and elaborate however you want
A Flame in Your Heart
Cooper Howard x Fem Reader (SMUT!!)
CW: NSFW like absolutely filthy yâall, youâve been warned. đ unprotected sex, irradiated cream pie, p in v, p0rn w/ plot, slow burn, flirting, cursing, perverted thoughts, dub-con (because of chem usage though consent is asked and given!) rough sex, dirty talk, choking, praise kink, degradation, squirting, mention of fingering, FEELINGS!! Slight deviation from TV series, possible grammar/spelling mistakes, cooper starts off mean but slowly warms up to reader
AN: I absolutely LOVED this request! I was up all night writing down all my ideas and spent all this morning perfecting it, and this has to be my longest one yet! I thank you for your patience anon and my lovely readers as I finally post this! Hope you enjoy and that I have done your ask justice! â¤ď¸
Life outside of the vault was difficult to say the least. You felt hunger and dehydration in ways youâd never experienced before, going out of your way to do desperate things you would normally never do in order to get said food and water. The heat was unbearable, every stretch of land you walked across had a danger lurking around every corner, and worst of all, youâd never felt so alone. You werenât sure what it was about you, maybe it was because you were new to the surface, maybe it was your nearly perfect skin, but everyone seemed to stare or glare at you when you would walk through. It wasnât until youâd passed through Filly, meeting Ma June that you realized people didnât take kindly to people like you. âVaultiesâ she called them, an audible disdain in her tone, making you look down to remember you were in your blue and gold Vault-Tec suit. âIâll be going then, have a nice day!â You said skiddishly, offering her a kind smile before turning and exiting the shop. You just wanted to make friends, why was that so hard up here? So when your eyes set on a man clad in classic Wild West cowboy clothes, watching smoke settle after a stand off, you werenât sure why but you knew that was who you needed on your side in this world. Before you knew it, your feet were already moving and mouth speaking to him, grabbing his attention.
âI ainât no charity case sweetheart, I donât take on straysâ The ghoul spoke, his southern drawl making him even more memorable than the marred texture of his skin. You looked to the dog that trailed not far behind him as he walked, changing its pace to keep up with the man. âThe dog there with you tells me otherwiseâ you quipped. âAinât my dogâ he responded harshly as he continued walking. âI can make it worth your while!â You yelled, making him stop in his tracks for a moment, a scary sight at first before you worked up the nerve to come closer once he turned back to you. âAnd how you suppose youâd do that?â He asked, and at first you didnât know what to say, the words leaving your mouth before you could really think of a good enough reason. Did nobody like company anymore these days? âWellâŚI can be your scavenger! Pretty good at collecting stuffâ you offered, shaking your bag and making things rattle around inside to prove it, making him give a huff of a chuckle. ââf I wanted a pack mule Iâdâve found a brahmanâ he shot you down. âOkay, then I can be good company to talk to!â You offered. âThey make radios for when I want to listen to someone yackâ he shut down once again. âIâm a good cook! Even with shitty supplies, I can make a stew thatâd put a smile even on the meanest son of a gunâs faceâ you said, hopeful that heâd at least take you for something, but you had a feeling heâd probably turn you down again. âIguana on a stickâs just fineâ he said, though he had to admit the stew sounded good. Reminded him of home before all this wasteland bullshit. âOh, ummâŚâ you said awkwardly, your tone growing quiet and my how it put a sad look in your eyes. The evil part of him liked it, seeing your sweet innocent face all downturned but the part that was still human deep down, the part that hardly ever saw the light of day anymore, had half a mind to let you.
âGot a lotta nerve walkinâ up tâ me, girly. If you somehow been lucky enough that you ainât met dangerous yet, youâre lookinâ at someone who could put you down before youâd even mutter your last wordsâ he threatened, motioning to the double barreled shotgun in his hands. âI know, I saw it first hand. You hold yourself well, I envy that. Iâm new to all of this and just really want someone who can help me hold my own the same wayâ you explained. âLook, I know I donât look like much but please just give me a chanceâ you begged, looking up at him with a fighting spirit in your eyes that he had to admit, he was pretty impressed in seeing in a vaultie. âYou help me, I help you, however that ends up beingâ you offered, standing strong on this and damn if he didnât see a little bit of himself in you at that. He gave a sigh, tilting his head down before shaking it, not believing himself for the words he was about to say. âAlright, but the minute you start dragginâ youâre out, got me?â He said, and he hated the way his cold heart seemed to pump a little faster upon seeing your eyes light up with joy and a smile stretch to your face. âOh thank you, thank you, thank you!â You said, opening your arms up to hug him but being met with the barrel of his gun poking your stomach to keep space between you. âI donât do hugsâ he spoke gruffly, making you back up enough to where heâd drop the gun back to his side. âR-RightâŚsorryâ you apologized, embarrassment washing over you but still glad to finally have someone in your company. âCâmon, I ainât got all day nowâ he said, motioning you to start walking, so you joined him.
Your travels with him certainly werenât at all what you were expecting them to be. From being used as bait, to being tied up with rope most of the time youâd traveled together, or being sent in as his scavenger, you werenât prepared for a lot of the reality you faced with being up on the surface. Most nights made you question why youâd ever left the comfort of the vault, why youâd abandoned a trusty food supply, regulated temperatures, a safe place to sleep that wasnât riddled with radroaches or had the likely hood of waking up to a raider with a knife at your throat for no reason. Then you would remember the experiment in your vault, why you left that awful place for arguably a worse reality on the surface but at least you had freedom. Out here you were free to say what you want, do what you want, consume what you want so long as you could defend yourself incase that supply wasnât unclaimed. Youâd gotten pretty handy with a gun in the most recent weeks. Cooper, you learned one night was his name, using empty glass bottles as targets to help teach you accuracy and how to hit things from a longer range. In exchange, you came a little more useful than he had first thought. You had some useful stuff on you for trade like chems, ammo and food, were a good extra bag to hold stuff in, and you were a better cook than youâd talked about. Sure you had a tendency to talk too much, and you werenât great with a gun, but you were getting there.
âMight I suggest takinâ them clothes instead of wearinâ that suit?â He said, making you look at him weird for suggesting you strip a dead raider of their clothes. âWhy would I do thatâŚ?â You asked, genuinely confused and not sure what he was implying either, he was a hard man to predict. âBecause, people see that shit and get real mad. People up here donât like vaulties or the ones that run âemâ he said and it made sense, it helped you understand why you kept getting evil glares each time someone would look at you or talk to you. You figured he knew best, so you took the shirt and pants from one of the female raiders, tucking them into your bag to change into at a better time. He gave a chuckle watching you do so, apologizing to the dead body profusely as you took their clothes and whatever valuables they had on them for the betterment of your own survival. You were still so naive, part of him was hoping he could slowly start to break and corrupt your way of thinking, but that was a thought for another time.
Before you knew it, night finally began to fall. The sun setting across the horizon gave the air less of a hot, harsh bite as the temperature began to cool rapidly across the sands of the Mojave. All you managed to grab was a pair of beat up, old jeans and a tank top, so as soon as the sun set, the chill set in. As you both set up camp for the night just outside of an abandoned rest stop, you started a fire to cook some of that stew you talked about being good at. He had to admit, it was pretty damn good, likely the best thing heâs had since before the bombs went off. Though even the kindling fire couldnât manage to chase the chill away, watching you run your hands up and down your arms to try and warm up some by it. He felt a slight pang in his heart, watching you shiver like that, how your eyes lit up by the blaze of the fire and your hair seemed to be tousled just right. You were pretty, too pretty to be trekking this wasteland, and certainly too pretty to be trekking it with him of all people as your company. Even he had a heart still, as cold as it was, so out of kindness he shrugged his duster from his shoulders, draping it around you. You looked at the fabric pooled around you, pulling it over you better before looking to him as he sat down across from you again. âAinât no use if the cold gets yaâ he said, making you smile appreciatively at him as you realized what he did. âThank youâ you replied, a slight blush fanning to your cheeks as the chattering of your teeth finally died down and you grew warmer. It smelled like him, sure it had splatters of old dried blood and was rather worn, but it had that gunpowder and smoke smell to it that you associated with him. âDonât say I never did nothinâ for yaâ he replied, trying to sound cold but it didnât come off that way, making you chuckle. âWhat do I owe you?â You asked, making him fall silent for a moment as he pondered the answer to your question. He looked you over for a second before tipping his hat down to cover his face a bit, the signal that he was about to try and get some sleep. âJust keep watch for a bit, Iâll be up in a few hoursâ he responded, and while it wasnât what you were expecting, youâd take it.
He was startled awake a couple hours later when he heard a commotion, you yelling at someone telling them to back off that this place had been claimed. The raider you were up against didnât seem to like that very much, claiming that wasnât how it worked up here. The altercation took a turn for the worst when the man reached for his gun but you were quick to fire and kill him before he could let out a shot. A shaky feeling set in your hands and a horrified expression across your face at the realization that you just killed someone. Cooper, who was certainly wide awake now, was rather impressed by your quick timing and precision, coming up behind you to lay a gloved hand to your shoulder. âWell would ya look at that, looks like them lessons been payinâ off after all. Howâs it feel?â He asked, looking down at you as you stared at the gun in your hands. âHe was yelling at me butâŚhe was aiming at you. I donât really know what came over me, I didnât like that he was going to shoot you so I justâŚI killed himâ you said, recounting the encounter to him as if he hadnât seen it himself. He didnât really know what to think in that moment as you explained how your mind worked, he was proud for sure at your show of improvement with a gun, yet also touched at the same time. No one ever really looked out for him since he started his bounty hunting, he was a well hated man by many but you defended him without really any reason to. Youâd just learned his name not but two weeks ago, and before that he was dragging you around with rope yet you still defended him, had you two really gotten closer in the time thatâs passed since? He wasnât sure, but it was something he could mull over while you were sleeping. âGet some rest vaultie, sunâll be up soonâ he said, knowing you likely wouldnât get much sleep with the adrenaline still coursing through you, but it was at least worth a try, you two had a long day ahead of you.
When you woke up that next morning, things felt a little different between you two. You werenât some annoying little dog following him anymore, you were an equal. He no longer looked at you and treated you like you were lower than him as you both set out across the wastelands, he had respect for you. Hell, he even started talking with you now when you were out traveling which was almost unbelievable. You learned through those conversations that he used to be an actor in Wild West themed films, explaining his outfit, and that he was married before the bombs dropped. You of course told him bits and pieces about yourself in exchange, after all it only felt fair but it was also nice to just finally talk to someone after all this time.
When night time fell again you two sat enjoying a meal by the fire together, only rather than across from each other, he sat next to you, making a blush come to your face as youâd smiled sweetly at him. âGlad to know I donât have germs anymoreâ you said jokingly, making him chuckle. âGive an old man some credit. It ainât exactly all peaches and marmalade out here darlinâ, even cute can be deadlyâ he said, the nickname and him calling you cute sending a deeper blush to your cheeks despite knowing itâs just how he spoke. Whether it was the lack of contact with other people for so long, or just his charm you couldnât quite tell, but it always seemed to have an effect on you. âJust teasinâ you, I get it. Iâd tie me up and use me for bait too if Iâd been doing this as long as you have. Itâs a shit hole out hereâ you said, making him look at you as you dropped the first curse word heâs ever heard from you. âWell Iâll be damned, either Iâm a bad influence or youâre finally growinâ outta that naive shell there, vaultieâ Cooper replied, making you laugh as you saw a smirk stretch to his thin, marred lips, the first one youâd seen in a while that wasnât brought on by drugs, chems or that first sip of a good bottle of alcohol. âProbably bothâ you quipped, making him chuckle. âYeah, probably. Been told I ainât easy to stomachâ he said, making you hum. âYouâre alright in my book, Coopâ you replied with a sweet, genuine smile that matched your tone and was that butterflies you felt in your stomach? Did you just call him Coop? No ones called him that in ages, why did it make his heart start to flutter a bit? âYou ainât so bad yourself, vaultieâ he responded, still affording you that small smile before turning back to his food. âKeep making food this good and I just might have to keep you aroundâ he joked, making you giggle and break the slightly tense silence. âItâs not much but I certainly try. Iâll definitely make sure to stay good at it, I like traveling with youâ you said, unintentionally coming off flirtatious and fuck there it goes again, that feeling in his chest and his stomach like he needed to hit his inhaler but he felt great. What were you doing to him?
âHey, if it isnât too much can I ask you a sort ofâŚpersonal question?â You asked, holding the beat up bowl in your hands as you looked over at him. This was normally the part where he would say no, absolutely not, he wasnât here to be questioned on his personal matters. Yet, with you, it was different. Ever since last night he hasnât been so on edge with you, it was like heâd warmed up to you. âDepends on what youâre askinâ there, sweetheartâ he said, the nickname once again making you blush. âDo youâŚmiss them? Your wife and daughter?â You asked, not sure if it was a good subject or good question to ask but after finding out, you were genuinely curious. He looked down at his bowl again, thinking of the proper response to your question. The old him would have been defensive, told you it was none of your business, but now? He wasnât sure. âAinât a day that goes by that I donât think about âem. About the way I ran out on âem when them bombs droppedâ he answered, making you give him a sad look as genuine guilt filled his tone. This was the most honest and open heâs been with you this whole time. âI feel guilty. Not sure if I feel guilty for runninâ out and leavinâ âem behind or guilty for the way I ran out, been tryinâ tâ figure that out for quite a while now and I still ainât sureâ he added, and you sympathized with that. Everyone has regrets, things theyâve done in the past that they arenât proud of, people up here were no different in that aspect. âWell, in the short time Iâve gotten to know you, Iâve come to understand that everything you do has a valid reason behind it. So even if you feel it was a shitty thing to do, you obviously had a reason for doing so. No one can blame you for trusting your gut, and I donât think you should blame yourself for doing soâ you responded, your hand falling to his as a comforting gesture, your words ringing in his head almost as if youâd opened something in his mind, something heâd never really gave himself to think about before. He looked down at your hand that rested on his, noticing the way you didnât flinch away from him like others did, the way you were brave enough to walk up to him, talk to him, *trust* him when he made it very clear that you shouldnât. It was smaller than his, softer for sure, but warm all the same, then he looked up to see that caring look in your eyes and smile on your face that told him that you cared. âGuess youâre right, still wonder sometimes if it was the right choice to makeâ he replied. âI understand. Everyone has regrets, we all look at the past and hold at least something that weâve done before in regret, itâs what makes us humanâ you said, making him give a huff as a chuckle. âYou got anybody?â He asked, making you look down as you moved your feet along the dirt. âAn ex-husband, but not anyone I really care about, no. My parents passed a few years before the bombings and he and I split up when I caught him cheating on me with some other woman in the vault..â you explained, not sure why it hurt you to tell the tale still, but you felt it was only fair considering what youâd asked of him to share. âSorry tâ hear thatâ Cooper said, making you chuckle weakly, a somber look coming to your face that made his heart wrench. âI havenât exactly been in love since, and considering he and I split up just a little over ten years ago, really says something I guess, huh?â You asked, trying to laugh to bring up the mood, knowing you sounded pathetic. âHe was the fool, not you darlinâ. He was the one skippinâ out on one hell of a womanâ Cooper said, making you look to him and blush a bit as you gave a chuckle at his response.
âThanksâ you replied appreciatively and with a smile before casting your gaze down to see your hands were still connected and it left you blushing harder with embarrassment, youâd been holding his hand this entire time without realizing it. âOh my gosh, Iâm so sorry! I didnât mean to make you uncomfortable if I have I-â ârelax vaultieâ he cut you off, pushing your hand back down onto his to assure you that he was far from uncomfortable. âItâsâŚrather nice actuallyâ he admitted, making you feel relieved but your heart fluttered in your chest from it. A thick tension soon began to set in between you both after that night, something of an unspoken, kindling romance beginning to develop. âThen there it can stayâ you said, making him smile softly at you, tipping his hat at you as a silent thank you.
Months passed on like this, where youâd spend the days scavenging, picking the land for its resources you could find and hunting bounties by day, then spending your nights by a fire growing closer and closer with every passing day. Through your shared meals, jokes, deep conversations, and plenty of near death experiences, you started to notice your fondness of the ghoul you traveled with. The way youâd hang onto his words with that southern accent that seemed to pull at your heart strings, or the way youâd go out of your way to stand between him and a stray bullet. Youâd helped him on more than one occasion in getting out of a sticky spot, or getting him the stuff he needed to keep from turning feral. In return, he started to notice he was feeling the same towards you. There was this sudden need to keep you safe, to do nicer things for you, to speak better towards you, even flirt with you at times. Some nights thereâd be so much tension in the air, itâs a miracle you havenât jumped each other yet. Though in his eyes, as much as his heart yearned for you, he knew you were too good for him. Youâd been hurt before, and he had a reputation for hurting people, feeling undeserving of even just the sweet smiles and company you afford him even now. You didnât need someone like him, you needed a good man, someone who didnât kill for a living, someone who could treat you right, someone who didnât look the way he did. You were soft and warm, he was rough and cold, though he supposed thatâs where the term âopposites attractâ came from. So even when he was a whole bottle deep, he was sure to hold his tongue to a certain point.
Some of those nights around the fire were spent sober, others not so much, and this night happened to be one of those nights spent under the influence. You two had stumbled across a mini-mart, doing your best to out run the radstorm that had been trailing you guys for hours, coming in just to find whatever supplies you could to make it through the next week and possibly hunker down for the night. So imagine your surprise when you seemed to have found the largest chem stache youâd both ever laid eyes on. âCoop! Come here, you gotta see thisâ you said, making him run towards you to make sure you werenât hurt or in trouble. His nerves were eased once he saw you, fully intact. âTell me Iâm not seeing shitâ you said, pointing to all of the supplies sitting in a box on the table, joined by other supplies around it. You both looked at each other in complete and utter disbelief, this would keep you stocked for months, maybe even a whole year if you conserved it well. âWell ainât that just the prettiest fuckinâ sightâ he said. There was no way a horde of chems this large and this valuable was just completely unprotected you reasoned, so you routed around the place, scoping out for any raiders, straggling traders or ferals who happened to still be around. It was as if heaven was shining down on you both as you found no one around, seemed like no one had been here for days. So you did the most logical thing anyone would do in this situation. Stuff each of your bags to the brim of drugs of all varieties! Seeing as you had food, chems and even some clean water and alcohol lying around, Cooper locked and barricaded the door shut, proposing it could be a good spot to sleep for the night. With a radstorm approaching, it was best to have a roof over your heads to keep out the rain and potential radiation sickness that came with it. âThis is the closest fuckinâ thing to a slice of heaven Iâve seen in agesâ he said, aside from you is what played in his mind but he couldnât speak that out loud, no matter how much he wanted to. âYou said it!â you replied, and itâs even better with you here you thought, but thought it best to keep it to yourself. He plopped down on the couch, kicking his feet up to rest on the small table that seemed to be in shambles, enjoying a tape that was playing on the TV that he was surprised to still see functioning. âHoly shit, this thing still works?â You asked, amazed to see working technology out in the wastelands, sitting next to him as you watched it with him. He gave a smirk at your reaction, thinking it was cute the way your eyes would light up when you got all excited over something. Deep down it made him want to give you everything you laid eyes on like that just to see it pointed towards him. âGuess soâ he replied, enjoying your excitement only to see you turn and look his way, which was his signal to stop staring holes into you before he gets caught. âI dunno about you baby doll, but I ainât about to spend tonight sober with this stache sittinâ here ân front of usâ he said, making you laugh as he routed through all the different drugs and chems til he found what he was looking for.
In the process of searching through it all, a small metal box fell to the floor at your feet. It looked like a box of mentats only the design was different, instead of the characteristic green and white box was a red one covered with hearts labeled DN-Chem. You supposed the worst that could happen was turn into the man sitting next to you, which you figured wasnât the worst fate to succumb to all things considered, so you went against all better judgement and said fuck it, popping two of the mentat like chems and chasing it with the vodka heâd found to wait for it to take effect. âThe hell is DN?â He asked, looking at the box, wondering what it was you took. âDonât know, guess weâll find out here soon because I took twoâ you said, taking another sip from the bottle of vodka he passed your way, and he gave a chuckle as you handed it back to him. âYou come a mighty long way, little ladyâ he commented before setting the metal pill box down. He took the bottle from you, taking a swig, then placing one of the small viles into his inhaler before taking a hit of it then lying back, breathing a sigh of relief as it and the alcohol entered his system like the perfect remedy to any ailment. As about a half an hour rolled by, you waited for the high to set in but it never came, instead you were just getting hot, like really hot. There werenât any windows open, and it was night time so you shouldnât be this uncomfortably hot for how it was but you felt like you were on fire. âShit, itâs hot as hell in hereâŚâ you complained, shaking off your jacket that youâd picked off of some raider a few weeks back, making him look to you curiously. âLightweightâ he quipped, making you chuckle. âAccept I donât feel anything, I just feel hotâ you said, making him hum with intrigue before turning back to the TV. âGive it some time, youâre new to all this. âm sure your body is wonderinâ what the hell you just put in itâ he said, and he had a good point, maybe it was just a side effect of not doing them so often compared to his every day use.
As time went on, you began to notice the way your eyes couldnât help but be glued to him, more specifically glued to the way his legs were now spread as he sat back. You wondered to yourself what he looked like beneath all that cowboy get up, what his reaction would be like to see you getting on your knees for him and slotting yourself between his spread legs. You shook your head to try and rid yourself of such inappropriate thoughts, but what you couldnât stop no matter how hard you tried was the feeling of arousal beginning to pool in your panties. Sure he flirted with you every now and again, but you doubt he felt towards you the same way you did for him. To him you were sure you were likely more akin to a pet than a friend, useful and nice to have around, but not anything further. At least so you thought. Youâd rather hoped you were wrong in assuming so, that maybe he saw you the same way you saw him. You bit your lip as you tried bouncing your leg to relieve the ache between your thighs, a light pink dusting your face and neck even up to the tips of your ears, but nothing worked. Even as you closed your eyes, all you could picture was you laid out on the couch beneath him, or bent over it with him behind you, or you riding him on it. âBeen awful quiet. You doinâ alright over there, sweetheart?â Cooper asked you, and the audible whimper you let out from the nickname left you completely embarrassed. You clasped a hand over your mouth, god you were horrified but he gave a grin and a chuckle in response. âIâm so sorry, I donât know whatâs gotten into me all the sudden. I feel soâŚweird?â you said, unsure if that was really the proper word to explain it but it was the only way you could really word it off the top of your head with how much your brain felt as if it was turning to mush. âYa took some chems, itâs gonna feel a bit fuzzyâ he said, trying to assure you that feeling a little funny was normal, but this? This didnât feel normal, not even for a chem high. You tried your best to swallow harshly, doing everything you could to try and relieve the dry ache you felt in your throat at the moment upon looking at him. You grabbed the bottle of vodka, taking a few sips but even that couldnât grant you bliss from it. The throbbing in your core was driving you absolutely insane. You swore up and down that it was like you could feel your heartbeat in your chest, stomach, and in your cunt all at the same time. âNo, this is differentâŚI donât think what I took was a normal chem, CoopâŚâ you said, trying not to panic at the effects that were setting in but god you felt like you were absolutely feral. He turned to look at you, watching as you clamped your thighs together and the red that fell over your face. âI feel like an animal in heatâ you said bluntly, making him go into a near coughing fit as you took him off guard. However that piqued his interest enough to pick up the little metal box again to see what it was you took. âI ainât ever heard of a chem that does that, was that DN shit the only stuff you took?â He asked, growing slightly concerned for you and whether he had a possible horde of laced chems, or just an extremely horny woman on his hands. Speaking of hands, you were lost in thought staring at them, at the way they gripped the couch like you wanted him to grip your thighs, at the way they looked in those leather gloves he always wore. You wondered how it would feel wrapped around your throat, or how it would feel if his fingers were buried deep inside of you. Shit. This was getting out of control.
âHey, ya with me still?â He asked, snapping to try and get your attention back on the matter at hand, making you shake your head yes as you broke from your perverted thoughts. âIs that DN shit the only thing you took?â He asked again, making you shake your head yes once more, because you knew damn well your voice was going to betray you the moment you tried to speak. That had to be it, it was the only thing that was different out of it all and the only thing heâd never heard of before. He knew it wasnât the vodka either because he was drinking it with you, so if it was affecting you, it would have affected him and it hadnât.
It took him a minute to put two and two together before he finally realized the abbreviations stood for Date Night, reading the instructions and effects on the inside of the tinâs lid. âShit..â he said as he read it, realizing this was a hand made thing thrown into the bunch by whoever was running this place. âDid you read the lid before you popped them pills?â He asked, making you go wide eyed. As if this couldnât get any fucking worse, this shit show could have been avoided had you just read the inside of the lid. âThere was instructions?? Oh my godâŚwhat the fuck did I take?â You asked, concerned for yourself and the tone he had while reading it. âSomethinâ that the creator of it called Date Night. Looks like itâs aâŚwell looks like itâs a handmade sex chemâ he said, making you cover your face with your hands out of sheer embarrassment, youâd never wanted to die out in a radstorm more than you did right now. âPlease tell me youâre fucking joking, cooperâŚâ you whined, watching him read it more. âHow much of it did you take?â He asked, almost scared to know and you were scared to know why. âTwo?â You replied, making him whistle at that as he read it. âFuckinâ hell sugar..â he said through a chuckle, and that nickname made a shiver run through you, sending electric bolts straight to your throbbing cunt. You did your best to bite back the whimper. âYouâre only sâpossed take one, and with you beinâ new tâ all this, I wouldnât have taken more than halfâ he said, making you just wish you could just dig a hole and die in it already. âFuck meâŚwait, shit! N-Not literally fuck me I- well I mean Iâd like if you did butâŚFUCK! Forgive me Cooper, Iâm so sorry, I can hardly think straightâ you said, making him chuckle. âWell sweetheart, I think you and I both know thereâs only one good fix for this situationâ he said, making you whimper pathetically at the thought, your thighs squeezing together even more as you tried to fight to stay sane. Your eyes cast downwards to his lap once more, seeing the tent forming in his pants, clearly you werenât the only one all worked up here. âI donât want to make you feel like you have to, Coop. I can run off and take care of myself if it makes you uncomfort-â you rambled but before you could finish, his hand cupped the side of your face, pulling you in for a long awaited kiss. You moaned into it without meaning to, feeling the way your body immediately relaxed upon wrapping your arms around him with no hesitation as the sweet innocent kiss turned passionate and dirty rather quickly.
âI wonât lie tâ you, doinâ this with you has passed my mind more times than Iâd care to admit, but I donât wanna cross that line unless you really want thisâ he said, looking into your eyes and making sure that this was truly what you wanted, that you felt the same way he did. âCoop, I know Iâm under the influence of whatever the fuck this drug is, but trust me when I say, Iâd be just as good with it sober. Been thinking about it for probably just as long as you have, if Iâm honest with you. I want this, I want you and right now I want you so fucking bad that I might lose my mind if you donât fuck meâ you answered bluntly, taking him by surprise at just the sheer amount of absolute filth that left your otherwise innocent mouth, making him chuckle at your use of curse words and how desperate you were for him. âThat so sugar?â He asked with a grin, enjoying teasing you at your neediest moments, including now. âGod yes, Cooper please..â you begged, nearly moaning in reply and heâd spent time mulling over it before, denying himself the chance but just as the chem stache was a pot of gold, he took this as one of the best opportunities being placed in his lap by whatever higher power existed out there, making him waste no time in kissing you once more. âGood, because I donât think Iâd be able to hold myself back once weâve startedâ he said, and the idea made you moan. âDonât want you to hold back, want all of youâ you said, and your wish was his command.
By the time your brain could finally catch up with you again, your clothes were strewn out all around you, your tank top hanging over the back of the couch, your jeans thrown haphazardly on the arm rest behind you, his pants on the floor, his hat on the table and shirt and duster having fallen somewhere behind the couch. By now, youâd already cum on his fingers twice, and on his cock once, this was your fourth round and this shit still had you on fire. âYes!! Oh fuck, Cooper!â you moaned as your legs wrapped around his hips, keeping him as close to you as you could get, your fingers digging crescent shapes and puffy red lines into his back that unfortunately he knew wouldnât stay long thanks to his ability to heal stupidly fast. âDoinâ so good for me, baby doll. Look so pretty like this for me, all splayed out like a needy little whoreâ he praised and degraded through his groans, making you moan and roll your eyes into the back of your head at the praise mixed with degradation as his cock was drilling deep inside you like tonight was all you guys had. âYeah, you like that, huh sweet thing? Like it when I tell you how good it feels and call you names?â He asked, making you nod your head yes because there wasnât a single thought in that brain of yours other than his name, which you spoke like a mantra. âNever knew such a sweet lilâ thing like you would be such a dirty little minx. FuckâŚenough to make a man like me go feral, ya know that?â he said, making you giggle as you moved his free hand up to your throat, urging him to choke you, and he groaned at the sight. Your kiss swollen lips all puffy and shining with spit, your cheeks dusted a constant pink that grew darker anytime his cock brushed that spot deep inside that made you cling to him, your eyes half lidded, looking up at him like he was your savior. It made him absolutely rock hard knowing youâd pick him over anyone else in this god forsaken wasteland. âMy, you are just a little freak, ainât you? Oh we are gonna have fun together, you and me honeyâ he promised, squeezing your throat tight enough to restrict your airflow but not enough to hurt or cause any damage. Just enough to get that puddle of a brain of yours all fuzzy as you got closer to your fourth orgasm of the night. âCooperâŚâm so close, so close please!!â You begged, feeling the heavy drag of his cock as he pounded into you, leaving you damn near screaming as it nudged your cervix and that spongy little bundle of nerves deep inside. âGo on honey, I gotchya. Let go for me, wanna see those pretty faces and hear those pretty noises you makeâ he said, angling his hips just right to hit that spot over and over again. âOh fuck, oh fuck Iâm gonna cum again, I-â you warned before your moans rose in pitch as your walls clamped around him, gushing on his cock as your orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your body arched off the couch, stars filling your vision for a moment as you felt your release gush out and coat your inner thighs, screaming his name like it was your only chance at salvation. âWell ainât I just the damn luckiest man in the wastelands right now, got me a pretty little vaultie and sheâs a gusherâ he said, making you whimper at his teasing but judging by the way he emptied himself inside you for the second time, you took it as a sign that he liked that about you. âHoly shit, I-I didnât know I could do thatâ you said, thoroughly shocked with what your brain and body were doing as they almost seemed to almost be working against each other. âDo it again for meâ he said, grabbing you and moving you both to where you were straddling him this time. His hands rested on your hips, helping guide you as you speared yourself on his dick with ease from how absolutely soaked you were, making you both throw your head back and moan. âNow thatâs a damn good sightâ he said, making you lean in to kiss him once more as his hands helped you start and keep a steady rhythm with your hips. It was definitely going to be a long night, but one you two have been needing for months, maybe even longer.
Itâs a good thing ghouls have remarkable recovery time, because in order to finally get you sated and back to normal, you both had to spend all night going at it. Granted, it was aided by the mix of pent up sexual tension and pent up sexual frustration, but it was dawn before you both had gotten to a point where you could even *try* and fall sleep. First few times was on the couch between missionary, doggy and you riding him, next was you bent over it, with your pretty legs spread and ass in the air for him. Then, you used the arm rest of the couch as a pillow beneath your hips as he stood up while you laid out on the couch. He liked that one a lot for the way your tits would bounce with each and every forceful thrust into you, jolting your body. After that, it was done standing up with your back pressed against a wall, your legs and arms wrapped around him to keep him deep inside of you and fill you til he had nothing left to give you. From that point on, the rest of the night was all a hormone-hazed blur, but you knew well that he took care of you. You woke up unbelievably sore, your joints aching in places that you had no idea could even ache, a swollen, angry throb between your legs for the harsh, almost punishing treatment to your pussy followed by bruises, bite marks, scratch marks, hand prints etc. littered your skin as you woke up curled into Cooperâs side. You gave a gravelly groan as the sun shone in your eyes through the windows, making him chuckle at the way you were such a ray of sunshine except in the morning. Coming to learn that you absolutely *hated* mornings. Though you suppose you started to enjoy them more since traveling with him. âMorninâ sunshineâ he said coyly, making you groan disapprovingly at the way the sun was in your eyes, making you hold your hand up to cast a shadow on your face and grant you some relief. âMorningâ you answered, your voice hoarse and half gone from sleep and all your activities that transpired the previous night. âAinât that a pretty sightâ he said, turning and seeing you curled up to him, naked, your hair all messy from sleep and the hickeys and bite marks littering your skin, making you chuckle. âLast night was definitely something, canât believe youâve been holding all *that* out on meâ you joked, making him give a dry laugh. âCould say the same thing about you, sugar. Had no idea that mind a yours could be so filthy. Youâre a wild thing to party with, lilâ ladyâ he teased, sliding his arm around you to keep you close, making you hum as you lay soft, appreciative kisses to his collarbone and chest. âYouâre fun too, and thank you for taking care of me last night. Iâm sorry that it ended up happening the way that it did, I wanted to work up the courage and tell you some other way, I really did, but I guess life had other plansâ you said making him chuckle as he saw you blush when he kissed your head. âDrunk words are sober thoughts they say, so Iâd say I made out pretty good. But donât sweat it, not sure how I deserved someone as good as you, but itâs good to know I ainât as hard to stomach as most people sayâ he said, pulling you in for a soft, heartfelt kiss. âI think you are just perfect, Cooperâ you said, your hand resting on his scarred chest as you looked at him with that gaze he swore heâd do anything to see pointed his way.
âYou really wanna be my girl?â He asked softly, sounding shocked and with some self doubt still lacing his tone, but he had to be sure this was what you wanted outside of the drugâs effects. He cared for you deeply, in a way that he hasnât felt in a very long time, but maybe you were just the right person for him to finally open his heart up to. His question made you giggle as your heart fluttered in your chest with excitement. âI absolutely do, I meant it when I said it last night, I mean it just as much now. I think weâve danced around it for long enough, donât you?â you replied, making him smile the most genuinely happy smile youâve seen him wear since youâd met. âJust checkinââ he said, before laying a sweet kiss to your lips, wishing every morning could be like this one. Maybe it could, now that you were here with him.
( + read on AO3 )
⣠PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV)
⣠THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, slow burn and mutual pining, angst, irresponsible sex (idk how else to call what happens here), fingering, hand job, oral (f and m receiving), grinding, (this is actually softer than the warnings imply).
⣠NOTES: Yeah when I saw that sweet priest on my screen, I just had to drop everything and write this; hope you enjoy! :)
⣠SYNOPSIS: God might be the flawed invention of an anguished humanity, but the moments you share with the priest who keeps challenging you feel like a touch of grace.
âFinding out their homily is boring is possibly a clergyman's second worst fear.â
The nave was silent before those wordsâcaught in the digestive inertia that often follows the hours after Massâits regular tiles aligned between vast swathes of light, splashing through colored glass.
You look up from your notepad, blinking, lugged from thoughts of a whole other nature.
âPardon?â
The first thing you notice are his eyes. A vivid, water-branded shade, like a stream running through woods or algae disturbing the low tide, bluish, not quite green, welcoming as a bed of moss.
âI know,â he continues, in this affable, lightly mischievous tone, âpaying attention during Mass can prove itself a challenge.â
It's how he says it, utterly divorced of the solemnity that shells others like him, not austere, not scolding, but like he's young enough to remember the occasional Sunday mornings: being pried out of bed, rammed into uncomfortably dapper clothing, just to fall asleep again on shellacked pews before the first psalms are even read.
âYou probably aren't the only daydreamerâbut it's unusual, to see one honest enough not to pretend.â
From his pulpit, overlooking the assembly, it was difficult to miss. Yours were the only eyes straying away from the altar, from the crucifix, from him. Oblivious to the words, glancing to the windows like a bored student in a stuffy classroom and giving that pen you're still holding a nibble every now and then. As the prologue of a hymn vibrated through the cool air and the congregation united in a broken falsetto, he wondered, what in heaven could you be scribbling about?
An embarrassed smile climbs up your lips.
âI have a confession to make: I didn't come for the liturgy.â
You readily explain, âI'm writing a paper about the stained glassââ and his eyes flare up, outpacing you.
âOh, you're that researcher,â he remembers, or feigns to remember. âIt's a relief. Here I was, ready to accept my sentence as a terrible bore.â
He jests, of course. Holding anyone's attention never seems to be an issue for himâfor better and, well, often times for the worst.
His hand extends forward.
âI'm Father Jud.â
His palm feels warm against yours. A little coarse, perhaps, and drier than it should, results of labor, effort, rinsing, and scrubbing. Something else too, under those knobbly knuckles, secrets of a life-lived, tucked beneath his skin.
Per custom, you offer your name back, along with a glib Nice to meet you.
âI wasn't purposely being disrespectful,â you clarify after the introduction. âIt's just, the light is perfect now, and the hours coincide withââ
He cuts you off swiftly, waving his fingers as if to cast out any awkwardness.
âYou don't have to explain. It really is rather beautiful here,â he concedes, those not-quite-blue irises traveling in the line of your gaze to the golden beams of the morning sun. âI like to sit in the nave when I can, just to watch the reflections on the lancet windowsâŚâ
He stops himself, clears his throat.
âI'll leave you to it. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask.â
He pivots, ready to traverse the lane, carried by a prudent, discreet gait, shoulders just a little stiff. Leaving behind a whiff of clean soap, clinging to the dark curls of his hair.
You can't help but call back to him, just as he's about to cross the fourth row of benches.
âWhat's the first?â
Stopping in his tracks, he blinks, slightly confused.
âMmh?â
Your pen clicks against the pad.
âYou said being boring was a clergyman's second worst fear. What's the first one?â
His uncertainty melts into a quizzical grin. Boyish, slightly enigmatic, almost elf-like. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth, you think, it might not be the truth. Aren't men of God forbidden to speak lies?
âCatching altar boys drinking the communion wine, probably,â he hums, humorous.
You can't help but smirk in response.
âHappens a lot, I gather?â
His head gives a light shake, a smile drawing dimples in his left cheek. Quite the smile, too. Strongly curved parentheses framing his mouth, warm, oddly familiar. Like an echo of other smiles, of a beloved childhood friend's, a nurturing uncle's, or a favorite cousin's. You can see why parishioners would trust him. It's the kind of grin that teases ease out of people, a desire to confide. Who knows what anyone else would do, with such a gift of a smileâperhaps it's a relief this one chose the cassock.
âGood luck with your research,â he amiably wishes, before making his way to the sacristy.
You don't think of the priest again until a few days later.
Timidly knocking on the very same door Father Jud disappeared through upon the first day of meeting him. You're looking to borrow a pen after forgetting or losing yours, that overchewed lucky charm.
The sacristy is a drab room, smelling stale and a little damp, a mixture of unaired textiles, varnished wood, burnt crackers, and, oddly, the faint, acrid afterscent of cigarettes. He's alone in there, answering your knock after a short beat. Eyes a little glassy, possibly preoccupied. He evulses any sign of aloofness as soon as the hinges creak, inviting you in, asking if you'd like some coffeeâhe just made some. Your eyes wander around while he fusses about. The preparation room is encumbered with heaps of stuff: mismatched teacups and glasses, markers missing their caps, books with worn-out covers, and a crumpled altar linen stained a deep burgundy red, awaiting to be salvaged.
He notices the way you examine the surroundings.
âThis isn't all my doing, by the way,â he says about the mess. âNearby clubs and activity groups in the parish meet up here for the time being. It's a little, ugh, modern.â
âI'm not judging.â
He invites you to sit and slides a ballpoint pen in your direction, along with a cup of steaming coffee. You contemplate his knuckles as he moves, just like you did last time. He has beautiful hands.
Fidgeting with the pen, you raise the drink to your lips.
âWhat is it you study, precisely?â he asks eventually, finally sitting down in turn.
You swallow before you reply, voice croaky from the heat of the beverage. It's awfully bitter.
âReligious iconography.â
The study of images and symbology in Christian art would be the complete phrasing, but that's just too many words. You always mechanically deliver the shortened version, used to people dropping the subject as early as it is socially authorized to do so.
His gaze shifts, head tilting, cooing out a soft âOhâ.
The topic could've ended here. It doesn't.
He understands your language.
It's simple, because it is his as well.
When he inquires about the figures in the colored glass, the ones that hold your academic interest, it's with an awareness that eludes the profane. Scenes of the Life of the Virgin Mary, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Mary Magdalene's river of flaxen hairâhe knows them all. Of course he does. He interrogates you on the specimens exhibited in the aisles, details, features he could've missed. The shape of a leaf, a certain hand gestureâall those small things with meaning, locked in time, awaiting to be read, rediscovered. He offers you the same incandescent smile you've already seen him wear on that first day, stating that he'll need to go take a closer look when he can.
When you ask him which artist was commissioned for the crucifix, with an interest translating your admiration, he is struck, briefly, with the sin of pride. Glancing down to his mitts, marked from the woodworking. Even considering not telling you.
While he ponders, you notice the dark ink, its filigree-thin contrast on his skin, peeking out of his collar. A most unexpected attribute for a priest.
After you tease him, calling his silence an unfair act of gatekeeping, he surrenders the secret at last. You ask how he made the heart of the figure shine, this otherworldly glow that struck your pupil last morning.
There's a story behind that Christ sculpture. One he doesn't wish to share, for now.
So he tells you about the theology of light instead. About the ancient belief, constructed centuries ago by another holy man, conjecturing light as a divine messenger, its passage carefully thought and built into the architecture of churches, through refined windows, roses, translucent glass. Light as a means to exalt devotion in the hearts of the congregants. Light reaching through, the open palm of God.
â⌠Which is why it's so natural, I guess, to sense His presence in places like this,â he gestures to the doors leading back to the heart of the church. âStill, I'll admit, I find God just as perceptible in less consequential things.â
âSuch as?â
âOh. I don't knowââ he chews on his cheek, suddenly bashful, ââsomeone's laughter. Moonshine on a pond. A cat galloping to greet you. I like to think all those have a touch of holiness to them.â
âFinding beauty in the mundane isn't the privilege of believers,â you point out, serious, mildly prickly.
He doesn't pick up on the drop of hostility straining your toneâif he does, he hides it well, or perhaps it simply doesn't bother him.
âYou speak of beauty, while I talk of faith. But I agree with you. Rejoicing in His creation is not entitled to Christiansââ
A knock on the door startles you both, pulling you out of the depths of your conversation. He has lost track of time, glancing at the clock with mild fright. A soft voice pushes through the door, calling for the Father. He quickly ushers you out, with a choice of words and manners devoid of rudeness that almost make you feel like the decision to leave was yours all along.
Priests, you soon learn, are even more sought after than doctors.
This priest, at least.
Father Jud knows he can't fix people. He cannot erase what has been done to them, what they have done to others, what they will do to themselves. It's a bittersweet certainty. Neither his hands nor his words are a cure. But they can be a salve, a balm. Soothing, bringing quiet in the noise, and an uncomplicated, unfastidious incarnation of love. His presence besides members of the community is stable, constant. It doesn't ask for anything in return. That's where he finds his purpose.
After a week or so, he grows used to the sight of your hunched posture in various spots of the church, concentration mistreating your spine.
He knows you're not a convert. Has known ever since he spoke to you in the sacristy.
But one day, you manage to stun him a little.
It happens a little before noon.
The rustling of your springy step resonates behind him, right after he's accompanied a parishioner back to the entrance of the church, a recent widower, still grief-bound and numb to the roaring of life around him. Father Jud whispers to him, âCall me when you need, I'll always answer,â squeezes his shoulder, watching him leave. The door shuts with a loud clangor.
He turns to look at you, your bag handle slung across your shoulder, a little sleepy-eyed, with ink-spotted hands.
After some meaningless small talk about the weather, you stifle a yawn.
âI've always found it a little ironicââ you comment, peering to the doorway, ââhow one can speak to a priest and safely expect an answer but not receive the same from God. He's arguably the most important aspect of this religion. Yet the priests are the ones who listen and offer direct guidance.â
You're always so immersed in your task, he never thinks you might be paying attention to anything else, least of all his own endeavors. But you see the people who huddle in church with the hope of speaking to him, presenting him their woes for some, seeking company void of criticism and judgment for others. He contemplates you with a hint of uncertainty, intrigued by what you might be getting at.
âCould it mean some priests are more important than God?â
There it is, expressed with the muttering tone of hypothesis.
Father Jud stands silent. A brief frown, the slightest show of his stupefaction. There's much he could say, to refute your wandering supposition, but there's no time for him to articulate his thoughts.
âSorry.â Your wince seems sincere. Then, with a quieter inflection, âIt's probably blasphemy, to say this in a church.â
âWe'll simply hope He was busy listening elsewhere when it happened,â he comments, in a friendly attempt to brush the matter off.
You chuckle at the not-so-funny statement, apologetic and amiable again.
From then on, your path crosses his more often. On your breaks, seemingly aspiring for a chattier counterpart to those silent figures occupying the windows and your attention most of the time. Announcing yourself through an excessively formal âHello, Fatherââsolely for the impish joy of making him respond with that peculiar smirk, as if asking you for a little less dignified stiffness. Cordial isn't the word, to define your chats. You seldom take him by surprise now, the way you did that last time, but you enjoy this, the small jabs, curious as to how he'll react. He's not interested in fighting you on the subjects you present to him, never losing his temper, never curt or chafed in his speech, even when he disagrees with you.
And Father Jud and you disagree on many things.
But your world touches his nonetheless; you with the factual eye, probing the memory of civilizations past, their beliefs, their stories, and him, tasked with plucking out what matters from it, perpetuating it, weaving peace or hope with fragments of the myths. You open the past to decipher it; he is a vessel of that past and its ageless promise all in one, its safekeeper.
Religion seems archaic to you. Wasteful in this modern age, when solutions can be found elsewhere, easy replacements for the voice in the sky, rendering God obsolete. Therapy in lieu of confession, science supplanting miracles.
Father Jud giggles when you tell him all this, one late evening. You're so used to speaking to him in the safe constraint of the church, you're a little taken aback to find him sitting in the local bar, deep in conversation with the patrons, local parishioners. Basking in this meek, cordial radiance you cannot help but envy. There exists a roughness to his features, not quite pugnacious, but an edge, brash, slightly cutting. It's there, always, oddly balanced by the earnestness in his eyes, and that smile he greets you with, his gift, an invitation.
So he laughs upon receiving your theory. Not a mocking laugh, but the modest, resigned snicker of one who has heard this speech before. You're not the first skeptic he meets with such a contemporary stance.
âIt's a pragmatic view. But don't you think it reduces faith to a simple tool? Something utilitarian, transactional?â
âStill, you have to admit it's a little irrational. Worshipping somethingâSomeoneâwho isn't really there.â
âWhy are you so sure He isn't?â
âHow do you know He is?â
He doesn't get defensive about your rebuttals. Doesn't behave like he's arguing with you.
âThat's what separates usââ he declares softly, luminously holding your gaze; and though he uses the term separate, it stands more as a request to get closer, a tug at your own mind, asking for permission to mirror it with a different perspective, ââI'm not interested in material proof of God's existence. You're looking to rationalize it, to explain it, but faith demands to be felt, not thought.â
The bar's prattle quiets down around you as the minutes slide by, and you're both still huddled near the counter, entangled in the exchange, slightly tilted towards each other, like conspirators. Father Jud doesn't touch his glassâor barely; it simply sits there like an ornamentâand he's talking to you about religion and philosophy, briefly invoking the writings of Pascal, Kierkegaard or Kant, who stated that God could only be touched through faith and not the rational mind. He doesn't sound pretentious; that's the true miracle.
âI had no idea they taught Kant at the seminary,â you notice, sipping on your own drink, trying to forget the chemical warmth creeping up your face, lodged in your limbs.
âI'm absolutely not an expert,â he confesses, emphasis on the not, the tip of his index finger following the rim of the glass. Your eyes fall to that tattoo again, clasping the side of his neck, the tip of an image you can't quite make out. He catches you staring, forcing you to avert your attention. You look down your glass, cheeks flushed. â⌠But I find it best to come prepared,â he finishes his sentence, with a slant dimple in his cheek, leading you to believe he knows what you were briefly focused on.
âPrepared against who?â you joke, covertly changing the subject. âThe hordes of heretics?â
He holds a quaint expression, half-grinning, half-pursing his lipsâhappens each time he feels you coming at him with some hidden scalpel, ready to poke his mind. He's never met anyone as intent on dissecting him, on rattling what composes his box of thoughts.
âI already know you don't believe in God.â He hums, not in an accusatory toneâhe never does thatâit's the simple statement of a fact. âWhat holds your faith then?â
Your fingers drum an imaginary tune on the sticky counter.
âHow do I answer that? Like some five-year-old child, that I believe in love and friendship?â
âWe all believe in something, don't we? Even the cynical and down-to-earth. Love and friendship aren't such silly concepts to put your faith in⌠Five-year-olds are wise like that sometimes.â
He simply has an answer for everything.
The next day, back at church, you inquire about his favorite passage from the Bible.
He already knows how critical you are of the good book. Many historians are. The magic evaporates as soon as they walk backstage, armed with the analytic eye, pulling out the magnifying glass to see the seams loosely coming apart. Ideas redacted by ghosts who arranged and rearranged traces of the divine in order to fit dogmas of their antiquated times and corrupted spirits.
The word of God, tainted by the hands of man.
âThere's plenty,â he muses. âIt's hard to just pick one.â
âIndulge me.â
He has a way of looking at you when you ask him questions like this. Flushed but mellow, like you're a small frog perched on the tip of his shoe that he isn't quite sure how to safely nudge back onto the grass without harming.
He scratches the thin stubble on his cheeks before picking a Bible out of a deranged pile of liturgical texts stacked on a table in the sacristy.
The volume smells of apricot jam. Ochre, child-like fingerprints color some of its pages.
He opens it, taps an underlined paragraph with his thumb.
âHere. It's a nice one.â
He relaxedly pushes the Bible between your hands, digits brushing yours during a fleeting instant. Your eyes scan over the first sentence, shooting a puzzled glance at him next.
âRead it. Trust me.â
On this request, he leans against the wall near the window, hands joined in his back, hips relaxed in a stance that's almost graceful.
With knitted brows, obedient for once, you begin to read aloud.
âLove is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongsâŚâ
He watches your lips move, your voice shaping the verse he has read and reread himself countless times before. Focused on how you might accentuate one word and not another. Rediscovering the text through your own exploration.
âThere are gifts of speaking in strange tongues, but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappearâŚâ
You briefly look up to him. He seems caught in the flow of the sentences, reflective, as one would listening to a piece of music they grew up with.
âMeanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.â
After a lull, you inhale deeply.
âAre you showing me this because of what I said yesterday?â
The Bible closes shut, pushing towards your nose delicate aromas of the lingering sweet snack some child must've forgotten between the chapters.
When you gesture to give it back, he shakes his head lightly.
âKeep it. Hard to believe, but I've got a few more copies lying around,â he playfully points out.
Before you disappear, through the slim gap of the door, you hurriedly tell him:
âYou're right. It is a nice one.â
And so you're gone, too fast to catch satisfaction tinging his cheekbones.
Father Judd anticipates your conversations. A brand new habit, casually slipped into his daily schedule. He likes the way you skip up to him, tapping gently on whatever lies nearest each time to announce yourselfâhe startles easily when you don't, it seems. You're not sure if he realizes how good he is at picking little truths out of people. Effortless and lenient while doing so. The spell works on you more than once, shrouds you in comfort, closeness, understanding, and you fall silent mid-sentence after a while, offering him a quizzical look, admitting, I see what you've done here.
You turn the tables around when you can. Asking him about books he's read, where he lived in New York, how he found his vocation, if he picked up carpentry as a result of it. People often react a certain way, with pinched unease, when he tells them about what happened when he was seventeen, the event that led him down the path of the church. It's something he speaks about with a disarming deliverance. Wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Inevitably, your discussions will turn to God. When it happens, he wonders how you'll attempt to duel him this time. It's a one-sided fight, if anything. Perhaps you perceive this as a joust, a game of chess, most frustrating to you, since your opponent doesn't move any of his pieces, simply describing them instead. In his eyes, this isn't about winning or losing or displaying any sort of mastery in rhetoric. It's simpler, so much simpler. A friction of minds, invigorating him. Galvanizing his faith.
At night, brushing his teeth, reading, or lying in bed, he'll think of those dialogues, replaying them, wondering how he should've said this and not that, could've formulated a conviction more eloquently, afraid of being misunderstood.
You creep up in his prayer one time. Another after that, then a third. Your name blossoms into a recurrent sound on his tongue.
âI didn't know priests went to confession too.â
It's the middle of the afternoon, the ninth hour, and you're both sitting outside, under the skirts of fussing, ominous clouds. He's taking a break from his upcoming homily while you escape the claustrophobic grayness overflowing the transept. A most delightful form of procrastination.
âOf course,â he confirms. âWe sin just like everyone else.â
âSounds superfluous at best,â you grunt. âWhat could a priest possibly have to atone forâŚâ
The sentence comes out much more noxious and condescending than you'd hoped. It rings through your ears like a shrill heckle, making you shake your head, irritated by your own behavior. It's unbearable; you don't even like the people who talk like that, like they know better and aren't interested in rebalancing what they've taken for granted.
âI'm⌠That sucked. Forgive me.â
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression hidden from you.
âDon't fret it. I've received meaner punches back in my day.â Spoken like he's verging on his hundredth year of life.
You take advantage of the fact that he can't see you. Gazing at the nape of his neck, where little dark locks gather and swirl, bouncier than apostrophes. You want to reach forward, want to touch them. And his shoulders, how they always seem just slightly hunched, like his body's constantly trying to apologize for taking space, for standing just a little too towering in comparison to others.
âHow do you do it?â you ask gently. âNothing ever seems to bother you.â
He proves you wrong immediately. Swiveling, his eyes shooting to meet yours, brows tense, as if you'd just proclaimed your decision to get baptized.
âIs that what you think?â he asks, incredulous. âThat nothing bothers me?â
Just as abruptly, the skies tear open with a rumble.
Pudgy drops crash onto the grass, maculating the stone bench, licking your faces and limbs. He pushes a suspiciously spontaneous curse word into the dampening air, and while you stifle a laugh, you both dishevelledly run back to the church porch.
Petrichor penetrates the breeze, dispersed out of muddy grounds, fresh and nostalgic. From the refuge under the lintel, Father Jud inhales the scent deeply. Brushing himself off that water still speckling his hair.
You remember a cluster of words he used your first week here. God's presence in the inconsequential. You wonder, looking at him, if that's what he's doing now, watching God through the lincel of scintillating water, shrubs changed into jewels by drizzling alchemy; all of it hiding an everlasting, mystical love.
âI've thought about what you said last time,â you dare to speak, pulling his attention to you. âWhen you asked what I believed in, if not God...â
Your hand whips the air softly. Gathering your words or reaching for something otherworldly and transcendentalâhe isn't quite sure.
âThe church is perfect. The sculpturesâthat Jesus effigy you made. The colored figures in the glass. They're perfect, so we don't have to be.â
Your fingers run over the knotwork mimicking foliage that decorates the door.
âAnd they're all man-made things. I suppose I believe in that, you know? This⌠ability, to transcend our own nature. To make things better than what we are. You'll say that it's God, of course; I wouldn't even know how to name it exactly. Maybe it's inspiration. Or hope. It doesn't matter. I believe in it, whatever this is.â
You can see the weather flicker in the millpond of his irises, the brief moment it lingers on you. Father Jud turns away at last, and you both stand without another word, watching the rain, listening to its soft pitter-patter.
He steps closer to you. You almost miss it. This guarded move, one prudent step. The skewed shadow his body casts on the uneven ground blends with yours. Right hand gingerly stealing up to your face, attentive not to startle you. Fingers trembling.
You close your eyes.
The pad of his thumb catches the raindrops lingering on your lashes. Featherlight. Gliding down, he wipes the water off your cheekbone, an imperceptible stroke.
As daintily as they began, his knuckles recede. Hand tugged back to his chest, splayed on his sweater-clad chest. Like it's trying to erase itself of what just happened, this surreptitious incident.
âI thinkââ, he grasps for a proper sentence. âI thinkâand I mean this with⌠the utmost regard⌠It would be best if we didn't speak, for some time. Anymore.â
His stammered words fall with the same staccato as the rain, skittish, disorienting.
You feel lightheaded in a bad way. Your mouth opens, but he stops you with a raised hand, a broken imitation of a Christ-like open palm, the gesture of blessing.
âNoâdon't.â
Those eyes, the same color as rain battered grasslands, quietly begging you.
âDon't say you don't know what I'm talking about. Please.â
His arm drops back to his side.
âYou're welcome to finish your work. But I'd be grateful if you justââ he sucks in a sharp breath, ââstick to that.â
He leaves you there, with your mouth agape, petrified, while he furiously scurries off in the rain. Piercing through the line of trees towards the rectory, paying no attention to the gushing downpour. Miserable and lost and a little in love with you, sparked with that same incomprehensible fondness he keeps for the scent of freshly cut pine wood, the stained glass that has captivated you, or that verse from Corinthians he has committed to memory and heart.
Night falls, and with it comes anger. A small amount of it directed at God.
He wants to punch something, blame someone, he isn't sure who, maybe himself.
Mostly himself.
His fists clench and unclench. How did this happen? Why did this happen? It crept up on him like a vicious cold. Now there's no sweating out the fever.
That following week, though you never found the chance to make the promise, you keep to what he has asked of you.
Your eyes lurk in before you pass the narthex, checking the church pews, ensuring yourself of his absence. You do this every time you enter.
Five more days before you fly home, leaving Chimney Rock for good. It can be done. You can manage.
It's the last stretch of the morning, an indolent, sluggish hour. People are more concerned with what they'll have for lunch than whether they should come to church light a votive candle.
A purposely picked moment.
Which is why you're not supposed to run into him. Not while turning the corner to reach the path, nearly sent reeling from the blow of the collision. Maybe it's God's nasty sense of humour. The strong wall of the northern flank of the church eats you both in its shadow. Too bad it can't make you disappear.
You both stand, facing each other, like future roadkill trapped in car lights. Not sure which is which.
Father Jud's under eyes bloom a mean purple, stains upon his wan complexion, signs he hasn't slept at all. His trousers are crumpled, a pale powder, thinner than dust, smudging the fabric. His sleeves are tucked up to his elbows. There's another tattoo, on his forearm, one you hadn't noticed before.
Taking a harsh breath.
âI'm just leavââ
Your shoulders are smashed against the sturdy stones.
He hasn't shaved, his stubble grazes your cheeks when he kisses you. A scattered, almost painful collide of mouths and teeth, stealing what remained of air in your lungs. His clothes smell of the eternal white cotton soap, but his body exhales something arboreal, musky; of timber and metal mixed with sweat. His fingers grip your shoulders, slide up the side of your neck, nails scraping your jaw.
It's too early in the day, to be this drunk on someone's touch.
The buckle of his belt etches its harsh outline in your waist while your fingers grip his back, exhorting him closer. His tongue pushes yours and against all reason and dignity, you moan into the kiss.
A cool current.
Your bodies separate.
Your lower lip hurts. And that spot on your elbow too, abraded by the stone you're still leaned against.
Father Jud's eyes are still fixed on you. On your lips. His own now crudely reddened, his pupils shot with an impossible shine. Holding one hand slightly lifted, like someone realizing they've just shattered a porcelain vase.
For a split second, in between raspy breaths, it seems like he's about to say something to you. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the tufted grass. Only capable of murmuring a flimsy âI'm sorry.â
It rings in your ear like an insult.
You're the one who flees this time. Pissed off and muddled with humiliation, damning the church, its windows, God, but most of all the priest.
Five days, and you'll be going away for good.
Five days later, you've finished scrubbing the tiny cottage you've rented for the duration of your stay. Keys awaiting to be returned, laundry folded, your almost done-and-packed suitcase slumped in the path between the open kitchen and the living room.
Ponderous clouds throng the sky outside your windows, drowning all last remnants of blue. You watch as rain sinks into the sidewalk, splashing the quaint gardens of the neighborhoods, ready to swell into a storm.
There's a quick thumping on your door.
Glancing through the curtains cloaking the doorlight, you regret moving at all once you recognize the willowy silhouette standing on the front steps.
You could, of course, creep back into the home, feign your absence. But he knocks again, and for some reason, pretending you've ceased to exist isn't an option anymore.
The locks turn with a melodious clatter. Door sliding open just a little, enough to frame you in the thin gap, almost like you don't want him to see where you've lived during the past weeks.
âHello, Father.â
Your tone isn't formal now, nor incorrigible like it used to be, when saluting him. It's just a bundle of neutral words.
âHi.â
He appears a little sounder than the last time you saw him. Ironed shirt and pants, not sawdust-strewn anymore; the clerical collar shining like some ironic lighthouse in the sea of all black. Father Jud licks his lips, his thumbnail scratching the handle of his umbrella.
âI was hoping to talk. Can I come in?â he inquires.
âI don't think that's a good idea.â
He tries to speak again, but you're quick to cut him off.
âLet me put this in better terms: I'm not interested in being the source of anyone's guilt.â
âThat'sââ he stammers, ââthat's fine, and I respect it. It's justâI biked here, but now it's raining cats and dogs, and I don't think it'll stop until the nextââ he looks around, assessing the flooding menace, ââhalf-hour, or something.â
âA half-hour isn't that long.â
In the murky pond of his eyes, you spot a flotsam of distress. There's something heart wrenchingly winsome about him. Always has been. Especially now, spindly silhouette with shoulders dotted in rainwater, that poor carcass of an umbrella hanging over his head.
Charity seizes you by the scruff.
This is a mistake, whispers the seraphim on your shoulder.
âFine. One cup of tea.â
âThank you,â he sighs in relief.
He's standing in the middle of your kitchen. Sheepishly glancing around, unsure what to do with himself. You've refused his helpâit's just boiling water; doesn't take four hands and two brains to conjure up.
âAre you leaving?â he asks upon noticing the sulking suitcase, still stuck in its corner.
âYes.â
He marks a pause.
âYou've finished your paper already?â
You hum, meaning no. Clumsily rummaging through the cabinets, wondering where you've left the last box of decent tea bags.
âI don't have the proper documentation here; I'll finish at home.â
Another way of stating you haven't mustered the courage to walk back into the church at all. All this, just to have him directly seek you out at home. You wonder if his scent will linger long in the room, after he leaves. You never thought cotton could smell so heady.
âPlease sit down,â you mumble. âYou're hovering, it makes me queasy.â
He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, its feet scraping the linoleum.
âI hope you haven't been avoiding the church because of what happened.â
Discerning, he certainly is. Always so frustratingly discerning. That's a trait the angels weren't stingy on, while bringing it to his crib.
You smack the spoon drawer shut. Leaning against the countertop.
âWhat did you come here for? You didn't really say.â
âTo talk to you. I want to apologize.â
His bony index finger scratches his forehead. When he speaks again, it's in a gentler tone. Meditative.
âRemember when I told you being boring was my second worst fear?â He wasn't serious then. But he is now. âYou asked me what my first one is, andââ he shakes his head, waving like none of this matters, ââI don't even recall what I said back then. But, the truth is, I think it's something like this.â
A movement, short and vague, yet so damn eloquent: his index finger, travelling from him to you.
The low hiss of the kettle begins rattling the air. His wrist falls, glare fixed on his fingernails. Speaking feels difficult, each word a little too large as it passes through his gullet.
âYou never think those things can happen until they do.â His voice, almost reduced to a dwindling streak. âAnd when it doesâŚâ
He looks up from his bruised knuckles, encasing you in his gaze.
He doesn't realize how long he looks at you like this. The exact same way you do when sitting before the stained glass. Like he does, after dawn, alone in the nave, waiting for the precise moment the sun reveals itself through the windows of the sanctuary.
You pivot to halt the screeching of the kettle. The spell is severed.
âMaybe I should go now.â
âIt's still raining.â
He stands regardless.
âThanks for the tea.â
âYou didn't have a drop,â you blankly point out, in a feeble voice.
You precede him in the vestibule nonetheless, a bad taste of deja vu souring your mouthâhis slender silhouette, black and navy blue, disappearing into the deluge.
Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob. A piece of somber weather slithers in through the passage.
His hand covers yours. The door falls back into its frame with a rattle.
âI recognized you. Ever since we first spoke. How is that possible? How do you explain it?â
Recognition, meaning familiarity. An admission of inborn closeness. As he imagines Adam, the first man, would've recognized his missing rib.
âDon't talk about God here,â you warn, sensing where this wind might turn. Your voice shrouds itself in cool admonition, concealing what lies under. âIf you want to stay, leave Him at the doorstep.â
âI can't do that.â His voice drops to a whisper. A sweetness lingers on his breath, caressing your face. Syrupy, botanical. You imagine him, nervously chewing on honey drops, the ones shaped like round hives the size of penniesâwishing they'd soothe not just some benign throat pain, but whatever flows further below, nestled in his ribcage.
Gently, ever so gently, his fingers rearrange yours, unclenching them from the knob until they rest in his hand. You can't look up. Your attention remains fixed on his collarâlily-white, perfect, unsullied. Sitting right beneath that black lace of ink, close to his pulse, a patch of skin you're desperate to kiss.
You're incapable of distinguishing who is speaking to you in that moment.
Priest or man. Maybe both.
âI feel closer to Him when I'm with you,â he murmurs.
Not quite a confession. It lacks the weight of remorse.
You frown, eyes trailing up; his gaze catches yours, holds it like a chalice.
âHow does it even make sense?â
âI don't know. I don't know,â he exhales.
His lips ghost over yours. Breathings merging. He smells so deeply of the rain, loosely doused curls trickling against your forehead.
With great difficulty, you steer him back a little.
âYou can still go,â a soft reminder. âI'll understand.â
âAt my last confessionââ his palm encases the nape of your neck, drawing you back to him, nose brushing the shell of your ear, ââI said that I've been distracted. That I've found myself wanting for what I can't have, what I shouldn't even think to have. Neglected the congregation, people in need... People I want to help, to whom I want to bring Christ's love.â
Your jointed shapes jaggedly step away from the front door. Stumbling down the corridor, still clutching each other. Afraid, nervous. Wanting.
âBut I couldn't tell the truth. And I couldn't pray it away. I only made it worse.â
Your absence only made it worse.
âYou remind me why I do all this. What it's for. You just do.â
His breathing hastens. Fingers pushing into your waist. You feel tipsy, electric, with his finger swiftly pulling down the strap of your top to trace your clavicle. Large hands on your body, reverendly mapping you, like you're made of glass.
The taste of salving candy lingers on his tongue, shared with yours when he kisses you at last. Communion.
You run your fingers through his hair, coaxing him closer. Ankles almost tangling with his while you guide him down the hall, nearly losing balance, gripping the notch of his jacket at the last minute. He removes the jacket, shaking the flimsy sleeves until everything falls to the floor.
The bedroom door slams against the wall when it swings openâyou'll need to check later that it hasn't made a dent.
The hems of his shirt hang untucked from his pants. His belt loops onto the ground with a metallic twinkle. Your fingers halt as they're about to unbutton his shirt, and he spots your mild panic, the eyes on his throat. Struck with a certain tenderness for you, once he understands the origin of your hesitance.
He removes the clerical collar himself. Preciously setting it onto the small console table nearby. It doesn't make sense; it shouldn't mean anything to you, but you're holding your breath as you watch him. He turns himself over to you next. Finishing what he started. The tank top is hurled over your head. He does the same with your jeans, fidgeting with the button, undoing the zipper.
Scabbed-over lesions pattern Father Jud's knuckles, like they've ruthlessly been bashed onto a robust surface. You notice this with wrinkled brows, reaching to pull his hands away from the task of undressing you.
âWhat happened here?â
He improvises.
âCandle holder fell. It's not important.â
He's about to distract you from further questions, but you're bringing his hands to your lips, kissing the abrasions, kissing those hands that can mold wood, that offer drinks or tissues, that pat shoulders or other hands, hands that pull out weeds and pick up the phone at three in the morning to pray with tormented insomniacs. Hands that give more than they take.
You lend his fingers back to him with a grin and he collects it, stunned, smitten with you. Bending down, he frees you of the sheathing denim, pulling the trouser legs to slide your knees out of them, one after the other, until you're almost naked, slightly shiveringâthough not from the cold.
âI can't believe how much stuff you're wearing,â you gently fuss, unveiling the tee-shirt stowed beneath his black shirt. âDo you really get that cold?â
Your rambling makes him wonder.
âAre you nervous or something?â
It's a little unbelievable that he's the one asking this. But it feels impossible to lie to him. The tee-shirt joins the rest of the heaped clothes at the foot of the bed.
âThis is probably an intrusive questionââ you almost choke on the words from how fast you're pushing them out, thinking the sooner you do, the sooner the embarrassment will subdue, ââbut, have you⌠have you done this before?â
He doesn't seem to understand. When it finally dawns on him, he bites his cheek, swallowing a smile, on the verge of a nervous snicker.
âI wasn't always a member of the clergy, you know. But honestly, it's been a long time since I'veââ your fingers nudge him carefully, making him recline on your bed; he props himself up on his elbows, finishing his sentence in a raspy tone, ââsince I've done this, yeah.â
You straddle him, hips hovering over his, not quite touching each other.
âLet's take it slow then.â
âFine by me,â he coos.
He sits up and reaches around you, unclasping your bra, letting it flop down onto his lap. By instinct, you want to shield yourself behind crossed arms, but he's already moving ahead of you. His knuckles graze the side of your breast, one thumb contemplatively following its curve.
You let him do this almost a whole minute, gulping down whatever it stirs in you, until you can't take it anymore and push onto his shoulders to give yourself a breather. His irises consider you curiously while you help him out of his underwear.
âSorry,â you stutter, upon realizing you've literally just smacked his hand away when he tried to do the same, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. âIt's just, you're making me reallyââ
His proximity feels fucking sweltering.
âAt any point in this,â you explain, âif you don't wantââ
âHeyââ he thrusts himself back up, âI'm here of my own free will.â
His palm cups the side of your face.
âYou said we'd go slow,â he reminds you. âLet's go slow.â
He lies back down, tugging you along so you're nestled against him, catching your lips with his in a slow, deliberate kiss. One hand curving around the back of your neck, the other reaching down rubbing your spine. Making out with you until your body unstiffens, prying you out of your own nest of briars and nerves.
You're astonished he's still here. Letting you touch him, letting him touch you. It all seems like a hazy dream. Your mind stills at last, exiting the fight or flight mode.
Parting away from his mouth with a wet sound, you lower yourself a little, your hand slipping over his lean form, flat stomach, coarse black hair climbing up to his navel. Digits bumping his protruding iliac bone, brushing gingerly against his length. When you take him in your hand, your eyes travel back up to him. Exploring his features. Feeling him twitch against your palm and his hips wavering forward, subconsciously begging you. After a bundle of mist-soft kisses peppered down his stomach, your breath hitches atop his erection.
âCan I?â
âYeah.â
He exhales so quietly, you barely catch the word.
Your tongue follows the trail of a sinuous vein, the fragile texture on this sensitive, conceiled part of him, and his head rolls back, Adam's apple motioning as he swallows harshly. Has such a hard time, staying focused on you when it feels like you're scattering stars under his skin, mouth warming his tip, a little further, a little more, your hand gripping him with enough firmness to set ablaze every single nerve in that region.
âYou'reââ a ragged breath, ââpretty good at this.â
People spurt strange declarations when pleasure heats their core and muddles their reason. All things considered, this isn't too bad.
âYou know, I'm never sure whether that's a compliment,â you retort in a light voice.
He laughs. You bite your lip before pressing a soft peck onto his thigh.
Switching between your mouth and your hands, uncertain what he seems to be responding to best, trying out combinations until the melody of his breath changes, wildly losing composure.
You think he's close. It's difficult to tell. Your tongue's too busy anyway to inquire about it. He sits perfectly rigid between your lips, slick with a blend from his own arousal and your mouth. Your face pulls back, searching for air, but your fingers keep building the tension. You want to watch him. His muscles hard and edged with pleasure, his chest rising and falling, that hand of his, the one with the inked forearm, loosely clutching the side of your face.
He whispers your name. Fingers stiffening in your hair.
He pulsates in your palm next. Gravelous moans replacing the rumble of the weather outside, spellbinding. You keep on stroking him, preserving the same pressure that brought him to the verge. His spent lightens your collarbones, trickles down your right breast.
You wait for him next, for him to climb down from the clouds. Nails grazing his thighs gently. Eventually, his eyelids flutter open. There's a stretched, unhurried silence.
He tries to catch his breath before his eyes travel over to you, rolling back up, not quite back into your realm yet.
âWhere's the bathroom?â he croaks after two minutes or so.
You're a little taken aback.
âDoor over there.â
He vanishes from your touch, and you lie on your back, limbs akimbo, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Shit.
He's going to walk out of there now, you realize, building the upcoming sequence in your head, trying to prepare yourself. He'll say he has to go, pick his clothes up, get dressed, and leave.
You think of the morning he kissed you for the first time, the woeful glance, the desperate âI'm sorryâ.
This was always going to happen.
The door squeaks. He reappears, towel in hand. The mattress sinks as he kneels next to you. It startles you when he begins to run the fabric across your skin, your chest, where traces of him still linger. He's dampened the cloth with warm water first, cleaning you now with almost ceremonious heed.
âYou don't need to⌠do this.â You're not sure what else to say.
He lets out a soft puff. You're right, he doesn't need to. But he wants to.
When he finishes, he casts the towel aside, his face lingering above yours. One palm lying flat on your stomach.
âI don't think we're done yet,â he observes. Instilling in you nothing but the purest trust you could ever offer someone.
He drags the elastic band of your underwear down, finishing what you prevented him from doing earlier. Digits slithering down your pelvis, curving to part the petal-soft flesh.
Your fingertips extend towards him, softly tracing over the tattoo on his forearm before wrapping around his wrist. Barely guiding him, only giving a soft nudge, a lax pointer, so his fingers press where you like.
âHere?â he whispers.
âHere.â
With focused eyes, he begins working you up. Attentive to the way you squirm and bite your tongue. When a sudden moan breaks through your lips, he repeats what elicited the cry. Quick, small circles. Languid motions, drawing back and forth. Your arousal coats his long fingers, warm and glossy.
He knows more about what he's doing than he's let on.
You let go of his wrist to clasp the comforter. His mouth lowers to your chest, tongue teasing your erect nipple. Catching its bud between his lips, giving it the most delicate nibble.
âOh, fâplease do that again,â you whimper.
So he does, indulgent, compliant. His mouth keeps brushing your upper body, reaching lower, lower, lower. Your eyes are closed, but you sense his weight shift around the bed. His bulk settled between your legs, one hand kneading the back of your thigh.
When he eats you out, his speed, his tension, he adjusts, alters, changes with the sounds you make. Quick flickers of his tongue that almost make you cry. Middle finger pumping into you, true to your agreement of keeping things slowâeven if it's only to sow frustration in youâuntil he inserts his ring finger, pushing knuckles deep, curling them slightly, inflicting a mind-stilling caress.
You're certain of it now. He knows so much more than he's let on.
A familiar heat spreads from your core. The tapping of rain on the window melts into a hallucination of angelic chatter.
âJud. I'm gonnaââ
It's the first time you verbally slip, sputtering only his first name, disrobing it of prefix and title. He doesn't have any time to focus on that, to ponder on its meaning.
The very next second, something uncoils between your hips.
You come on his tongue, on his fingers, your muscles squeezing tight around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, transmuting the initial crash into a wave of pure bliss, and you're sobbing euphoria, all your thoughts scattered, useless.
âHey,â sluggishly calling to him, once you get your voice back, with slight disbelief, âyou're pretty good at this too.â
He shakes his head at your nonsense, amused.
Taking care of you has gotten him hard again. His erection teases your thigh while he climbs back atop you, his knees poking the back of yours. Your thumb contours his lips, hands framing his face next, absorbing the heat he exudes.
âI don't have protection,â you signal, still panting, hit by the harrowing realization.
He obviously isn't carrying any around either.
âHow far's the nearest drugstore?â he leisurely asks, and you burst out laughing.
Some things are simply universally comical, and a priest buying condoms might fit into the list.
He isn't serious, of course, but still. You grab the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Feels like overheat, when you're close like this, sweat gathering between your chests and stomachs.
Your lower body arches up. Trying to meet him. His hand finishes the gesture, pressed on the small of your back, slotting you against his pelvis.
Lewd sounds densen the air of the room, hard skin on soft flesh. He looks down to where your bodies touch. Only touching. A prologue to an act he can't bring himself to finish, the line that he can't breach. It maddens him, how perfectly your lower lips shape the side of his length, your hips swirling to meet his in this captivating, hypnotic motion. As enthralling the sight, he can't watch you forever. His resolve would break.
âI want you so much,â you sob.
âI know,â he heaves back.
Planting a love bite in the side of your neck to make up for it. If he doesn't come soon, he knows he'll end up slipping through, joining your bodies for good, raw and utterly careless.
You want to memorize every shape of the muscles in his back, the rolling motion of his shoulder blades beneath your fingers, the steady bumps of his spine.
God, that friction.
Your hand snugly presses him, massaging him between your core and your palm. The pressure on your clit is perfect. Meticulous, almost torturously slow, trying not to push too fast, too far.
âFuck, this isââ he gasps, struggling to finish the sentence.
He takes over your grasp, his hand stabilizing himself against you.
âAre you close again?â he wonders.
You nod passionately.
âDo you wanna get there together?â
âYeah.â
He hums his approval. Grinding a little faster against you, bucking his hips forward.
âI'm almost there,â you whimper.
âI'm gonnaâŚâ he begins to warn.
âJust a little more. A little more.â
â'Kay,â lips burrowing into your neck, embracing patience, directing himself so he keeps rubbing your clit. âA little more.â
Swept up in ecstasy, time stills when you break apart against each other. Holding with nails, teeth sinking into each other, almost afraid of being yanked from one another. Flesh puffed and muscles sore from the jittery movement, you're incapable of a single move. The tiny room feels damp, its air congested and scalding.
His body drops on top of yours, relaxed and heavy. Skin slick with sweat, burdened with reddening patches that will prove difficult to explain, should anyone actually come to notice it.
You're not sure how many seconds elapse before he budges again. You've lost all track of time.
âOh, shit, I'm smothering you,â he mumbles.
âNo, no you're not,â you giggle.
Like ivy, his arms encircle you, catching you in a tightening embrace. Tendrils of dark brown hair tickle your chin.
âWhen are you leaving?â he hums into your collarbone.
âTonight. â
âDo you know if you mightâŚâ
His voice falls hushed.
âNo,â you admit, because there's no point in lying. No point in pretending whatever just happened could ever exist again outside this room, outside this precise moment. âI don't think there's a reason for me to come back someday.â
Another odd silence. Could almost hear an angel stretch its wings.
âYou know I can'tââ he begins.
âI know. I would never ask that.â
Your fingers pinch a solitary eyelash on his cheekbone, discarding it without making a wish.
âYou don't have to stay. I understand if you're needed elsewhere,â you assure.
He should go. But having to and wanting to are very different things.
âI'm not. Unless you want me to leave.â
âNo.â
âMmh. Good.â
âIf there's some time, maybe you can tell me about this.â
Your finger grazes his neck tattoo. He scratches it like a mosquito bite, and you feel the rising of his cheekbone when he smiles, poking you.
âI'll tell you. Whatever you want to know. But, let's justââ
He slides himself off you, now flushed against your flank, one leg caressing yours and arm still wrapped around your waist. His nose teases your temple.
âLet's just stay like this. A little while longer.â
You'll never know, whether God sits somewhere in the room, or if He left on his tippy toes a moment ago, bashful yet softened, bringing gossip back to the Heavens about His endearing mess of a son.
If you are to imagine this God, you want to picture Him loving, forgiving, just like that man in your arms: Father Jud and the pond-blue eyes, the tousled hair and fervent heart, his peaceful restlessness, imperfect enthusiasm, and those coarse hands, delectably tender when they're running across your skin.
ŕ¨ŕ§ messy drunk makeout with shoko turns into mutual fingering
âyour tits look fucking amazing in that top.â
youâre drunk. really drunk. because no way you just said that. the words spill out before the bathroom door even clicks shut behind you. shokoâs leaning on the sink, cigarette unlit between her fingers, one brow arched like she was waiting for it.
the black satin clings to her like itâs wet, straps thin enough to snap, neckline dipped so low the curves spill over every time she breathes. she exhales a laugh that fogs in the neon light.
âsorry, iâ fuck, ignore me, iâm drunkââ
youâve had this crush on her for years, quiet, hopeless, tucked behind friendly smiles and borrowed hoodies you never gave back. she never said a word, never thought youâd look at her like this. or maybe she did. was hoping so.
shoko stubs the cigarette in the sink. steps forward until the toes of her boots bump yours. she smells like peach lipgloss and smoke.
âgo ahead then. touch. been staring all night.â
you freeze, cheeks burning hotter than the tequila in your blood. she takes your wrist and brings your shaking hand up, pressing your palm flat against the warm satin over her left tit. her heartbeat thuds steady under your fingers.
âbeen waiting for you to stop pretending you didnât want to.â
your breath catches hard. she keeps your hand there, slides it lower, under the fabric, skin on skin, until youâre cupping her bare and sheâs arching into it with a soft exhale.
âtouch me,â she murmurs, guiding your other hand to her waist. you squeeze, thumb brushing her nipple, and she moans quiet, head tipping back.
âbeen thinking about your hands on me for months,â she says, pushing until your back hits the stall door, ushers you inside and locks it behind her.
then her mouth is on yours, hungry, certain, like sheâs done waiting too. her tongue slides against yours and you taste everything youâve been starving for. the kiss tastes like peach lipgloss and the last shot you split.
her hands are under your shirt now, nails dragging up your sides, cupping your tits like sheâs comparing. youâre both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together while you grope each other like teenagers who just discovered skin.
âfuck, youâre soft,â she mutters, thumb flicking your nipple until your hips jerk. you answer by shoving her top down, mouth closing over one breast, sucking hard enough that she gasps and grinds against your thigh.
someone bangs on the door. you both freeze, lips still attached to her skin. shoko flips them off without looking, then drags your skirt up with one hand while the other slips into your panties.
her fingers find you soaked. youâre still scared to believe itâs real until she sinks two fingers inside you and whispers against your lips, âthere you go, baby, let me feel how long youâve wanted this.â
you return the favor, pushing past lace to sink into wet heat that makes her thighs tremble. you match rhythms without talking. deep, slow strokes, thumbs circling clits, mouths messy and open against each other.
the music outside fades to a dull heartbeat. thereâs only the slick sound of fingers fucking, the soft slap of hips rocking, the way shokoâs head falls back when you crook your fingers just right. sweat beads between her breasts and you lean down to lick it off while she fucks you harder, palm slapping wet against your cunt.
she comes first, biting your shoulder to muffle the sound, pussy clenching hard around your fingers while her own stutter inside you. the pulse of it drags you over too; you bury your face in her neck, soaking her hand, thighs clamping around her wrist.
you stay like that, breathing hard, fingers still inside each other like youâre scared to let go. her heartbeat is wild under your palm where itâs pressed to her chest.
youâre still shaking when she pulls her fingers out of you, glistening under the sick neon light. she lifts her hand between you. her tongue slides out, flat and warm, licking a long stripe up her own fingers, tasting you.
âopen,â she whispers.
you do, helpless. she pushes her fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue so you taste yourself, salty, sharp, mixed with her skin. she watches you suck her clean, then leans in and replaces her fingers with her tongue.
she licks into your mouth like sheâs chasing the last drop, moaning soft when you kiss back just as hungry. your hands are still on her bare tits, thumbs circling her nipples, and she grinds against your thigh once, twice, like sheâs already close again.
when she finally pulls back thereâs a thin string of spit connecting your lips. she breaks it with her thumb.
âtold you iâve been waiting,â she murmurs, voice hoarse. ânow you know what you taste like on me.â
youâre never recovering from this. you donât want to.
Ridiculously so - of course he himself is huge... you wonder if it's everywhere, as he taps his thigh, and your lips part, tummy clenching with need for him, breath caught in your throat.
"Need something, sweets?" He asks so casually, smiling at you as you sit across from him, clearing your throat.
"No. No I'm sorry..." Fuck how long are his fingers!? Five inches?? More...
He chuckles a little, leaning forward, fingers slipping down off his thighs now, as he gathers up wads of cash to pay you. He surprised you when he started buying weed, him the star student at college.
But the two of you have become cool. You - the little stoner weeb, him - the straight laced perfect student. His fingers so long and thick are ruining you and your ovulation brain, as he counts the money.
"How much for this again-"
"How long are your fingers?"
He blinks a bit then, smirking at you, raising a brow behind those obnoxious shades he loves to wear. "Huh?"
"Shit... nothing..." Satoru sets the money down then, leaning forward, so close you heat up, tummy clenching and heating up. "That was so rude, I'm sorry..."
"How long are they?" He repeats, blue eyes lidded, when they brush up your thigh, elgant long fingers leaving goosebumps in their trail, making you tremble. "That what you ask?"
"N-no!? I mean..." He chuckles softly, some of that snowy hair falling over a brow, thick fingers even higher. "Maybe?"
"Long enough to hit that spot," you bite your lower lip, legs pressing together. "Or... probably long enough to hit your cervix."
Fuck.
"Would you like a demonstration, for research purposes?" His voice is like honey, his lips twitching at the corners, pink plump ones you want all over your body. "Of how long they are?"
That's how you end up with two of Satoru Gojo's long fingers buried inside your cunt, plunging all the way to the knuckle and curling up. He's knelt right between your thighs on that old suede couch of yours, pressure hitting as he moves them up and down, up and down, a hand braced on one side of you, that tie tickling your skin, earning your tug.
"F-fuck..." You're clinging to one of his veiny forearms, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut, pulling on that tie with a clenched fist, the other slipping down his veiny forearm.
"You're this wet just thinkin' about my fingers? Hah," he's smirking down at you, curling them mean and deep, making you gasp out. "I dunno, how many inches ya think? More than any dick you've had?"
"Shit you're conceited," he just grins, pausing those like he's gonna yank 'em out before you get to cum. "Y-yes. Don't stop. Fuck... all the weed you want."
"All I want, hmm? Better make you cum real good then," he whispers, starting to scissor them in and out of your syrupy folds, making you clench around him. He sucks in a breath, eyes locking. "Hah - ya gonna cum this quick sweetheart?"
"Mnh!" He's hitting your spots with expert precision, working you so good you're about to shatter, gasping out with every plunge of those thick digits in your messy hole - the word sweetheart doing shit to your brain.
"Easiest weed ever, making you cum like this," he whispers, leaning low. "I'll still pay though."
"W-why?" You manage to squeak out, as his lips hover an inch from yours, fingers scissoring faster, your cunt a drooling mess that he can't wait to bury his cock into.
"Because. I'm rich sweetheart," he looks at you under those snowy lashes, curling both fingers up in your gummy walls, making you scream out, back arching. He doesn't say the real reason - that he should be paying you for the privilege of getting his fingers deep in your hole. "Go ahead, cum for me pretty."
You're done for.
Nerdy, perfect Satoru Gojo has you gushing and dripping as your orgasm hits. His thumb from his other hand brushes your nipple, lips kissing down your throat, his glasses fogging up just a bit from the condensation of his breath, tickling your skin and making you pulse.
"Fuckkk," the word escapes so languidly from the back of your throat, the smoke you'd had earlier just enhancing how fucking good you feel. "Gonna... ah - gonna cum againnn!"
"So easy f'me," he murmurs, talking cocky even as his cock twitches, heated cheeks from just how pretty you are like this. Sweat on your brow while your cunt gets louder, messier, a creamy ring on his knuckles. "Greedy girl, go ahead, fuck yourself on them."
You're shameless, arching up your hips to do just that, cunt gushing and spasming, nails digging into his forearm now and making him hiss. "Ngh!"
"Would ya look at that," he huffs, lips sucking your throat now, right where your pulse flutters, feeling you cum again and wanting it to milk him dry. "There you go, doing s'good too."
He's talking you through it, leaning up and running his fingers through your soppy folds, moaning when you twitch and spasm underneath him. "Oh my god..."
He chuckles like this was easy or normal, slipping two fingers out of your messy cunt with a pop before slurping your slick right off his fingers. Your mouth drops, gasping at the filthy sight.
He sees fucking hearts in your eyes then.
"Mmm..." He moans and licks more of your embarrassing amount of cum off, before gripping your chin with his clean hand. "Open."
You open eagerly, and preppy, nerdy Satoru Gojo spits your cum in it, right on your tongue.
Oh fuck.
Your cunt has a heart beat. Your eyes have hearts in them... Are you fucked dumb and in love from Gojo's fingers!?!?
"So cute," he languidly says, leaning down and pressing a messy kiss on your clit, you whimper, hips jerking from the little brush, he parts those puffy lips and eyes it. "All jumping around. Aww."
"I... you... um..." You're done for, brain short circuiting, he helps you up and fixes your strap with the two fingers that were inside you, his lips glossy with your cum.
"So, how long do you think they are?"
You blush furiously, girl math isn't mathing. "Five inches?"
He spreads his fingers, contemplating. "Six I think. Small in comparison to..." He trails off, grabbing the cash, you shove it at him, shaking your head.
"No. Free weed. Take all of it."
He chuckles now. "Well, I'll have to give that clit attention next time then, as a thank you," he teases, kissing you and tasting your cunt mixed with cherry lip gloss and a hint of purp. "Thank you, sweetheart."
"Fuck, thank you..." He walks out with a smile, adjusting his nerdy cute little tie, when you light up a blunt and melt against the couch.
Your next question?
"How big is your -"
inspired by a tiktok thirst trap from @yenayaps thank her hehe <3
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⣠ೠcw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni
notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.
You almost donât answer.
Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesnât expect surprises anymore.
Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twistâlike a song you havenât heard in years but still remember every lyric to.
Itâs been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.
And now heâs calling.
You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.
Then you answer.
â...Hello?â
Thereâs a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:
âHey,â he says, breathless like heâd been holding it. âSorryâsorry to call out of nowhere. I didnât know who else to ask.â
His voice hasnât changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like heâs always thinking five things at once and only saying one.
You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.
âOkay,â you say slowly, warily. âWhatâs going on?â
A soft rustle comes through the lineâmaybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.
âI wouldnât call if it wasnât important,â he says. âAnd I get that itâs weird. Us not talking, and thenâme dropping this on you.â
You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. âWhat is this, exactly?â
He hesitates. âI have to leave the city. Itâs an art residency. Last-minute. Itâs⌠big.â
Your stomach twists again, but this time itâs sharper. Of course itâs big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.
You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like itâs trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if heâs excitedâbecause of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. Youâre not sure youâre allowed to tap on it.
So you donât ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a wellâsilent, swallowed, never coming back up.
âIâm happy for you,â you say instead, and itâs almost true. âYou deserve it.â
Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if heâs smiling. âThanks. That means more than you probably think.â
It shouldn't. But you donât say that either.
âI wouldnât call if I didnât really need the help,â he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like heâs bracing for the ask to land wrong. âItâs Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.â
You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. âHandle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.â
âHe doesnât hate you,â Hyunjin says, though thereâs something too quick in his defense, too breathlessâlike maybe heâs trying to convince himself. âHeâs just... territorial.â
You huff a dry laugh. âYeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.â
âThat was one time.â
âTwice.â
âOkay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.â
You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. Itâs the kind of silence that remembers.
Because those jeans had smelled like himâafter that night. The last one. The one where heâd backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where heâd said things he probably didnât mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.
The night you both decidedâwithout saying itâthat it was over. That whatever âthingâ had been pulsing between you wasnât something either of you could hold without bleeding.
And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.
Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You donât say anything at firstâjust sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you donât move, it wonât reach you. Like you canât still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.
He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. Youâve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.
âLook,â Hyunjin says, quieter now. âI wouldnât be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesnât do well with new spaces, and I canât board him. Heâs too anxious, and if heâs not with someone he knows, heâll make himself sick.â
You finally speak, though your voice is thin. âSo you want me to stay at yours.â
A beat. ThenââYeah.â
Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.
You run a hand down your face. âHyun, we havenât talked in almost a year.â
âI know.â
âYou havenât even seen me sinceââ
âI know.â
Heâs not angry, not defensive. Just⌠raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.
âI didnât think Iâd ever call you again,â he admits. âI thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonightâyouâre the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.â
You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.
His home.
Itâs stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. Youâd been friends once. Kind of. Youâd laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even moreâon couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.
But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead.Â
âI donât know if thatâs a good idea,â you say, but even you donât sound convinced.
âIâll wash the sheets,â he jokes weakly.
You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. Itâs not really about the sheets.
It never was.
And the silence that followsâgod, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you donât remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.
You clear your throat. âWhat timeâs your flight?â
âLate,â he says. âBut I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. Itâll be tight.â
âDo you need help?â The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.
He hesitates. âNo. Itâs fine. Justâjust the dog. Thatâs all I need help with.â
Right. The dog.
You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course itâs clear.
Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.
âAlright,â you murmur. âJust send me the code. Iâll stay at yours. Itâs fine.â
âYou donât have to bring anything,â he rushes to say, and itâs like heâs trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. âI washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. Itâs still there.â
Your fingers tighten around your phone.
He doesnât mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didnât know how.
You donât bring it up either.
Instead, you breathe out slow. âCool. Iâll head over in an hour or two.â
âOkay.â
Neither of you say I missed you.
Neither of you say This is weird.
Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?
Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, âIâll leave a note.â
âFor the dog?â
âFor you.â
You close your eyes.
âOkay.â
He doesnât say goodbye. Just⌠hangs up.
And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe heâll change his mind. Like maybe you will.
But the silence stays.
And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you canât stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphiteâone he never knew you found.
You wonder if itâs still there.
You wonder what else of you is.
The building hasnât changed.
You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of himâHyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.
His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.
âCome in. Heâs dramatic, not dangerous. Donât let him guilt trip you.â âH.
You roll your eyes and open the door.
It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way thatâs curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.
You hear the growl before you see him.
Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.
âOh, fuck off,â you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. âWeâve been over this.â
He growls again. Louder.
You raise your hands. âI come in peace.â
He barks.
You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like youâre an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect.Â
âIâm not stealing your shit,â you tell the dog. âIâm just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.â
Kkami doesnât find it funny.
You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjinâs written schedule sits neatly beside two bowlsâone for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.
You glance at the clock. Heâs probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if heâs relieved you didnât call him first.
Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, heâs sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.
âJesus, youâre worse than him,â you sigh.
A folded slip of paper catches your eye. Itâs tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.
Your throat tightens.
You donât open it. Not yet.
You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.
Kkami barks onceâsharp and offendedâthen hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.
âTruce?â you offer.
He sneezes. Well then.
You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe thatâll help.
Or maybe itâll make everything worse.
You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.
And wonder how long itâll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.
You donât sleep well that first night.
Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like heâs punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesnât bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighsâdeep, betrayed, bone-deep thingsâlike youâve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.
You get it.
You feel it too.
In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjinâs blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.
Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.
âDo you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?â you ask him.
He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.
The hours pass slow. You walk himâtwice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.
At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. Itâs abstractâsomething celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You donât know if itâs new. You donât ask.
You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasnât peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:
12:31 PM â [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.
The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:
12:36 PM â [Hyunjin]: thank you <3
The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.
You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesnât touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like heâs proving a point.
That night, he wonât sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.
When you try to pet him, he flinches like heâs expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjinâs oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, âHeâs not here. Itâs just me.â
He whines again. Low and pitiful.
âMe too,â you whisper.
You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.
You havenât opened it. Not yet.
You slept on the couch.
Not because the bed wasnât madeâHyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what youâd needâbut because you couldnât bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.
So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.
The second night is worse.
Kkami is inconsolable. He wonât eat. Wonât lie down. Wonât stop pacing between the front door and the window like heâs waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjinâs shoesâleft by the entrywayâand lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.
You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjinâs shampoo. But nothing works. Itâs like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesnât see the one person heâs built his little world around.
Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.
You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than itâs been in weeks. Kkamiâs resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like heâs trying not to cry but canât help it.
And that soundâgod, that sound shatters something in you.
You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.
12:04 AM â [You]: he wonât sleep. heâs been crying for an hour. wonât eat either.
You donât expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while heâs halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.
But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
Then answer.
And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.
Hyunjinâs face fills the screenâsoft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like heâd just been getting ready for bed. But itâs not just the setting that throws you. Itâs him.
The long hair you used to run your fingers throughâgone. All of it.
In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldnât suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like thereâs nothing to hide behind anymore.
You blink. You donât mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.
âHi,â he says, quiet.
You swallow. âHi.â
He sits up straighter. âIs he okay?â
You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lapâbumping his snout into the phone like heâs trying to crawl through it.
Hyunjin laughs. Itâs breathless. Disbelieving.
âGod, heâs dramatic.â
âHe gets it from you,â you mutter.
Kkami presses against your chest like heâs trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjinâs voice to soothe him.
You glance at the screen again. Hyunjinâs watching you, not Kkami.
Thereâs a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkamiâs soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.
Then, gently:
âI left you something,â he says.
You swallow. âI know.â
âI wasnât sure if youâd find it.â
âI did.â
âYou gonna open it?â
You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.
âNot yet,â you say.
And he doesnât push. Just nods. âOkay.â
Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.
âHeâs sleeping now,â you whisper.
âSo are you.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âYour eyes,â he says. âThey do that thing. The little flutter when youâre about to crash.â
Youâre too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.
âIâll hang up,â he offers.
You donât say no.
You just murmur, âGoodnight, Hyun.â
And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:
âGoodnight.â
You donât sleep much better that night.
But Kkami doesnât cry again.
The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythmâquiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when theyâre made of things that werenât meant to last.
Kkami still hates you by daylight.
He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesnât let you pet him unless heâs half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesnât let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.
But at night, when Hyunjin calls, itâs like a switch flips.
Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like heâs spent all day building tension he doesnât know how to unspool without Hyunjinâs voice in the room.
You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever heâs just come back fromâa gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesnât have your footprints on its sidewalks.
He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio spaceâwide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece heâs working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasnât painted in years.
âYouâd hate it,â he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. âItâs all jagged lines. Chaos. I think itâs about⌠hunger. Or maybe grief. I donât know.â
âI never hated your work,â you say.
Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:
âYou hated what it did to me.â
Your breath catches.
Because heâs right.
You did.
You hated the way he disappeared into itâinto himselfâthose long stretches of silence when he wouldnât eat, wouldnât sleep, wouldnât touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.
But you donât say that.
You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie youâve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.
âI hated how much it hurt you,â you say instead. âThatâs not the same thing.â
Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. âNo. Itâs not.â
Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjinâs faceâthe new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.
He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, âI was scared to call you.â
You smile, tired and small. âI figured.â
âI thought youâd say no. That you wouldnât even answer.â
âI almost didnât.â
His throat bobs. âWhyâd you say yes?â
You donât answer right away.
Because itâs not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath youâre not ready to exhale.
You look at him. Really look.
And when you speak, itâs quiet. Honest.
âBecause I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.â
The silence after is different this time.
He blinks. His mouth parts like heâs going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.
âFuck.â
You let out a laughâdry, breathless. âYeah.â
He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. âYou still sleep on the couch?â
âEvery night.â
âWhy?â
âBecause the bed remembers more than Iâm ready to.â
His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasnât been sleeping either.
Another pause. Thenâ
âI dream about you,â he says.
And itâs not a confession. Itâs a bruise. Something heâs been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.
You blink. âHyunââ
âNot just the sex,â he adds, voice hoarse. âThough⌠yeah. That too. A lot, actually.â
You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. âYou donât have to say that.â
âI want to,â he says. âI want you to know I stillââ
He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.
Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.
You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like heâs chasing something warm. It grounds youâbarely.
Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didnât say. Everything he still might.
You donât speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I canât sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldnât stop, even though we knew it was already over?
None of it would come out right.
So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, âDo you paint me?â
The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.
Hyunjin stills.
On the screen, he doesnât look shocked. He looks⌠worn. Like someone whoâs been carrying the answer around for a while and doesnât know where to put it.
âI try not to,â he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. âBut you always end up there.â
Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like thatâs an answer you expectedâbecause it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.
You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, âI havenât opened it.â
âI know,â he replies, just as soft.
âI want to. ButâŚâ
âYou donât have to explain.â
âI think I need more time.â
âTake it,â he murmurs. âI left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.â
You nod. Not that he can see itânot really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.
âOkay,â you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesnât crack under its own weight.
A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.
Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.
Hyunjinâs still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.
Just you.
âYouâre wearing my hoodie,â he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You shrug, suddenly shy. âDidnât pack enough layers.â
âI knew youâd steal something,â he says, teasing, but lowâlike he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.
âYou left the drawer cracked open on purpose.â
âMaybe.â
His smile softens into something quieter. More real.
âI used to love seeing you in my stuff,â he adds. âUsed to come home and hope youâd be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.â
You swallow. Itâs harder than it should be. âI wasnât pretending.â
Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.
And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: âAre you still?â
You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.
âI havenât been with anyone else.â
His jaw works. âNeither have I.â
The words land between you like a markerâdrawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isnât as wide as you thought.
Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkamiâs fur.
âI should go to bed,â you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.
âOkay,â Hyunjin whispers. âMe too.â
But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You donât even blink.
Eventually, he says, âTomorrow night. Can I call again?â
You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. âHyun⌠youâve been calling every night.â
His smile doesnât fade, but it shiftsâtilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.
âI know,â he says. âBut that was for Kkami.â
You blink. âAnd tomorrow?â
His gaze doesnât waver. Not once.
âThatâs for you.â
It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like heâs only just letting himself say it out loud, but heâs known it all along.
Your throat tightens. âOh.â
Hyunjin watches you carefully. âIs that okay?â
You nod once. âYeah. Itâs⌠more than okay.â
Something in his posture loosens then, like heâs been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite formingâlike heâs still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.
You donât know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.
But you know youâll answer.
And maybe this time youâll stop pretending itâs for the dog.
âYouâre on the bed.â
Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.
You blink at him from where youâre sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.
You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.
But Hyunjinâs already smilingâslow and knowing, like heâs been waiting for this.
You exhale through your nose. âKkamiâs on the couch.â
âMm,â he hums, a little amused. âSo itâs just you in my bed.â
Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. âIs that going to be a problem?â
His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. âNot even a little.â
You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.
Hyunjin shifts on his end of the callâheâs propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.
âI thought about you today,â he says after a beat.
You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. âLike you usually do?â
âYeah,â he breathes. âBut this time I didnât fight it.â
Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. âWhat were you thinking?â
His gaze dips, like heâs shy all of a sudden. âThat I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.â
You swallow, voice thinner now. âItâs a little colder without you.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. Itâs thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but havenât stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.
Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. âYou look good there.â
You bite the inside of your cheek. âI feel... restless.â
He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. âTell me.â
Your gaze flickers. âTell you what?â
âWhat youâre thinking. Right now.â
You hesitate.
But then, softly, deliberately: âI was thinking about your hands.â
Hyunjinâs mouth parts slightly.
âI was thinking about how you used to touch me here,â you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. âAnd here.â Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.
His breath stutters through the speaker.
âAnd I was wonderingâŚâ you murmur, voice barely above a hum, âif you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.â
Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, theyâre dark, focused, hungry.
âI think about it all the time,â he says. âEvery fucking night.â
Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhereâbehind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. Itâs not even about the sex. Not yet. Itâs about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers youâwho still remembers.
âI havenât touched anyone else,â you say.
He swallows hard. âDonât.â
âI donât want to.â
Hyunjin nods slowly. âMe either.â
Then, quiet: âCan I stay on the call?â
You blink. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean,â he says, voice rough now, âif I asked you to touch yourself⌠would you let me watch?â
Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.
You donât say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.
The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.
Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, itâs barely a whisper, like heâs already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.
âFuck. You always looked so pretty like this.â
You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.
Hyunjinâs eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.
âRemember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of itâbarely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?â
You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.
He smilesâcrooked, dark. âYeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought Iâd lose them.â
You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.
âGod, that sound,â Hyunjin breathes. âThat little gasp when youâre just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomachâreal slow, just to watch you twitch.â
You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. Heâs not even touching you, and stillâyour body bends like itâs learned him by muscle memory.
Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.
âLook at you,â he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. âAll spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.â
You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjinâs smile sharpens.
âTouch your tits,â he says, not as a commandâbut a conjuring. Like he already knows youâre aching for it. âLift your shirt for me.â
You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.
He groans. âYou remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldnât stop sucking on them. Couldnât stop biting.â His jaw clenches. âYou used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.â
Your fingers slide down againâslippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.
âTouching yourself in my bed,â he growls. âWearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.â
Heâs panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouthâhis fucking mouthâis red and parted, like heâs still tasting you.
âYou remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?â he says. âPushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like youâd run from me if I let go?â
You whimperâyour fingers falter, then speed up.
âCould barely breathe, baby. Youâd just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldnât handle itâand still begged for more.â
Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.
Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. âBet your pussyâs fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what itâs supposed to takeâlike itâs trying to remember the shape of my cock.â
He groans, low and wrecked. âDonât worry, baby. Iâll teach it again. Iâll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Wonât stop âtil youâre dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.â
You whimper his nameâhelpless. Shattered.
âYou want me to say it?â Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. âWant me to tell you how Iâd do it?â
You nod, frantic. Desperate.
His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.
âIâd start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then Iâd give you all of it at onceâdeep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.â
You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.
âIâd fuck you into the mattress,â he growls. âGrip your hips and slam into you so hard youâd lose your voice. You remember how Iâd do that? Say, âYouâre not done yet, baby. You can take it.â And you always fucking would.â
Youâre whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasmâs closeâso closeâspooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.
âOh, fuck, there it is,â he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. âYouâre close. I can see itâhear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic whoâd trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.â
That breaks you.
You moan his nameâsoft, ruined, high-pitchedâand you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.
âGod, youâre still so fucking perfect,â he grits out. âI couldâve painted this. Youâlike that. Thatâs my favorite version of you.â
You whimper, still trembling.
He grins. Dark. Gleaming. âWanna see what you do to me?â
You nod, dizzy.
He shifts the phoneâjust enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.
âI used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,â he pants. âNot even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.â
You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.
âFucking ruined me,â he snarls. âYou ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.â
And then, through gritted teeth:
âIâm gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.â
Your legs tremble again.
âFuck, babyâfuckfuckfuckââ
He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.
The silence after is sharp. Breathless.
Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.
Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.
Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.
âTell me this isnât just sex.â
You donât.
You just stare back.
And then you hang up.
You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.
It takes less than a minute for him to call back.
Then again.
And again.
You watch the screen light up with his nameâHyunâand each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.
You donât answer.
The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.
[Hyunjin]: iâm sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didnât mean to push you. i didnât mean to fuck everything up.
[Hyunjin]: we donât have to talk about it. we can pretend it didnât happen if you want. iâll follow your lead. just⌠please say something.
You donât respond to those either.
You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.
The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.
You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesnât bark anymore when you walk past. Doesnât flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when youâre on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like heâs already decided you belong here.
It should feel comforting.
It doesnât.
You stop sitting in Hyunjinâs bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.
You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.
[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.
[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someoneâs shoe.
[You]: whenâs your flight again?Â
You donât tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.
How youâve stopped sleeping in his bed againâeven if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesnât smell quite like him.Â
How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you donât send anymore.
You donât cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.
You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.
But now itâs worse. Because you let yourself want again.
And itâs giving you vertigo.
[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.
You stare at the message for a long time.
Not because of what it says.
But because of what it doesnât.
And what you donât know is this:
Hyunjinâs lying.
His flight lands at 3:10.
Heâs already halfway through the city when youâre zipping up your bag.
Heâs already in the elevator by the time youâre taking out the trash.
And heâs standing at the front doorâkey in hand, chest tight, hands shakingâwhen you reach for the handle to leave.
You open the door and nearly collide with him.
You freeze.
The air catches.
Time does something strange.
Hyunjinâs just⌠there.
Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyesâsharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastationâlock onto yours like heâs forgotten how to blink.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Thenâ
âHyunâ?â
Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjinâs legs, circling and jumping and whining like heâs just won the fucking lottery.
But Hyunjin doesnât look down. Doesnât move. Doesnât even blink.
He just stares at you.
And says, low, quiet, steady:
âYou were really gonna leave.â
You clutch your bag a little tighter. âYou said youâd be back at five.â
âI lied.â
You swallow. âI figured that part out.â
His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesnât know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure youâre real.
Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like heâs the center of gravityâbut Hyunjin doesnât even glance down. Not once.
All of him is focused on you.
âYou werenât going to say goodbye.â
Itâs not a question. Itâs an accusation. A plea. A wound.
âI didnât think you wanted me to.â
âBullshit.â
That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.
Hyunjin steps forward. Not fastâbut purposeful. Like if he stops now, youâll disappear all over again.
âIâm sorry,â he says, voice taut with something sharp. âIâm sorry I came on too strong. Iâm sorry I didnât give you time. Iâm sorry I didnât say what I shouldâve said months ago, years agoâfuck, the morning after. But donât stand here and tell me I didnât want you.â
You inhaleâtight, shallow. Like thereâs no room in your lungs for this.
For him.
âHyunââ
âNo,â he cuts in, but itâs not cruel. Just cracked. âYou donât get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after Iââ
His voice breaks.
He swallows it down.
Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isnât his.
âI meant it,â Hyunjin says, softer now. âThat night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasnât just to get you off.â
Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.
âYou said you missed me,â he goes on. âBut then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didnât care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if youâre still standing in front of meâif you havenât walked away yetâthen just fucking tell me.â
He looks at you like heâs trying to memorize you all over again.
You look at him. Really look. And you knowâheâs not going to let you run.
Not this time.
âGo get the note.â
His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.
You blink. âWhat?â
âThe letter,â he repeats. âThe one I left you. On the fridge.â
You freeze.
âI know you havenât opened it.â
You swallow. âI wasnât ready.â
âI donât care,â he says, and thereâs a flicker of something dark in his voiceâsomething possessive, guttural. âI want you to read it. Now.â
You hesitate.
âPlease,â he adds, and thatâs what breaks you.
You nodâbarelyâand turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.
You open it, andâ
Itâs not a letter.
Not really.
Itâs a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midwayâblack, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.
You glance up. He nods again.
âRead it,â he says. âOut loud.â
You hesitate. Then you read.
âYou once laughed in your sleep, and I didnât sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.â
You swallow hard. Keep going.
The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.
Your voice wavers.
âThereâs a sweater you left. It doesnât smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.â
Hyunjinâs throat works. He doesnât interrupt.
âI never painted your face. Couldnât do it. Couldnât get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.â
Your chest twists. You canât speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels aliveâelectric.Â
He steps forward. Just one step. But itâs enough to close the distance.
âI had people,â he continues. âSo many people I couldâve called. People I trust. People who wouldâve said yes.â
His eyes are burning nowâdark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.
âBut I didnât want them. I wanted you.â
You donât say anything. Canât. Your hands are trembling.
âI told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.â He huffs out a broken laugh. âBut it wasnât. It was you. It was always you.â
Your breath falters.
âI missed you,â he says. âSo much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldnât. I never did. Youâve always been underneath it allâunder the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.â
He steps closer. Youâre breathing the same air now.
âI loved you then,â he says. âWhen we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didnât mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and Iââ
His voice cracks.
âAnd I love you now.â
You don't remember moving. Donât remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that shouldâve known better.
All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.
Hyunjin catches you with both handsâone at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.
Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hairâshort now, prickling at the scalpâand he groans like itâs breaking him.
You drop your bag. You donât even hear it hit the floor.
You donât care.
His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.
âFuck,â he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. âIâve wanted thisâIâve wanted youââ
His voice breaks again, and then heâs back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throatâjust enough to mark. Just enough to remember.
Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.
âTake it off,â you breathe.
He does. In one motion, the tank top is goneâflung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You canât help it.
Heâs still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.
Hyunjin kisses you againâharder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.
His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeansâthick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.
âI canât wait,â he pants against your mouth. âI need to be inside you. Right now.â
âThen do it,â you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. âHyuneâpleaseââ
Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then heâs walkingâstumbling, reallyâhalf-guided by the desperate way youâre clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like itâs sacred.
The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself â hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.
His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like heâs not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.
You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after â a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.
And then heâs there â rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.
You canât think. Canât breathe. Can only move â hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.
Hyunjinâs hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and itâs filthy the way your body answersâalready arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.
He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. Youâre drenched. Thereâs no mistaking itâthe way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.
The zipperâs down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himselfâhard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.
When he lines up and pushes in, itâs one long, devastating strokeâhis cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.
You gaspâsharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.
Hyunjin goes still.
Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like heâs trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.
âFuck,â he breathes, voice wrecked. âYouâoh my godââ
His forehead drops to your shoulder. Heâs shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.
You tighten around him instinctivelyâhungry, pulsingâand he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.
âI swear to god,â he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. âIf I move, Iâm gonna come like a fucking teenager.â
Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.
Hyunjin groansâlow, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.
âFuck, baby,â he pants. âYou feel⌠I forgotâfuck, I forgot how perfect you are.â
You whimper, breath caught in your throat. Youâre stretched so full it feels like splittingâblissfully unbearable. Like heâs carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.
He doesnât move. Canât. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.
âIâm gonna embarrass myself,â he rasps. âYouâre so warm, IâI need a second.â
You nod, gasping. âOkay.â
But your body doesnât care. Itâs greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him againâtight, hot, involuntaryâand he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.
âYouâre doing that on purpose,â he whispers, biting your shoulder.
âIâm not,â you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.
Hyunjin moansâloud, broken. âBaby, Iâm serious. You do that again and Iâll fuckingââ
You clench again, on purpose this time.
He snaps.
In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry outâsharp, wantonâas your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.
âOh my god,â you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.
Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.
âThis mine?â he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. âStill mine?â
You canât speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhereâbehind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.
âNo, baby,â he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. âSay it. Let me hear you say it.â
âItâsââ Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. âItâs yours, Hyunjin. Always.â
He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then heâs fucking you harder, deeper, like heâs trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you donâtHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.
Youâre soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into itâinto himâdragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.
âI missed this pussy,â he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. âI fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my handânothing felt as good, nothingâfuckââ
You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutterâa half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.
He kisses you thenâdesperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.
Youâre moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spotâdeep and relentlessâand your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.
âRight there?â he growls. âThat the spot, baby?â
You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words comingâjust breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.
Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like heâs gone. Like youâve pulled him under with you.
âYeah,â he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. âI remember. Right there. Got you clenching like youâre about to cry.â
His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. âFuck, thatâs so prettyâso fucking pretty, babyâyour face when I fuck you like this.â
Heâs unraveling, you can feel itâhis rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and heâs breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.
âYou gonna cry for me?â he whispers, voice all fray and silk. âWanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. Iâll take care of itâIâll hold you through it, I promise.â
You donât mean to. But itâs been too muchâhis mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop itâ
A tear slips down your cheek.
Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.
âOh my god,â he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. âThatâs it, thatâsâfuckââ
He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And heâs murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:
âYouâre so good for me. So perfect. I donât deserve youâI donâtââ
You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hitsâwave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.
Hyunjin groans like itâs killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.
âCan Iâfuck, baby, where do you want it?â he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.
âInside,â you breathe, wrecked and shameless. âWant it insideâplease.â
That last word shreds him.
He thrusts onceâdeep, sharpâthen again, slower this time, drawn-out like heâs trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then heâs comingâhard.
A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.
He stays like thatâdeep inside you, trembling, breathlessâuntil the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.
The kind of silence that feels like safety.
His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhereâhis chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.
Neither of you speaks.
Thereâs nothing left to say.
Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember theyâre separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but heâs carefulâgentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.
The bed is a mess. Youâre a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.
He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made toâlegs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And thenâ
He kisses you.
Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like heâs not trying to restart anythingâjust thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.
Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.
And in that quiet, breathless spaceâthere is no ache, no past, no noise.
The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjinâs paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger piecesâstark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed overâspeaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.
Itâs been years since heâs spoken like thisâwithout apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. Heâs dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.
You werenât supposed to come.
Heâd kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. âYouâll just get exhausted,â heâd said, brushing your hair back, âand Iâll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the babyâs doing backflips again.â
But now youâre here.
Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he lovesâthe one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. Thereâs a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.
Hyunjin doesnât see you at first. Heâs mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.
Then he glances up.
And freezes.
You watch it happen in real timeâthe shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And thenâgod. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.
A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.
He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.
And then heâs moving.
Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.
You open your mouthâmaybe to apologize, maybe just to greet himâbut heâs already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.
âYouâre unbelievable,â he says, kissing your forehead. âI told you not to come.â A kiss to your nose. âI specifically saidââ another to your cheek, ââthat Iâd worryââ your chin ââthat youâd get tired,â he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. âThat your feet would swell. That youâdâfuck, baby, I said stay home.â
You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gazeâwarm and full of something playful. âI know, butââ
He kisses you.
Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. Itâs instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldnât bear to hear the excuse when youâre standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe heâs trying to convince himself heâs not dreaming.
You giggle against his mouth.
It bubbles out before you can stop itâlight, easy, surprised by your own happiness.
âHyunjin,â you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. âLet me speak.â
He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. Thereâs a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.
âYouâre ridiculous,â you murmur.
Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at youâreally look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like heâs memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. âYou take my breath away,â he murmurs, like a confession. âEvery damn time.â
You want to say somethingâsomething light, something teasingâbut the way heâs looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.
And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.
His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. âLittle traitor,â he whispers to your bump, grinning. âYou two planned this, didnât you?â
You feign innocence. âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âMhm.â He leans in and kisses you againâsoft, slow, not quite chaste. Like thereâs no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.
Eventually, he pulls backâjust a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
âStay?â he asks, almost shy. âI want to show you something. After everyone leaves.â
You nod.
You nod, and his smile deepensâboyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like heâs tethering himself to you.
âIâll be quick,â he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. âDonât go into labor while Iâm gone.â
You roll your eyes fondly. âNo promises.â
He shoots you a look over his shoulderâmock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughterâand then heâs swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.
You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your wayâsome with recognition, some with curiosityâbut none of them matter.
You only watch him.
And he watches you tooâbetween conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding backâlike a tether, like gravity, like a vow thatâs already been made a hundred times in silence.
You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.
The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because heâs learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.
wc: 2.2k.
tags: alternative universe, mentions of choking, spanking, insults, humilations, daddy kink, promiscuous sexual relations, mention of aclohol, satoru comes from mdom to msub, age difference (satoru in the twenties, reader in the thirties), satoru has a secret mommy kink, petting, dirty talks, praise, satoru cums in his pants like a pathetic loser.
playboy!satoru whoâs well known around the campus for his charming personality and big dick. from the moment he stepped in the university, he made it clear heâs there for the beautiful girls and wild sex thatâd lead to nothing. he isnât seeking for the stable relationship, he is too good to settle for one person, thatâs why heâs living his best life, changing girls like gloves, enjoying his youth and breaking hearts and hopes.
playboy!satoru who has a damn list of his conquers. he uses this to brag about it, and, honestly, his friends canât stand him because of it. every time someone walks past them, satoru needs to chimes in and says some stupid shit like âyeah, i was with her on november sixteen, she was a virgin, by the wayâ. heâs cocky and arrogant, but i guess itâs the part of his charm.
playboy!satoru denies that heâs actually a bad boy. everyone knows what he needs. and itâs not his problem that someone has false hopes about their little one-night stand. he doesnât take responsibility for feelings of others. but he gladly makes sure that his partner will be satisfied because itâs his speciality.
playboy!satoru who knows a thing or two about womanâs body which makes him irresistible lover. he never avoids foreplay, he kisses and caresses every part of his partnerâs body, he treats a girl gently, lovingly, but he fucks like a wild animal. he never lets anyone take control. he loves dominating in every field of his life and he takes it especially serious when it comes to intimacy.
playboy!satoru who looks like a typical man who hates being a submissive. for some reason, only a damn thought of being controlled make him feel almost offended. when his friends bring this up, satoru usually rolls back his eyes, gasps dramatically and says something like âi am a man, buddy, i have to be the one who control situation, you knowâ. itâs like his ego was hurt by the idea of letting the girl sets her tempo while riding his dick.
playboy!satoru who has a common scroll of kinks. first of all, he's a bit cringe. but he likes being called daddy. this fuels his arrogance. and fuels his body with arousal because he canât resist the way some girl whines this adorable âdaddy, harderâ. he doesnât listen to because he wants to make someone beg. beg for his dick, beg for speed, beg for being fucked like a useless slut. again, he just enjoys feeling that sense of power over another person's pleasure.
playboy!satoru who controls orgasms, spanks on the ass, insults, humiliates, deprives of orgasm, chokes⌠in general, he does everything to prove once again that he is the boss here. and again, he enjoys dominating because heâs the best at this.
playboy!satoru who loves visiting clubs because itâs the easiest way to find someone to spend night. he drinks his whiskey, looking around the dimly lit room and seeking for his next victim, when his eyes land on you. youâre dancing with your friends (he thought so judging by how comfortably you were pressed against each other), your dress was unacceptably short and tight. and you were unacceptably divine and sexy.
playboy!satoru who can feel the way his dick throbs when you bent over, rubbing your ass against your friend, who happily slapped you on the thigh. fuck, why her and not him? he groans in irritation, puts the glass of whiskey on the table and tries to calm his excitement. damn, heâll fuck you stupid tonight, thatâs his decision.
playboy!satoru approaches you during the dance, his hands fall on your hips boldly, you turn your head to look at him with the smile on your face. you didnât push him away, preferring to press your rear against his groin. and when you feel his erection, you already know why he decided to interfere. and it's not that you're against it.
playboy!satoru thinks youâre an easy target even if youâre not a young girl, but obviously experienced woman. because judging by the way you two were dancing, you were hungry for a man's touch. you let his hands wander all over your body, and you touch him in all the proper and not so proper places. he thinks he's already won.
playboy!satoru whoâs ready to cum as soon as you cup his dick through his jeans. bold, he likes that, itâs a pleasure to tame confident girls who loses sanity at the moment playboy!satoru starts kissing them. something in the way you smile and whispers soft âare we coming to your place or to mine?â throws the rest of his control out the window. oh, my, he finally breaks down in front of a woman. but he'll still have time to get even.
playboy!satoru closes the tab for your table and, under the surprised gaze of your friends, leads you out of the club. he wants to continue in a taxi, his palm is already climbing under your dress, fingers touching wet (who would have doubted) underwear, when you grab his wrist.
âwho allowed you, boy? be good,â you say in the sweetest tone heâs ever heard.
and he backs down, sitting like a good little boy, when he wants to do nothing but fuck you on the backseat of this damn car. heâs not the one who usually listens to girlâs whims, especially when her underwear is practically soaked, but something in the way you look at him⌠this glimpse of motherly severity in your gaze.
motherly.
playboy!satoru who shakes his head when he feels a rush of something at your gentle yet scolding tone. he brushes it off, by the way, thinking if he loses this round, he will win the next. heâll be patient for now, but donât expect him to be good when you reach your apartment.
playboy!satoru tries not to look too shocked when the taxi pulls up in front of an apartment complex. you live... in an expensive place. he swallows, and the thought that he is next to not a girl from university, but an adult woman, again appears in his head.
playboy!satoru acts as usual when the door of the elevator closes. he pins you against the wall, kisses you senseless, and you kiss him back with the same passion. you bite his lower lip, smirking at the way he whimpers when you cup his dick yet again. damn, his head is spinning, heâs throbbing with desire but your boldness makes him hesitate.
playboy!satoru regains his confidence when you two finally reach in your apartment. you lie beneath him on the silk sheets, and he smirks at the sight of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips. he trails kisses down your neck, making you gasp softly and relax under him. he still knows what to do to make a woman melt. relishing at the feeling of yet another victory, he pulls down the neckline of your dress, pressing his lips to your already hard nipple. he sucks it gently, bites and nearly chokes when you run your fingers through his undercut and grabbed his hair.
playboy!satoru closes his eyes and holds back a pathetic moan thatâs threatening to fall from his lips when you caress his scalp. youâre too gentle, youâre too much, damn it. he cups one breast in his palm, continuing to play with the nipple of the other. he spreads your legs with his free hand. he presses his groin against your wet underwear. he is impatient. but you seem to be in no hurry.
âyouâre such a good boy, you know that?â you muse softly. and he thrusts his hips forward, his erection rubbing pathetically against your closed pussy.
playboy!satoru makes a mistake when he decides to look you in the eyes. because he doesn't see lust and passion. he sees almost maternal tenderness again, with which no one has ever looked at him before. he freezes, looking at your gentle smile. fuck, is he losing again? how many times this night?
playboy!satoru lets you use his hesitation to your advantages. you flip him on his back, straddle his hips and carefully undo his shirt. his breath hitches in his throat when you scratch his muscular chest lightly and then pinched his nipple between your thumb and index finger. he jolts, fidgets and puts his hands on your hips in attempt to regain some sense of control.
âwhat the hell do you think youâre doing, baby?â he whispers huskily like it wasnât him who melted at the way you pinched his nipples a few minutes ago.
âbaby?â you repeat, teasingly tracing his collarbone with your finger. âi want to make you feel good. youâll let mommy take care of you, wonât you?â
playboy!satoru loses his damn mind when you lean down and kisses him. and now youâre the one who dominates, your tongue caresses his lower lip, seeking for entrance, and he opens his mouth obediently, letting you deepen the kiss. he holds your hips to ground himself because the way you call yourself mommy does something with his sanity. and heâs oh so well-known confidence.
playboy!satoru whimpers when you start to grind against his erection. itâs not enough and more than enough at the same time. he wants nothing but slide his dick in to feel your warm walls squeezing him tight, heâs sure heâll be more than pleased. but at the same time, heâs already on the edge. thereâs just something in your attitude that he canât quiet put his finger on.
âyouâre doing great, baby, youâre such a good boy for your mommy,â you whispers in his ear and thatâs when he naturally breaks. âtell me, are you my good boy?â
playboy!satoru blushes profusely because of your words. he feels a pleasant warm in his lower abdomen, his confidence is completely ruined. but heâs as stubborn as mule because he doesnât answer you immediately. he lets you touch him. he lets you grind against his erection, faster and faster, to the point he can feel the wet patch from your mixed juices on his jeans. he lies there, completely undone by your actions, but heâs too prideful to admit that heâs indeed your good boy at this moment.
playboy!satoru who doesnât expect that you meet his silence (heâs not silent because he actually canât stop needy sounds that fall from his lips with every move of your hips) with the clicking of your tongue. and he certainly doesnât expect that your palm cups his neck, squeezing it enough to make him roll back his eyes from pleasure. god, roles has changed, hasnât they? usually heâs the one who chokes women, but now he gets this type of treatment, and he doesnât mind if youâre the one who choke him.
âi canât hear you, baby. donât you want to cum?â you ask innocently, titling your head and looking at him attentively.
playboy!satoru opens his eyes wide, horrified by the mere thought of it. damn, he could easily flip you on your back and fuck you. but he doesnât want too. his body feels tense yet numb at the same time. he doesnât want to take control this time. he wants to be controlled because he canât fight against the way you treats him so gently yet temptingly.
âi wanna cum,â he protests, making a weak attempt to thrusts his hips because, fuck, did you just start to move slower just to tantalize him?
âsay please,â you taunt him, squeezing his neck tighter, but not so tight as to cause pain.
playboy!satoru has never felt so pathetic and aroused at the same time. all he needed to do is open his mouth and say what youâre asking him to say. because judging by the way you squeeze his throat and slow your pace, youâre always ready to stop and leave him unsatisfied. and the worst part is that he wonât do a damn to continue. and itâs not like he actually thinks about it. his thoughts are the mess of desire and lust. he doesnât listen to his arrogance, he listens to his burning need.
âplease, mommy,â he begs, throwing all his dominance out the window. and itâs worth it.
âsucha good boy, cum in your pants for mommy, come on,â you encourage him, speeding up yet again, because youâre more than satisfied with his obedience.
playboy!satoru who does as you say, cumming in his pants like a damn teenager. heâs panting, moaning and begging you to stop because you ride him through his orgasm, making him a little overstimulated. and only when another raspy âmommyâ falls from his lips, you get off his hips and sit comfortably next to him, brushing his sweat-dampened bangs from his face and asking him how he was feeling.
playboy!satoru understands whatâs going on when excitement leaves his body, he sits up straight, watching you for a few seconds, his cheeks flush with embarrassment because what the hell did just happen? wet patch on his jeans feel uncomfortable, he feels uncomfortable. but before you can say anything else, he jumps off your bed and rushes to the exit of your apartment, hearing you shout something about him being able to come to you if he feels lonely.
playboy!satoru who tries to forget that night, but he canât deny one thing. he liked calling you mommy.
gojo satoruâs guide to forcing a confession out of the girl you like (18+)
âhey, this might be a weird question but do you like me?â
satoruâs buried balls-deep inside you as he says it, voice casual like heâs asking you what you want for dinner after, or commenting on the weather outside, as he so often does when heâs in the middle of rearranging your guts. the annoying grin plastered on his face seems to almost stretch wider, and you truly believe he must enjoy flustering you more than he enjoys the sex itself.
âw-what?â you splutter, eyes flying open instantly. mere moments ago he had been whispering the filthiest things in your ear, hips snapping into you like he was trying to fuck the living daylights out of you â and now, this? again?
itâs far from the first time. in fact, heâd asked you the same question just recently, albeit at a more decent location â in his car, hands lazily drumming on the steering wheel after youâd both finished. and then after youâd quickly brushed him off and denied him an answer, heâd asked you again the next week, long limbs sprawled out on your couch and mouth stuffed full with some cavity-inducing candy.
âitâs a yes or no question, sweetheart,â satoru hums. âno need to overthink it.â his thrusts slow, then come to a complete halt as he holds your gaze, azure eyes bright and expectant.
âgojo,â you hiss, making a weak attempt at shoving his shoulder. but heâs got you pinned down and spread open, and when you try to move the bastard only sheathes his cock deeper inside of you. âyou canât just ask me that in the middle ofâ in the middle ofââ
âsure i can,â he quips, entirely undeterred. then he leans down, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, lips brushing your jaw. âseems like a good time. i mean, you sound like you like me,â he murmurs, giving a lazy roll of hips, cock hitting deeper than it already is and pulling a whine straight from your lips. âand you sure feel like you do.â
before you can think of anything to say, your body betrays you with another desperate clench around him. your brain short-circuits, eyes squeezing shut again as you whimper his name. satoru immediately stills, and you would smack the smug grin plastered on his face off if you could manage it.
but his cheshire-cat smile seems to soften when he notices the quiver of your bottom lip, the frown creeping itâs way on your face; the edges of his mouth tilting into something you donât quite recognise â something careful, maybe â and he leans down, hips still pressed flushed against yours.
âokay, okay,â he relents. âyou donât have to answer if you really donât want to. i justâŚâ his breath is hot against your cheek when he laughs, a tiny, self-conscious huff. âi just keep asking because i really like you. like⌠a lot. and you keep running away from me, so i figured this would be a good time toââ
âof course i like you, satoru you fucking idiotââ you cut him off with the most frustrated groan one can possibly manage with a cock shoved so deep inside you. âi was justââ
i was just afraid.
âi justââ your voice falters then, dipping into something a tad more vulnerable. âi just didnât know if you were serious about whatever this isââ you emphasise your point with a vague gesture to the tangle of your limbs, your naked bodies pressed together, and the clothes strewn across the floor. âi mean, itâs not like weâve exactly talked about it, either.â
satoruâs brows furrow (rather cutely, you might add), and the grin finally slips off his face. âbut of course i am,â he murmurs, almost pouting as he says it. âi think iâve told you that many times.â your eyes flutter shut when he nudges his forehead to yours, the words somehow pressing heavier than the weight of his body on yours or his throbbing cock against your walls.
âsay it,â you whisper, voice hoarse. âjust one more time.â
you donât hear him say it so much as you feel the low rumble of the earnest truth vibrating from his chest into yours, reverberating through the press of his body against yours.
âi like you,â he says. simply, easily â just like all the other times heâs said it, with the same sort of unadulterated courage he faces the world with. âi think i really fucking love you, actually.â
for a moment, your throat tightens up, heart threatening to beat right out of your chest. but before you can muster up the same courage he holds to say those three words back, his grin creeps right back in again â boyish and downright infuriating.
âso i really did have to fuck the truth outta you, huh?â satoru teases, drawing partway out of you before slamming back in with enough force to knock the breath out of your lungs and make you choke on air. âheh. guess i picked a good time, then.â
you donât get to say it back just yet, the words halted by the orgasm that quickly rips through your body as his thrusts pick up, leaving you trembling and writhing under him. but those three words will slip from your mouth at a much later time, long after the both of you have finally managed to put a label on what you are.
not during sex, not during the heat of the moment. no, it happens in the middle of something much more mundane â when youâre pouring excessive amounts of sugar into the coffee youâre making for him, his laugh as warm as the sunlight that spills through the open windows.
youâre no longer afraid â they tumble out of you softly, almost without thought, the three words light and easy on your tongue, like theyâve simply been waiting to be said. i love you, yâknow.
when it finally happens, satoru doesnât tease. thereâs no grin, no smugness tugging at his lips. not even a single playful remark. he just gives you a soft, steady smile, eyes bright like youâve just handed him the world.
a/n: i may have unintentionally made a fwb!series with all these drabbles lol. what can i say, iâm a sucker for this trope⌠find fwb!suguru here and fwb!nanami here
ę° hard thoughts ęą ŕ¨ŕ§ 1.7k ŕ¨ŕ§ l.fl x afab!reader
warnings: service dom!felix, fingering, orgasm control (?), edging but not too much, reader is stressed and felix is the sweetest person on earth [probably missed some]
âď¸ ŕźâ§âË. Is this self-indulgent? idk maybe. Did I crash out while writing this? yes. Am I currently obsessed with Lee fucking Yongbok? what do you think. Stream Ceremony.
Reblogs and feedbacks are always and highly appreciated!
Š filmsbyun ââ please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.
Felix always made it a point to remind you that he was, without question, the kind of boyfriend who left no room for doubt about how deeply he cared for you.
There were moments when his presence felt almost otherworldly, as if he had been carved out of some impossible kindness and dropped into your life when you needed him most. From the day he walked into your life, your days had been painted with warmth and security, threaded through with laughter in the smallest of moments, and steadied by the gentle way he shared your burdens whenever they threatened to tip you over. He was attentive in a way that never felt smothering, devoted in a way that made you ache, because he always seemed to notice when the strain in your shoulders grew too heavy or when the light behind your eyes began to dim under the pressure you placed upon yourself.
He told you, more than once, that he never minded picking up the pieces of your long hours, that he wanted to be the one who smoothed the edges of your day until you could finally breathe again. And when he said it, he never looked at you with pity or hesitation but only that warm gaze that told you he meant every word.
Point further made as that very devotion had taken shape in the way he coaxed you apart on the bed, thighs shivering against the sheets. He was settled neatly between your spread knees, the dark strands of his hair falling into his face as he leaned back on his heels, his palm pressed with care to the plush of your thigh. The gentlest circles of his thumb traced into your skin whenever you gasped, as though grounding you through each wave of sensation.
Two of his fingers moved inside you with a pace that felt maddening, tips brushing that tender place that tore helpless arches from your spine. And every time your voice fractured on half-formed words, a plea tangled with fatigue, the heel of his hand pressed down over your clit, urging you to keep talking even as your body begged to fold into the pleasure instead.
You had a particularly bad experience with your professor that day. For someone like you, who poured hours into textbooks until the words blurred, who outlined every concept until it lived in the marrow of your bones, the score had felt like a betrayal. You didnât deserve that score and most importantly, it didnât make any sense. You studied diligently and fuck, you knew the content of the course like the back of your hand. So there was no way for her to grade your paper like that other than possibly having personal vendetta against you. You were, safe to say, devastated.Â
Meeting up with Felix told him exactly what happened because the look on your face was unlike anything heâs seen before. He insisted you talk to him, to give him every piece of your anger and disappointment so he could hold it for you. He had promised, in that low and earnest voice of his, that he would take care of you through it all. You hadnât thought he meant it like this. But you found yourself far from complaining now.
Your bare lower half contrasted sharply with the fabric still covering him, the difference heightening every sensation. Between gasps and ragged inhales, the words you had been swallowing all day spilled free at last, jagged and raw, and Felix caught them just as he caught the tension in your body â his touch coaxing you toward bliss even as he gave space for your voice.
âBaby,â he murmured, as though speaking too loudly might shatter you further, âyou push yourself harder than anyone I know. If she couldnât see that, then sheâs blind to what youâre capable of.â His hand moved in sync with his words, a curl of fingers matched with the press of his palm, as though proving he knew the exact place where your strength faltered and where he could remind you it still existed.
âItâs likeââ you rasped, arching slightly as his fingers adjusted, curling just so, ââshe hates me. I donât even know what I ever did to piss her off.âÂ
Felix smiled, his voice a low hum, steady where yours faltered. âSweetheart, you know you worked hard. She graded you unjustly, it wasnât your fault.â
The words almost undid you more than his hand did. Your sigh broke loose in a tremor trying to keep the rant alive even as your hips rolled unconsciously to chase more friction. âItâs not fair. I studied until I couldnât keep my eyes open. IâI knew every answer. She had no rightââ your sentence fractured into a moan when his thumb rolled against your clit, your body tightening under the push of pleasure and rage all at once, ââstill marked me down.â
He slowed immediately, drawing the pace out so carefully it forced your body to hang in that unbearable space between ache and relief. Your voice faltered into a needy whimper, and the way he looked at you in that moment made it clear â he would let you rant and curse the world as long as you needed, and he would hold you in place, drawing your pleasure out as long as it took.
âFelixâahhâyes, yes, pleaseââ Your cry caught in your throat, your head falling back against the pillow, strands of hair sticking to your damp temples. The sight pulled a groan low in his chest, his jaw tightening as though restraining himself, but he refused to let this become about him. Tonight, this was for you.
He swiftly hooked your thighs over his own, adjusting you higher against him until the angle granted his fingers a new depth, pressing into you with a control that had you clutching at the sheets with desperate fists. The fresh wave of sensation tore a broken whine from your throat and above you, Felixâs mouth curved faintly, eyes tracking every micro-expression of your face.
âYouâre doing so well,â Felix breathed, his palm flattening over your lower stomach, the gentle pressure grounding you against the rush of sensation that threatened to sweep you away. âDonât stop now, love. Keep talking to me. I want to hear all of it.âÂ
When your breath hitched, sentences stuttered as you tried to cling to coherence while your body shuddered beneath his touch, and when each time your voice wavered, he slowed the pace of his fingers, savoring the tension that built in you, letting your body ride the crest of sensation until the intensity lingered just under the surface. He wanted to hear you purge the bitterness from your chest, to let it tumble out raw and cracked while his hand guided you closer to release.
âI d-dontât want one bad grade to define who I am,â you gasped, the words clawing their way free. The rush in your veins flared hotter as Felix resumed his pace, his fingers stroking deeper with a steady insistence that made your thighs quake around him. You bit down on your bottom lip fighting to keep the torrent of words from dissolving too quickly. âI know I can do betterâif I retake it with another professorââ Your words faltered as his thumb rolled over your clit, sending your hips jolting upward. âIâll prove it. I have to prove it.â
He knew you were nearing your rantâs end, and he smiled warmly to encourage you. âThatâs my girl,â he whispered, his voice carrying pride as tangible as his touch. âYou donât have to prove anything to anyoneâbut if itâs to yourself, then I know youâll do it. You always do.â His thumb swept over you again, coaxing another strangled sound from your throat, and he leaned closer as though his words could slip into your mouth with your gasps. âNow, let go for me. Youâve said everything you needed. Let your body speak the rest.â
Your rant dwindled at last, the sharp edges worn down until only soft gasps and ragged sighs filled the space. That was when he gave in, when his fingers surged deeper and quicker, carrying you headlong into the release you had been chasing since he first laid you down. The muscles of your abdomen fluttered wildly when he angled just right, every movement drawing out cracked pleas from your lips until they were no longer words but sounds of surrender. Wet, obscene echoes filled the air, each slick motion between you accompanied by your broken cries as your thighs clamped helplessly around his wrist.
âGood, let it all go,â he encouraged further, his thumb circling harder against your clit. âYou donât have to hold anything back. Iâve got you.â
The words were a fine thread, and with them you broke.
Your body arching sharply as release ripped through you, hips jerking uncontrollably as the flood of sensation drowned out thought. You buried your face into the sheets, trembling, your voice pitching between fractured moans and the desperate chant of his name, syllables dissolving into incoherent sound as you shattered against his hand.
When the trembling at last began to ebb, Felix withdrew his fingers with a care that made you shiver all over again. He lifted the glistening fingers to his mouth, tongue swept them clean without shame, tasting you with a languid satisfaction. His eyes locked on your spent figure sprawled across the bed. It wasnât hunger that marked his gaze but a deep, indulgent savoring, as though your release had what marked his own.
Your chest heaved with each breath, your body still buzzing with the echoes of what he had drawn out of you, and when he finally leaned down to hold you close you melted against him. The bitterness of the day now replaced with a profound, lingering satisfaction.
He brushed damp strands of hair back from your face, pressing a kiss to your temple, his lips soft against overheated skin.
âBetter now?â he asked, his voice hushed, almost reverent.
âMuch better,â you whispered, your hand pressing weakly against his chest in gratitude, your voice softened into a sigh that carried both relief and devotion.
He pulled you closer, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head, letting you rest in the knowledge that every word, every moan, every broken plea had been met with nothing but his care and patience, drawn out of you slowly until there was nothing left but release and the solace of his arms.
summary: He's your man, yours and yours alone for the rest of times. It seems that some people didn't get the memo though, so it's up to you to put a clear stamp on your dear Yunho. Make it a red one so they can't miss it.
tags: possessiveness, facefucking, deepthroating, jealousy, marking, spitting in mouth, lots of spit actually, cock worship, slight degradation, praise kink, yunho has a big dick
wc: 2.6k
(a/n: i loveeee when you can tell which yunho pics gave me fic inspo #predictable. i swear this was supposed to be a drabble uhhh if you can tell no you don't!)
ăÂťâââĄââÂŤă
Thereâs nothing and no one in this world that can make you care enough not to slam the door to your suite shut as you pin your husband against it. The violent sound that the banging caused wouldâve startled you and him if it werenât being drowned by the ones being produced from both your mouths at that moment.
Your lips are clashing against Yunhoâs as if theyâre both engaged in a battle neither of you have any desire in losing. Thereâs not a room for mercy, when one comes up for air, the other pounces right at the opportunity. You bite at his bottom lip, hard. He groans into your face.
While heâs distracted you take that chance to rid him of his suit jacket, shoving it off of Yunhoâs figure as if the piece of clothing had personally offended you. On his side, Yunhoâs hands cluelessly roam across your body, exploring your curves, searching for just anything to hold onto.
You pull away from the kiss first, not to raise the white flag, but to admire the picture in front of you. Hands firm on his shoulders to keep him in place. Yunhoâs eyes heavy, blinking the fog away a couple times, his cheeks dusted with heat and that faint red hue, and his lips. Glistening with your shared saliva, bruised, and so so red. Red from the tiny amount of blood, but mostly from your lipstick.
When you applied your makeup before going to Yunhoâs companyâs 30th anniversary dinner party, you never expected to transfer so much of it to him by the end of the night. Dark crimson stains all over his lips down to his chin, some smudged with the saliva that slipped out the gap between both lips.
Thoroughly marked.
No.
Not enough.
You need to leave more, doesnât matter if most of the color has faded from your lips, you needâhaveâto mark him to the point those girls from his office canât see him without also seeing the shape of your lips and teeth imprinted on him.
Those, not very bright, girls from his office who thought it was such a brilliant idea to have a raunchy chat in the bathroom when thereâs a company dinner happening outside. To share their âcollectively agreed uponâ fantasies on how they wanted to ride their bossâ fingers and face, on the bed technique of a married man. Your fucking husband.
Poor Yunho, not even aware that heâs been objectified by his subordinates, being the man that he is he would most definitely not catch on to anything off and still treat them like how a good superior would. Thatâs fine, thatâs why youâre here, so you can keep him safe from unwanted, distasteful advances.
You carry that duty by returning your lips to his, softer this time. Then you venture down to his jaw, nipping at it before going lower, heading towards his adamâs apple. A whimper escapes Yunhoâs throat when you suck and lick along the column.
As youâre doing that you keep track with the amount of stain your lipstick managed to leave, and theyâre still rather visible. You hum in satisfaction. You pop the button of his collar off and notice a spot of pale red on it, from when you kissed too low and your lower lip brushed the fabric by accident.
You bite your lip at the thought of him wearing this exact dress shirt straight to work the next morning. Once the buttons are undone you begin to realize your idea of creating a red path down his torso.
Watching your head descend, Yunho stiffens, âBaby whatâŚâ Heâs not given another second to continue when your lips meet with his collarbone.
You offer a teasing bite to the skin before moving on to his chest. You kick off your 5 inch heels when they start to feel like a nuisance to your movement, sighing when you finally feel the ground under.
Every kiss is followed with an audible smack sound, it echoes throughout the room, reminding him of who the cause of his unraveling is. You begin unbuckling his belt when youâve reached his lower abdomen, lips pressing extra hard now to make the most out of the remaining stain. Now on your knees, you look up at Yunho only to catch him already staring at you and at all the stamps youâve left.
With the belt out of the way, his hands move swiftly to assist you in removing his pants. In the meantime you reach for your purse that youâve long abandoned on the floor since you entered the room, fishing your lipstick out of it.
You hear Yunho calling your name but your response dies as soon as you turn your head and is met with his bulge, just a hairâs breadth from your face. Its clear outline is tempting you to prolong the game by sucking him through his underwear, soaking the material up, but you instantly shake that thought to focus on the mission at hand. So you take your husbandâs hand and pass the tube into his grip.
Your lipstick seems like a miniature in his big hand. âYou want me toâŚâ The question is suspended in the air, leaving you to finish for him.
You nod your head, batting your eyelashes innocently. Your palm splays against his cotton briefs, warming up his hard on, caressing it up and down.
âHelp me touch up my makeup?â Tilting your head, you put on the sweetest smile as you plead.
The air is still for a while until Yunho finally stirs to uncap the tube. He hunches and holds you steady with his other hand gripping your jaw. Then you feel wax gliding along your flesh, starting from the bottom lip.
You donât tear your eyes away from Yunhoâs, as if stuck in an inevitable battleâagain. Waiting on whoâs going to snap first. Having your mouth open as he colors your lips with such attention feels like an added challenge to you. If not for the fact that youâre close to the finish line, youâd have jumped on this chance to take his thumb into your mouth. Knowing your husband, the struggle might just be mutual, with how much he loves your mouth. Right about now heâs probably itching to just stick his thumbâor his cock, foreplay be damnedâin it.
Heated seconds later, the vivid crimson color is back on your lips, the lipstick recklessly thrown to the side. Yunho cups your face to admire his craft, not a smidge of pigment outside the line of your lips.
âFuck.â His jaw is tight as he pulls down his briefs like it would burn his skin the longer itâs worn. His cock accidentally slaps your cheek with the abrupt movement, you recover quick, holding up the heavy length in your smaller palm. The last destination of your red lips shaped trail.
You place the first kiss on his tip, making a show of pouting your lips as well.
Above you, Yunho only chuckles in a deep tone, finding you adorable even in a situation like this. His hand rests on the back of your head, not to push but rather to ground himself. Heâs silent as he leaves you to do your job, which is to repeat the same thing you did before. Not sparing any inch of him unmarked.
Yunhoâs eyes follow the way you peck his member from the head down the shaft. Just a pair of lips, no tongue involvedânot yet. You take great care to tend to every vein. When you make it to the base, lips smushing against his pubic area, you lift his cock to mouth at one of his balls. Rolling the flesh with your tongue in addition. You hear a breathy curse come out of Yunhoâs lips, then shift to the other side so it can get the same attention from you. Blurry red smears all across his dick, made glossy with the help of your spit, your body tingles from delight.
âBeautiful, baby,â he moans out a praise, whether at you or your work you donât know. He tucks the strand of hair obstructing your face behind your ear, petting your head afterwards. The moment you deem this body part of his marked enough, your hand encircles the girth and begins jerking it up and down, wetting it with a sufficient amount of drool.
The member feels hot within your grasp, you canât resist the urge to lap up the precum thatâs been dripping continuously ever since you first kissed him on the dick. Tongue sliding down from his slit to suckle on the spot right under his head. Thatâs when the restraints are finally broken.
Yunho roughly yanks your head away and growls, âEnough with the games already.â
He already has you shoved down his length before you can get a word out, a groan leaves your throat at the intrusion. You think your husband should be grateful that you like it rough otherwise heâd have gotten bit on the dick for this kind of treatment. Actually, that idea sounds quite intriguing.
âThe red looks a lot better like this,â he assesses you with a condescending smirk, âwrapped around my cock.â
Your thighs clench together at his words, at the same time Yunho pushes you further down his girth with two hands. Tears begin to well up in your eyes, fingers clawing at his thighs as the stretch goes on. Despite the strain you extend your tongue and lay it flat against the underside.
You let him use your mouth for as long as he pleases. The hallway currently rings with a mix of his ragged moaning and the wet sounds of gagging. Drool dribbles down the floor, coating every inch of his cock. Youâre pretty sure the stains are washing away and that your lower face looks an absolute mess. You donât have it in you to care enough about those things though, not when Yunho has your nose pressed against his pubes, holding you down to feel the constriction of your throat around his thick head. Your eyes close off while you allow your thoughts to fly somewhere far.
That moment doesnât last long because then he forcefully tugs you away, âYou got me dirty,â following the click of his tongue, he pulls your head, making you crane backwards, âopen your mouth.â
You heed his command with no protests, opening your mouth wide, tongue slightly peeking out. Immediately Yunho spits inside it, the shot lands straight on your tongue and some already sinking down to your throat. Without needing to be told to, you swallow his saliva with a smile.
That gains you an approving hum, âClever girl⌠My pretty little whore.â
His thumb slithers across your cheek. Stopping at your bottom lip, Yunho plays with the plump flesh, rubbing side to side and pulling at it.
âLook how messy you are right now. You know I put in quite the effort reapplying your lipstick for you, right?â He fake sulks.
âYet you went ahead and wasted it on me, my body, my cock.â Hypocrite. His thumb is literally wiping the pigment off your lips, dirtying your face even more.
âYouâre proud of yourself?â
Nodding, you nibble at the digit before speaking up, âI need you marked so people know not to touch whatâs mine.â
âAhâŚâ Yunho exclaims, seemingly understanding your intent at last. His hand makes its way back to your head whilst the other one grabs onto his shaft. Proceeding to slap you a couple times with it, your own saliva sticking to your pinkish cheek, âThatâs all you had to say, honey.â
He feeds the head to your mouth and you catch it right away, cheeks narrowing as you suck, âI wouldâve saved you the trouble if I had known,â he states, âI wouldâve let you drag me to the bathroom back then and mark me up right there.â
Now heâs the one moving, driving his hips into your face and slapping your chin with his balls in the process. The sounds of smacking are thunderous in your ears, preventing you from hearing your own thoughts.
Smack. âWouldâve shown off those marks to everyone at that party. Let them know how much my woman wants me all for herself.â
Smack. âAnd how much I want her too. Youâre the only one, lovely.â
Smack. âDonât want anybody else⌠Only want you taking my cock, looking at me, messing me up⌠You hear me?â His palms are warm against your cheeks.
You peer at him through your eyelashes, blinking away the tears so nothing blurs his features. His gaze a blend between desire and adoration. Having that look be directed at you never gets easier by the years, it feels like a good kind of suffocation.
In that time nothing else matters other than getting Yunho to cum down your throat, or on your face, youâre not picky. This possessive play is fun but youâre itching to just get him inside your pussy, which has been pathetically clenching around nothing since you got on your knees. You take the initiative to bob your head, meeting his thrusts. âShit⌠Thatâs it, such a good slut.â
When his tempo starts to stutter, you speed up your movement. âIâm so close⌠AhâFuck!â
It comes at the speed of light. The moment you graze your fangs against a protruding vein, he shoots his cum straight down your throat, causing you to choke around his cock. He withdraws out of your mouth immediately, some of his release spilling on your face as a result.
âGodâŚâ Coming down the high, Yunho watches the way his dick twitches over your face. Sweat matting your bangs, dark tinted tear tracks across your cheeks, nose attaining a faint red shadeâcute. The lower part of it however, takes his breath away. Thereâs little to no trace of crimson on your lips anymore, the color having entirely sullied the area around it. Topped with your saliva and his cum dripping down your lips, you make the perfect picture of depravity.
âTake a picture, itâll last longer.â
Yunho snaps out of his trance after hearing you, laughing fondly at your snark, âI would but my phone is in my pants.â He crouches to admire you up close. Using his thumb, he gathers the leftover cum and feeds it to you, popping it out once youâve swallowed.
âI mightâve made you even dirtier than me actually,â he says sheepishly. You can tell from his gaze though that heâs very proud about it.
You roll your eyes, âYeah I canât exactly beat you at the territorial department.â Recalling the one time Yunho left you covered in a worrying amount of bitemarks and bruises, it terrified your friends so much to the point they had to pull you both over for an âinvestigationâ. Though it was pretty funny seeing Yunho get an earful from them.
âMm, you still need a lot of learning to do from me.â He grins all smug.
âYeah?â Leaning forward, you circle his neck with your arms. Lips pressing right under his chin and nipping at the skin. You whisper, âCare to teach me your ways?â
Sparing not a single minute after, Yunho lifts you off the floor with his sturdy arms, inducing a squeal out of you. Leaving the hallway and heading towards the bedroom, you brace yourself for a long night of defiling and claiming each other. And also for the possible judgemental look you two are gonna get from your friends the next morning.
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âjust the tip.â need i say more?
caleb canât keep his hands off you, and vice versa. please mind the warnings!
â .áâ§ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)
â â§.Ë GENRE: smut, porn with no plot, porn with feelings
â .áâ§ WORD COUNT: 5.7k
â â§.Ë WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, coercion (both from mc and caleb), slight manipulation, somewhat dubcon, lack of restraint, use of âgege,â technically first time (not canon compliant), pussyjob, no-condom, no pulling out, marking and possessive behavior, let me reiterate coercionÂ
â .áâ§ LINKS: ao3
â â§.Ë A/N: please read the content warnings. if coercion or dubcon makes you uncomfortable, maybe skip this one! but i think itâs on the milder side. the desire and consent is evident.
this got really long so fast idk how it happened. iâll be honest, it was really hard finishing this because iâve lacked motivation. the state of the fandom has been rough and it makes me uninspired. if it sucks im sorry im honestly not very happy with this writing. hopefully its not too bad though!
THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.
⌠. Ë â§ .á Ë nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ⌠. Ë â§ .á Ë
You should have known it was a ridiculous idea.
You should have known there was no way you and Caleb could keep your hands off of each other.Â
âC-Calebâ!â you gasp, thighs clenching as you straddled his lap. His lips are firmly latched onto your pulse, no doubt purposely leaving a deep and visible hickey there.Â
Caleb groans at the way you cry his name, so painfully hard that his entire body trembles beneath you. Your name spills from his lips, desperate and pained.Â
âSh-shit,â he groans, breath tickling your ear, âO-Oh GodâŚâ His forceful fingers dig into your hips, controlling your movements against his clothed erection.
âS-Slow, remember?â you murmur into his thick hair, though you make no moves to stop him or yourself, âWeâre taking it slow.â
Caleb ruts his hips upward, unable to keep himself from your touch, âI know babyâI know. Iâm trying.âÂ
You giggle breathlessly, kissing his throbbing neck. You knew he was trying his hardest. Youâd both agreed to âtake things slow.â Not because you were virgins, because you werenât. Nor was it because you werenât ready, or he wasnât ready, you both were. Maybe too ready, with the way you guys were going at it like horny teenagers on your couch.
But, amidst the landscape of your changing relationship, youâd wanted to tread carefully, fearful of what could happen if this all imploded. If maybe you werenât meant to be more than the relationship youâd held all your lives.Â
You didnât want to let the lust take over and distract you from something youâd wanted nearly all your life. Caleb.
You honestly couldnât be sure if Caleb had agreed to it because he actually agreed with your reasoning or simply because, for his entire life, heâd had trouble saying no to you.
In any case, he agreed and heâd been a wonderful sport about it.Â
But it was fucking painful. Itâd been a few weeks since those deeply hidden feelings had come tumbling out of both your lips. You werenât sure if you were always this way, or if this was the result of years of denial and restraint, but it was nearly impossible for you to keep your hands off him, and him you.Â
But that didnât mean you hadnât found other ways to indulge in each other. Your cheeks heat as you recall the vivid memories of other things youâd done on this very couch. The days he visited Linkon, or you visited Skyhaven, were filled with lots of making out and heavy petting. But never more than that.Â
âW-We should stop,â Caleb pants through clenched teeth, burying his face into your shoulder, âNow. Before things go further.â
âY-Yeah, we should,â you agree, but you make absolutely no move to climb off his lap. In fact, your hips continue rhythmically rolling against him, making him throw his head back with a strangled moan.
âFuckâyouâre killing me,â he whispers, kissing your templeânot trusting himself to taste your lips right now.Â
âWe can still do other things, remember?â you murmur, fingers already finding his belt, hesitating before moving further. Caleb curses under his breath.Â
âGodâŚThe things you do to me,â he mutters lowly, his eyes hooded and swirling darkly as he speaks again.
âOkay, show me what you want to do then, princess.âÂ
You bite your lip, knowing Caleb has given you full reignsâwanting, needing you to take control, lest he take things too far. He couldnât trust himself around you and needed your guidance to know what was too much. Â
Taking a deep breath, you try to calm your hyperactive nerves. Suddenly, under Calebâs intense and curious eyes, you felt shy. While you had held him in your hands before, youâd never gone farther than thatâthan an innocent little handjob or some innocent clit play.Â
Caleb hesitates before leaning back, giving you more space between your bodies so that you can do whatever it is youâre planning.Â
You try your best not to gawk when you see how thick Caleb is in your fingers. Youâd seen it before, but it was impressive every time. Calebâs head is thrown back, his Adamâs apple bobbing as you give him a few languid pumps.
âC-Christ,â Caleb growls. His entire body trembles, fighting with himself to not thrust his hips into your palm.Â
âJust like that, princess,â Caleb gasps for air. Heâd experienced your fingers a few times before, and heâd never tire of it. Everything about you was soft, warm, and perfect.
Watching Calebâs face contort in pleasure, feeling his plentiful pre-cum spilling over your fingers, makes your own core ache with desire, the familiar and uncomfortable feeling of your panties smearing against your wet core making you squirm.Â
You wanted to feel good too. Â
Calebâs eyes widen when you wriggle out of your shorts, leaving you in nothing other than your soaked lace underwear. His heart pounds so forcefully that his ears start to ring.Â
âW-What are youââ
Heâs cut off by his own moan when you give him an unsteady jerk, struggling to do both things at once.
âS-Sorry,â you giggle nervously. Calebâs fingers itch to each out and touch your sweet spot, like he had several times before. But before he can even open his mouth to ask, youâre releasing him from your fingers and scooting closer.Â
Calebâs mind races a mile a minute, hypnotized by your glistening folds, mere inches away from his own leaking cock.Â
âS-Seriously, what are you doing?â he chokes out your name, doing everything he can to not moveâto not mold himself against you. He could practically feel the heat radiating off of you and he wanted it.Â
âTrying something new,â you whisper, taking the plunge before you lose your courage and pressing right against him. His hardened shaft parts your lips, your body enveloping him without penetrating,Â
Caleb lets out a string of expletives that would make their grandmother roll in her grave. He grips your hips, stilling your movements.Â
âWhatâhahâhappened to taking it slow?â Caleb demands, unsure how far youâre willing to go right now. If it was up to him heâd lift you and impale you on his cock right then and there. And he could. He really could.Â
âWe still a-are,â you insist, already fighting against his strong grip on you. At that, Caleb gulpsâsuddenly understanding what it is youâre trying to do.Â
Honestly, he doesnât know if heâs strong enough. To resist the temptation of what heâs been fantasizing about for years, especially when it was right there. Grinding against him.Â
But his hands have a mind of their own and he guides your hips in a slow and tortuous roll against him, his cock sitting between your warm lips, fitting against you like a damn puzzle. Â
âC-CalebâŚâ you choke, your vision going white at the delicious friction between your bodies. You hold onto his shoulders while your back arches, your rhythm growing frantic against him.Â
Caleb moans your name, the sound broken and beautiful on his tongue, âJ-Jesusâharder. Princess, please.â
You whimper, quite literally bouncing on his lap now. With every movement, you make sure your clit gets to feel the throbbing veins along his thick length. Caleb looks up at you, glassy-eyed and staring at you with a swirl of conflict, adoration, and hunger.Â
âF-Feels so good,â you gasp, eyes rolling back as you imagine how heâd feel inside you.Â
Calebâs fingers dig painfully into your hips as he imagines what would happen if he shifted, just slightly, he could slip right into you. Feel your wet warm tight walls around where he needed you most.Â
No. He promised you youâd take things slowly. He couldnât do that.
A fresh wave of guilt washes over him as he tries to push away those desires. The quickly dwindling rational part of his brain speaks for him and he stutters, âM-Maybe we should stop now. Before IââÂ
You whine at the thought of stopping, never quite having felt a pleasure like this before, âCalebâplease. N-Not yet.â
You watch Caleb fighting with himself internally, the turmoil written all over his face. Feeling cheeky, you pull out your favorite and most effective weapon.Â
âPlease, Gege?â you murmur into his ear, still riding against himâeffectively giving him his first pussyjob.Â
Caleb stiffens under you, his breathing quickening at your words, âFuckâyouâre such a spoiled brat.â You grin and kiss his jaw teasingly.Â
Whenever you called him that, it unraveled him. And you knew that.Â
He starts to rock you against his lap again. He curses himself for not being able to say no to you, for still being so weak to you, especially when you called him that. But deep down, he doesnât want to stop. He never wants to stop.Â
With every millisecond that passes like this, Calebâs self-control wavers until it dwindles to the point of no return.Â
âJust a little bit mnnghâmore then.â
You nod vigorously, agreeing urgently. He watches you, stars in his eyes, one hand reaching to grip the back of your skull and gently tug on your hair, âYouâre killing me.â
As your movements grow sloppier and more desperate, the thick head of his cock begins to catch along your movements. The sticky arousal smears against your thighs and abdomen, the lewd sounds making your head spin.Â
Caleb is mesmerized, watching you ride his lap. It gets increasingly more intense, the movements becoming more and more dangerous. Every roll comes impossibly close to penetrating, his tip getting caught at your entrance with every thrust.Â
He could swear you were torturing him on purpose. He couldnât take much more of this. Not if he wanted to keep from lifting you and slamming you down onto his cock right then and there.Â
Fuckâno. I canât. We promised. Slow.Â
He holds your hips firmly, but is unable to force himself to stop you completely. In fact, it felt like pulling teeth forcing his words out, âNo more princess. If we keep going, I canât guaranteeâŚâ
You bite your lip at the clear warning in his wordsâconflicted with yourself. The idea of stopping nowâŚit physically pained you.Â
âWe shouldnât,â you whisper, your words contradicting your actions as you purposely drag his engorged head against your entrance, so close to slipping right in.Â
You were the one who wanted to wait. Why couldnât you stop?Â
âWe shouldnât,â he parrots, wrapping his thick arms around your back. His hips are moving against your thighs now, thrusting himself between your dripping lipsâacutely aware how close he was to penetrating. He could literally angle one degreeâŚand heâd be right inside you. That thought actively haunted him.
Youâd whittled his restraint down until there was none left. And now, the roles were reversed.Â
Now, he was begging.Â
âI know we shouldnât,â he murmurs into your shoulder, kissing your collar tenderly, âBut fuck baby, I want to so badly.âÂ
It was doable when you were the one begging and Caleb was the one being level-headed and smart. But now?
This wasnât good.
âI-I want more,â you admit breathlessly, âButâŚwe saidâŚâ You trail off, honestly unsure what to even say. You wanted it and you were counting on Caleb to stop you.Â
âSlow,â he finishes your words. But instead of stopping, he thrusts slowly, purposely missing and gliding up against your stomach, causing you to convulse against him. His strong hands guide your movements, muscles bulging as he works your body against his own.Â
âCaleeeeb,â you whine, not convincing even yourself. You find yourself losing the fight against desire with every passing second, face contorted in pure pleasure as you both continue to rock into each other.Â
âJust a little?â he whispers lowly, his voice quite literally dripping with temptation, âCouldnât hurt, could it?âÂ
You hesitate, biting your lip and testing his words on your own tongue, âJust a littleâŚ?â
âJust a little, princess,â Caleb reaffirms, nudging you in the direction of pleasure. The guilt gnaws at him, knowing how much you trusted him and still trying to lure you into the wild.Â
But he was too far gone.Â
âI promise.â
Your reluctance fades and you nod slowly, feeling unbearably safe in his holdâdrawn to his reassuring words like a moth to a flame, âO-Okay. JustâŚjust a little. Justââ You nearly cringe as you say the words, but youâre too far gone.
âJust the tip, o-okay?
Calebâs heart skips with a dark excitement, his cock twitching between your soft thighs at the mere thought of breaching your tight perfect body.Â
He gently rolls you over until heâs hovering over you. Holding the base of his erection, he rubs it along your core until he finds your entrance, nearly being sucked in by sheer desire. You glistened beneath his intense gaze, your body practically beckoning him.
God, you were so fucking irresistable.
âYeah, no more than that, Pips,â he reassures, using his cock head to toy with your entrance. He fully intends on sticking to that.Â
But somewhere in the back of his mindâŚhe knows that that might just be wishful thinking.Â
A small part of him knows he should feel guilty, ashamedâknowing he should be the bigger person and stop this. But the look of desperation and arousal on your blushing face fuels his dark desires.Â
Sheâs enjoying this. She wants this.Â
Maybe heâs just seeing what he wants to see, but thatâs all the justification he needs. His hand trembles with excitement as he begins to press into you, his jaw clenched so tight it begins to ache.Â
âW-Wait, should we use a c-condââ you start but whimper abruptly when you feel him starting to stretch you open.
âItâs just the tip, we donât need it,â he reassures you, stroking your hair soothingly, âIâll pull right out. Nothing will happen to you.â
He hardens further when you nod, so trusting and willing.Â
God, he was going to hell.
âJust a little moreâŚâ he chants, almost as if reminding himselfâcautioning himself. He watches as he disappears into your perfect glistening folds, your body trembling beautifully for him.Â
You bury your face into his shoulder, biting down at the feeling of him slowly pushing in, thicker than you thought you could take. Eyes rolling back, your back arches deeplyâlike a bowstring being pulled backâwhen his thick head finally slips into you.Â
âO-Ohâgodâ!â you pant as you struggle to accommodate even just this little of him.Â
Caleb presses his lips into your forehead, his own voice low and shaky, âShhhâjust relax okay? Relax for me.â
You nod, your eyes squeezed shut with both overwhelm and bliss. He was stretching you so unbelievably wide, the sting already becoming addicting.Â
A wave of primal satisfaction washes over him as it sinks in that heâs finally inside you, even if only partially. How many times has he dreamt about this moment, and every single time paled to reality.Â
âY-Youâre so warmâso soft,â he growls, trying to keep himself in check. But you felt so unbelievably tight, gummy walls so damn perfect around just his tip. His mind kept wandering to what itâd feel like if he justâŚsank all the way in.Â
No. He promised.Â
You pull away from Calebâs shoulder to look down between your bodies. His shaft glistens with a combination of your arousals, and sure enoughâonly the tip is hidden and buried inside you.Â
Every muscle in Calebâs body trembles with effort as he forces himself to stay impossibly still. For a brief moment, you both just gaze at the otherâs pleasure clouded faces, everything else fading into the background. The moment feels suspended in time.
âNnnghâŚfeels so g-good Caleb,â you choke out, hips squirming uncontrollably. Caleb swears, using one hand to keep you in place, grip bruising your hip.
Caleb grits out your name, choked and pained, âHahâshit. Princess please stop.â
âI-I canât,â you whine, feeling your back arch all on its own, wanting more of him. Your body ached to feel complete.
Your wriggles cause more of him to slip into you. Calebâs eyes squeeze shut, expletives spewing from his lips. But he makes absolutely no moves to withdraw.
âChrist please y-youâreââ
But he shuts up when your arching body pushes against him, his cock inadvertently sinking in deeper.Â
Yeah, he was not surviving this.Â
Though the both of you had initially agreed on âjust the tip,â when Caleb looked down he realized that nearly half of his cock had disappeared inside you.
Nearly hypnotized by the sight, he canât help but want more. Even though you were taking it slow. Even though he was inside you with no protection.Â
âItâsâŚitâs already half way in, princess,â he whispers, his finger rubbing dizzyingly soothing circles into your thighs, âFuckâŚpleaseâŚlet me justââ
âCalebânnnghâŚâ you gasp when he slides in further, the friction against your sensitive walls making it hard to think straight.Â
âFuckâyouâre sucking me in,â he groans, feeling himself inch closer and closer to you, âI canâtâmâsorryââ
He grips your head, fingers massaging the back of your head bringing you in for a kiss that consumes you whole. As you moan into his hungry lips, he sinks another inch into you. And then another. Another. Another.Â
Youâre unable to protest even if you wanted to, his tongue tangling with yours and occupying you entirely.Â
He only pulls away when heâs fully seated in you, his eyes delirious with ecstasy. He fills you so incredibly full that you can hardly breath, never quite having anyone as well endowed as Caleb. He grabs you by your hips, panting raggedly.
âI couldnât stopâf-fuckâŚIâm sorry,â he mumbles into your temple. You shake your head, squirming against his pelvis, chasing the friction youâd felt as he sank into you, inch by delicious inch.Â
Your mind struggles to reconcile the overwhelming pleasure with your original hesitance, âIâItâsâŚ.Itâs okay. You feelâŚs-so good.â
âYeah? You feel fucking incredible,â he growls, not thrusting but grinding against your own wriggling hips. It makes rational thought nearly impossible.Â
âYouâre driving me insane, princess,â he says, almost cautioning you as your hips squirm tortuously against him.Â
With his cock fully in you now, your mind is an absolute mess of desire and hesitationâand desire was definitely winning. But as you start moving more, Caleb holds you in placeâa dangerous warning swirling in his eyes.
As much as he wanted more, heâd already taken things too far. And if you went any further, he wouldnât be able to stop. And heâd never forgive himself if he hurt you.Â
âNo. Behave.â
You whine sulkily, trying to rut against him, unable to control yourself. The feeling of his cock sliding into your depths was seared into your brain and you wanted to feel it again.Â
Caleb groans with frustration, holding on by a splintering thread, âIâm serious, baby. Any m-more and I canât guarantee Iâll be able to stop.âÂ
âThat I wonât fuck you, right here and now.â
The dark warning in his filthy warning only makes you want to push more.Â
âJ-Just one,â you beg, pouting, âJust once.â
âD-Donât give me that face,â he growls desperately, âDamn itâyou know I canâtââ
When he curses, you whisper, âCaleb, please. We donât have to go all the way. Just one, just onceâplease.â
Calebâs dick, buried deep inside you, twitches with excitement at your begging, âYouâre killing me.â But from the way his hips tremble you can tell your words are quickly eating through his lingering resolve.
âI-Iâm not wearing a condom,â he forces out, using the last bit of his restraint.Â
That wouldnât stop him, but it might stop you.Â
âItâs jusâ one thrust,â you plead, âWe donât need one.â
Calebâs pupils dilate in front of your eyes, his breathing growing increasingly erratic. How could you be this stupidânaive? Offering yourself up to him like this? Letting him do this, much less with no protection. Letting him feel you, bare and raw.
Didnât you know heâd fucking devour you?
âChristâokay just one. And then we stop.â
You nod eagerly, sitting up on your elbows so you can watch the space between your bodies. Slowly, wanting to savor the âsingleâ thrust youâve agreed on, Caleb pulls out, only his tip is inside your warmth. The sight is so damn filthy your toes curl.Â
Your eyes roll back at the friction, âC-CalebâŚplease.â
At your strangled plea, Caleb thrusts back into youâa perfect mix of rough but sensual. It knocks the breath out of you, every nerve ending in your body seeming to pop with fireworks.
âSh-ShitâY-Youâre so tightâŚâ Caleb groans, sweating from the sheer amount of restraint it takes to not repeat that single actionâover and over and over.
Forcing yourself to see clearly, your eyes widen when you see Caleb nearly hyperventilating above you.Â
âCaleb?âÂ
Caleb looks straight into your eyes, his irises dark and dangerous. Gone was the soft sunset hues, replaced with a near-black indigo that stared back at you like predators would appraise its prey. Your eyes widen, skin tingling at the unfiltered animalistic energy in his eyes.Â
âI-IâŚâ
You gasp when you feel Calebâs hips moving, withdrawing a torturous inch before thrusting shallowly back into you.Â
âNnnghnâw-wait,â you writhe with pleasure at the small motion, âCaleb, we saidââ
âI know what we said,â Caleb groans, cutting you off, âI know we shouldnât, but Godââ
He thrusts shallowly again, actively losing himself to the feeling of your perfect body, dragging you down the abyss with him.Â
âCaleb,â you gasp, âW-We shouldnâtâŚâ Your words are unconvincing, even to yourself, as your legs tighten, pulling him closer.
âI-I donât think I can stop. Please baby,â he begs, hating himself but asking nonetheless. His thumb rubs soothing circles on the inside of your thighâalmost as if trying to coax you into saying yes.
You bite your lip in contemplation. You wanted more of the pleasure heâd just given you, you really did. But you were scared.Â
What if he didnât want you after this?
You knew it was a ridiculous notion. But then again, you could be quite ridiculous.Â
Caleb can see the turmoil written across your face, forcing himself to still his hips.Â
âYou trust me, right pip-squeak?â he whispers, thumb brushing against your lower lip. His gut twists as the words leave his lips, knowing heâs being unfair. Especially when you look up, eyes fluttering at himâwide-eyed and so damn trusting. That look makes Calebâs consciousness stir with a vicious mix of guilt and desire.
âI-I do. MmmnghâIâŚI trust you more than anything,â you gasp when Caleb stirs again, his pelvis brushing against your clit.
The look of ecstasy on your perfect features encourages him, pulling out againâjust a few centimeters before thrusting back into you. You moan, toes curling against him, your legs wrapped around his back.Â
He was making you feel good. That couldnât possibly be a bad thing, could it?
âIâll protect you,â he whispers, gently kissing your lips, âI always do.â
As he dips down to reach you, his hips shiftâgiving you more friction. He knew he should feel ashamed of himselfâthat he shouldnât push you like this.
But how could he not when you felt like this?
âPleaseâŚdonât make me stop,â he pleads, eyes hooded with a vulnerability that Caleb never let show, least of all to you.
This wasnât just sex. It wasnât just the heat of the momentâlust. He needed this connection with you.Â
While youâd been insecure that Caleb might not want you anymore after this, Caleb felt insecure that youâd disappear at any momentâthat heâd wake up and find himself trapped in the role of big brother again.Â
He wasnât sure that he deserved this. Deserved you.Â
âCalebâŚâ you trail off, battling with yourself internally. But the white flag is within sight, your resolve absolutely shattered.Â
And Caleb can tell.Â
âIâll take care of you,â he forces out, his voice husky and tenderâgently giving you one last push, âYou know that, right?â
You nod vigorously, getting lost in the moment once moreâenchanted by the truth behind his silken words.
âOkay CalebâŚI-I wantâŚI want more.â
Calebâs eyes widen fractionally before he devours you in an explosive kiss. He greedily swallows every beautiful little moanâyouâre unable to contain them as Caleb starts to roll his hips. He starts slow, sensual, and intentional.
As he pulls away, he buries his face into your neck, âF-Fuckâthank you, princess.â
And heâs genuinely thankful, trying to ignore the feeling of guilt forâwhat feels like to himâtaking advantage of your trust. But he truly canât stop himself. His pelvis smacks your inner thighs as he gives you a powerful thrust, making you see stars. He scoops your smaller hands into his, raising them above your head and restraining them against the couch arm.Â
âGege will take care of you.â
You gasp at his filthy promisesâusing the same word youâd used against him moments ago. Your back arches off the couch as his pace quickens considerably. His charming words make you all but forget your reservations.
He made you feel so safe. How could this be wrong?
âI-Itâll beângghhâokay, right?â you babble, watching him with your arms restrained and your lower body pinned under his. You donât say it, but youâre both thinking it. He hadnât put on a condom.
Your tummy flutters at the thought.Â
Caleb squeezes your thigh reassuringly, his head thrown back with a look of pure bliss, âHahâof course, princess. Iâd never let anything bad happen to you.âÂ
His hips pound against your legs now, the couch legs scratching against the hardwood floor. Filthy sounds echo around the living roomâwet skin against skin, cries of ecstasy, whispered declarations of reassurances and love alike. Â
Caleb grows increasingly more emotional as the pleasure and intensity climbs to new heights, unlike anything heâd ever experienced before.
âIâm sorry,â he rambles, âIâm so sorry, baby. I couldnât stopâŚI shouldnât haveâC-Christâ!â
âD-Donât,â you plead, completely forgetting altogether why youâd held this off for weeks, âMmmnghâplease donât stop.â
âGod, and I thought you felt good earlierââ he cuts himself off with a pained growl.
You donât know if Caleb is naturally gifted or experiencedâall you know is he knows exactly what heâs doing. He seems to find all your sweetest spots as if he was following a map.Â
But whatâs more is the way he speaks to you, the way he caresses your thighs, the way he rubs your wrists as he restrains them. How safe he makes you feel, when just moments ago you were terrified of the consequences.Â
Maybe you were naive to just let yourself be ensnared by his velvety words, but you canât bring yourself to care anymore.Â
It felt too good.
âNever letting you go,â he promises darkly, letting go of your wrists so he can hold your face in his fingers, âNot after this.â
You whine with satisfaction, chest heaving as his hips work tirelessly to send you over the edge and straight to heaven. You werenât sure why youâd ever doubted him.
âPlease donât,â you plead whole-heartedly, holding his face in your hands, forcing him to look into your eyes. Caleb looks surprised for a second, his face softening at your words.Â
âNever,â he murmurs, âNeed me to prove it?â
As you nod Calebâs face darkens considerably, the excitement and arousal written all over his perfect features. Your body tingles violently, close to bursting.Â
His hips begin to lose their rhythm as he thinks about what he wants to do to you. What he wants to show you.Â
âY-You trust me, right princess?â he asks again, breath short and desperate. When you nod, Caleb buries himself into your neck, breath so warm it makes you shiver.
Caleb groans when your trembles cause you to tighten around him, knowing he canât hold back his orgasm much longerânot when you feel like heaven and sin wrapped around him.Â
At your blind trust, whether he deserved it or not, Caleb is ready to fold. To give you all of him. And to take absolutely all of you.Â
âGonna mark you,â he declares darkly, his words dripping with warning and possession. Though he says it like itâs a choice that heâs making, it really isnât. In reality, he couldnât stop. Maybe not even if you asked. That thought terrifies him.Â
âMmmnghâ!â you gasp, feeling close to finishing yourself, âI-Inside?â
You knew you shouldnât let him. Itâd already gone way farther than youâd intended. But the thought of itâŚ
It was too fucking tempting to pass up.
Caleb chuckles, apparently able to read your conflict and desires easily, âF-FuckâŚyeah. You like the sound of that, huh? Youâre squeezing me so tight, princess.âÂ
The thought of being so wanted by him that heâd do everything he could to possess you. Carnal primal possession in every sense of the word.Â
Youâd never be able to go back, and he knew that. You knew that.Â
And thatâs what you wanted.Â
You nod, hugging him to your chestâyour legs trapping him. Caleb groans at how receptive you areâhow willing you are to give yourself to him completely.Â
âIâll take care of you,â he whispers into your ear, voice strained, âIf anything happens, Iâll be there.âÂ
Youâre about to speak but Calebâs hand wriggles its way between your bodies to find your clit, rendering you absolutely speechless. His own moans fill your ear, the sounds of unrestrained pleasure sending you reeling into an earth-shattering orgasm.Â
âCaalebâ!â you cry, hiccuping, âC-Cumming, o-oh Godâ!âÂ
Caleb curses as you cum, your body tightening like a vice. He wants to hold onâto make it last just a little longer, but you make it impossible for him. Especially as you cry out repeatedly for him, your smaller body trembling under his.Â
âYouâre mine.âÂ
Thatâs the last thing heâs able to say before he lets go, spilling everything he has inside of youâconsequences and restraint be damned.Â
His muscles quiver as the waves of his orgasm ravage his body, holding you impossibly close to himânot letting even a centimeter of space between you. His hips continue to rock into you, fucking his seed deeper into you, igniting your body from the inside out.
âF-Full,â you gasp with satisfaction, enjoying the feeling of being so completed by him. It was starting to sting, still gently thrusting in and out of you, but you canât bear the thought of losing this connection.Â
âI know, babyâ he praises, gripping your thigh as he continues to unload into youâhis cock still twitching as it paints your walls, âY-Youâre doing so good. Taking it all for me.âÂ
You nearly purr with satisfaction, unbelievably happy with the way he praises you as he connects with you in the most intimate and primal way possible.
As the intense tidal waves of pleasure recede back into the current, Caleb comes to his senses. He pulls away so he can look at you, wanting to see you.
âThat wasâŚâ he trails offâdazed, absolutely lovestruck. He couldnât even begin to put what heâd just experienced with you into words.Â
He rolls onto his side, bringing you to his chest. Heâs sure not to sever your connection, still savoring your warmth. Maybe heâd never leave. Maybe he could keep you here forever, well-fed and wellâ
He shakes himself out of his increasingly feral thoughts, pressing his nose into your hair and breathing in with a shaky breathâyour scent always able to ground him.Â
âYouâve ruined me.â
You look up at him through your eyelashes, still too breathless and fucked dumb to speak. Caleb chuckles, wiping the drool from the corner of your kiss bitten lips. Your smile makes his chest flutter, but he canât help the resentment that starts to creep in.
âAreâŚâ he trails off, Adamâs apple bobbing thickly as he continues, âAre you okay?âÂ
You can see the guilt in his sparkling amethyst eyesâthe disbelief. That heâd let himself take things this far. That he hadnât been able to control himselfâlike he was some horny deranged teenager and not the revered and disciplined Colonel he was supposed to be.
âNo, I'll never be okay again. Youâve created a monster,â you trail your featherlight kisses across his chest to his shoulder. Youâd never be able to get enough of this. Of him.Â
Caleb chuckles warmly, kissing the top of your head with relief, âYouâve always been a little monster, you canât blame that on me.â
You clench down on him in warningâeliciting a delicious groan from his puffy lips. It fuels you with confidence, making you want him all the more.Â
âYou should be scared,â you warn playfully.Â
âShould I now, pip-squeak?â Caleb grins, enjoying your attitude. But as much as he adored your brattiness, what he loved more was putting you in your place.
He withdraws from the comfort of your tight walls, smiling smugly when you whine and writhe with dissatisfaction. Your fingers automatically find his shoulders and dig in, trying to stop him from leaving you, not ready to be without him yet.Â
âCaleeeb,â you whine unhappily. His smile only widens. There was that look he loved so damn much.Â
âWhat, baby?â he coos, condescending and teasing all at once.
When you donât speakâjust continuing to glare childishly at him, Caleb laughs, âCome on, use your words. You know Gege will give anything you want.â
âOh Iâll use my words alrightâŚâ you grumble, unbelievably petulant, âTo hurt you and your stupid feelings.â
Caleb throws his head back with amused laughter before leaning into your ear, âCome on, you can do it. Ask for it.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you feign innocence.
Mischief glimmers in Calebâs eyes, âOh? But you were so cute earlier when you were begging for just the tiââ
You sit up abruptly and scramble to climb off the couch, your cheeks flushed and warmâabsolutely mortified those words had ever come out of your mouth, âNevermind. Iâm good.â
But Calebâs quicker, immediately wrapping his thick arms around your bare waist. His laugh rings in your ear as he buries his face into your hair and pulls your back flush with his chest.Â
âCome on, donât be like that,â he murmurs warmly into your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there. You let yourself be pulled to him, feeling his cock pressed against your lower backâhardening again.
âYou know Iâll give you much more than that.â
Š aeyumicore 2025.
.áâ§ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.
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your best friend geto looks like he's been accosted. eyes wide, jaw slack, face all but screwed up in surprise at the words that have just come out of your mouth. what was it you said you were reading about? triple penetration? he might pass out.
you can't help but laugh at the look he's giving you. "what? you didn't watch porn when you were still a virgin?"
without warning, he snatches your phone right out of your hand and squints at the screen. "my porn was tasteful," he tsks. "this is... uncouth."
"uncouth?" you try to take back your phone, just for him to roll over in bed and hold it out of reach. you're half on top of him in seconds, clawing at his bulky arm. "give it back!"
"what is dac..." he stifles a laugh at the way you try so desperately for your archive of erotica. "...dacryphilia?"
"you don't know? what, no game? no hoes? bitches?"
"i manage, thank you," he rolls the both of you over and pins you down against the mattress, which has your breath hitching in your throat for some reason. it makes him smirk like a fucking idiot. "what, nervous?"
no... yes? you don't know. suguru has never made you feel nervous... jittery, maybe. you'd use nauseous, in both the good and bad way. sometimes he gives you this look that makes you feel like you have food poisoning. your body seems to react to him at the extreme.
you've always been touchy with each other. your friendship has been physical since day oneâif you aren't touching, you're not in the same room. it's just how it's always been, a hand on his arm as you walk together, or his arm around your shoulders when you're seated. it's... normal. familiar.
so thisâsuguru pinning you down by the wrists, his long black hair falling down to tunnel your vision right onto that pretty face of hisâprobably shouldn't get you this wet.
or wet at all, really.
"tears," you say, for some fucking reason. "dacryphilia, it's crying, or making someone cry. like being overstimulated, or... humiliated, to the point of tears. or just crying for the sake of it."
geto looks down at you, and you try not to watch the muscles of his arms bulge as he keeps you locked beneath him. "i know."
you frown. "you know?"
"i just wanted to hear you try and explain it," he laughs. "fucking pervert."
"i'm going to kill you slowly," you wriggle beneath him. "get off me, suguru."
"or what? you'll cry? i think you're into that..." he teases, and manages to shift both of your wrists into one hand so that he can reach for your phone again. he thumbs it open and resumes your 'history' tab with a shit-eating grin. "virginity loss... best friends to lovers... size kink... corruption... breeding? really?"
"shut the fuck up," you hiss. you buck your hips up, not to throw him offâbecause you can admit he's bigger, heavier and a whole lot stronger than you areâbut out of pure frustration. except your movement only presses you tighter against where his thighs cage your hips, and you freeze. you think something pathetic leaves your lips, but you can't quite hear yourself over the mortification bubbling up in your chest.
"oh?" he notices, of course.you want to claw his stupid handsome face off. "don't tell me this is working for you."
"it's not," you snap. "you are so fucking full of yourself, geto."
"suguru," he corrects you. "say it properly. and by the look on your face right now i'd wager that you'd rather be the one full of me."
god you hate him sometimes. "embarrassing me isn't funny."
"it's a little funny."
"fuck you."
"you look like you'd love to," he lowers his hips a little, and for the first time in your life, you feel the weight of a rock-hard cock pressing against you. "tell me to stop and i will. we can go get food or something, forget this happened."
the switch in tone from teasing to gentle makes you smile, which makes keeping up the disgruntled act a lot harder. the thought of verbalising your need right now makes you nauseous, so you opt instead for a shake of your head.
"great," he nods, and slowly releases your wrists. "you can take that back whenever you want, just tell me and i'll back off."
"what are you..." you're cut off when suguru hands you your phone back with a scrunched up nose.
"read it," he says. "out loud. if you stop, i stop."
you're confused only until you check your screen and see that geto has opened up one of your most recently read pieces and scrolled down to a rather graphic scene of the main character being eaten out by her best friend. it's a little ironic, considering the state you're in, but you can't bring yourself to be embarrassed when your own best friend is kissing down your stomach and hooking his fingers under the waistband of your shorts.
he's going to go down on you? but he's hard, and for as much porn as you've read, most of it depicts the guy taking what he wants.
"aren't you going to... you know? fuck me?"
your shorts and panties are pulled down in one swift movement, and suguru buries his face in your thigh to stifle his laugh. his body shakes with the force of it, which makes you frown. your pussy is a few inches from his face, and he's laughing like the prospect of taking your virginity is funny.
"you couldn't take me," he smiles up at you. "now read."
suddenly self-conscious, you try clamp your thighs shut, just to (once again) find yourself pinned down by his strong arms. "this is weird," you whine. "you're my... i mean we... you know? friends. best friends."
holding eye contact, suguru slowly lowers himself down to press a chaste kiss to your clit. it's not much contact, but it makes you jolt nonetheless. doesn't feel like how you had imagined it when you'd lay in bed late at night with your nose in a book and your hand between your legs. this is... better. feels right.
"still weird?" he asks, to which you nod without really meaning it. "weird like your porn on that phone?"
"suguru i swear to god if you don'tâoh my god."
you forgive that man for all of the teasing he'd one as soon as he gets to work on you. flattening out his tongue against your pussy and tasting you for the first time has him already grinding against the mattress, and has you squeezing your eyes shut as you try to process this new realm of pleasure. you're glad he doesn't tease you for being so wet, but that he instead uses it to his advantage and starts making an even bigger mess of you.
his lips latch around your clit for only a few seconds. he hollows out your cheeks and you think you might die with how overwhelming the sensation is, but it's over all too soon. geto pulls back to do two things:
one, tie his hair out of his face, and two, tell you to start reading.
not wanting to miss out on these newfound pleasures of the flesh, you unlock your phone and start on a random spot on the screen, your voice a lot more shaky than you want it to be.
"he, uh... he ducks down and licks a stripe from entrance to clit, collecting... collecting her wetness on his tongue and falling in love with the taste of her enjoyments."
suguru, suddenly good at following instructions, does as written and leads his tongue upwards. you moan at the contact, but notice suguru starting to pull away at your lack of reading, so you go on.
"she loves the way he feels. he kisses her, uh, sweet center, before continuing to use his tongue to toy with her."
you can feel suguru smiling against you. "sweet center?" he laughs, but continues his ministries nonetheless. you roll your eyes, this has been a lot better of a read when your brain was fogged with unsated need. longing for the man that is now between your legs.
"growing messy, his focus shifts to her clit. his tongue dances with the bud of nerves as he brings two fingers of his left hand, ring and all, and pushes them inside of her. curling upwards until sheâ"
"is that what you want?" suguru cuts you off.
"yeah, yes. i think. just go slow."
"keep reading."
you clear your throat as suguru starts tracing circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue. he looks a little silly doing that, you note as you glance down to enjoy the view for a moment, but god does it feel good.
"curling upwards until she's an ecstatic mess of fulfilled wants. he completes her, in both soul and now flesh. fills her with his fingers in preparation for hisâoh god, suguru, right there."
you hadn't even noticed him pushing into you, you were that eager to feel more of him. his fingers curl up as described in your reading material and suddenly he's brushing over a spot you've never discovered on your own. it blurs your vision, sends your skin hot.
"can't.. can't read anymore," you whine, bucking your hips up in some masochistic need for more. anything bigger than this and you'd keel over, you think, but you'd take anything suguru was willing to give you. "gonnaâ"
he allows it. encourages it, even. quickens his pace on the fingers plunging in and out of you, and starts making out with your pussy like a drunken virgin would. it's good in a way that shouldn't be: messy and needy and you think perhaps that suguru is just as close to coming as you are.
your orgasm is intense. your back arching off the bed and your body trying hopelessly to get more of sugurus touch. you think you moan his name, though it could be a babbled string of 'i love you's that you'll refuse to acknowledge later on in hopes that giving you head wasn't enough to ruin your friendship.
suguru moans loudly against your pussy as he tastes your release, the vibrations no help for your sensitivity, but his hips are stuttering against the mattress and you can tell even through your haze that you've made the cocky idiot cum in his pants.
serves him right.
and because the two of you are friends before you are... whatever this is, the both of you are falling into a fit of laughter upon your comedowns. suguru's lips glisten and your chest heaves with each breath you take, and he's climbing up the bed to press a kiss to your cheek.
"better than reading about it?" he asks.
"nope," you grin, which earns you a mean look that soon gives way to another laugh from him. "you could do it again some time if you wanted, though."
"please. i want to find out what skills you've picked up reading all of that weird shit." he pulls you into his arms and, despite being a little sweaty, you find yourself melting comfortably into his embrace.
pairing â pilot!satoru gojo x air traffic controller!reader
summary â captain satoru gojo is the most infuriating pilot you've ever had the displeasure of guiding through tokyo's airspace. for months, he's turned every radio call into an opportunity to flirt, compliment your voice, and generally make your work life insufferable. you've never seen his face, but you're convinced he's exactly the kind of arrogant pilot you never want to deal with outside work. if only your heart would stop racing when you hear his voice.
word count â 16.5 k
genre/tags â aviation AU, pilot x air traffic controller, annoyance to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace romance, voice kink if you squint, long distance relationship (kinda), he falls first and falls so HARD, i love him in this ugh, yearning endboss, dramatic love confessions bc we need
warnings â 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of grief/loss (death of family member), strong language, aviation emergencies, and satoru gojo being criminally sweet over radio frequencies.
author's note â friendssss i really hope u like this one bc i am obsessed lol. grab your headphones, play your favorite music and prepare for takeoff <3
masterlist + support my writing + ao3 + artwork by @3-aem
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land.â
You didnât even need to check the screen. Youâd recognize his voice anywhere, even in your nightmaresâwarm, cocky, and already grinding on your nerves like nails on chalkboard.
âMiss me, honey?â
Your pen snapped in half. Around the control tower, heads turned in your direction. Maki, your longest colleague and friend, pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Even Ijichi raised an eyebrow from his station. You hated them all a little for how they all enjoyed the situation so much.
You closed your eyes, counted to three, and then hit the transmission button. âFlight 447, you do realize youâre on a public frequency, right? Everyone can hear you.â
âAs long as youâre listening, Control, thatâs all that matters.â
âLucky me,â you muttered, pulling up his flight information on the screen. Scattered clouds drifted past the towerâs angled windows, casting fleeting shadows over your cluttered workstation. âAlso, youâre late, Captain.â
âBy two minutes. Come on, thatâs hardly anything.â
âMore than enough time to get on my nerves.â
âI love it when you talk to me like that.â
Behind you, someone coughedâprobably trying to hide a laugh.
âAnd I love it when you stop talking,â you shot back.
His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. âSomeoneâs feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?â
âCoffeeâs fine. Itâs the pilot thatâs giving me a headache.â
âMmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.â
There it was again. Beautiful.
Always beautiful. Never âmaâamâ or âtowerâ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, orâGod help youâhoney. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.
Youâd corrected him once early on. âUse proper radio protocol,â youâd said, but all he replied was, âSorry, Control. Slipped. Wonât happen again, pretty.âÂ
It had happened again. And again. And again.
You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.
âYou donât even know what I look like,â you said, frustrated.
âYour voice tells me everything I need to know. And Iâm betting youâre even more beautiful than you sound.â
âIs that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?â
He laughed. âOuch. Youâre brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?â
âFlight 447, youâre cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while youâre busy thinking about how charming you are.â
âCopy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasnât thinking about myself.â His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. âI was thinking about you.â
Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once moreâgrinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face.Â
You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.
âLooks like Iâve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.â
More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.
You looked out the towerâs window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot youâd ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.
It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europeâthe very same routes youâd specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda.Â
The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine?Â
You loved them.
These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.
These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longerâthe last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilotsâthe ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.
While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flightsâtight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shitâyou got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.
Until Captain Satoru Gojo.
The first time you handled Flight 447âs approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone whoâd been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.
âTokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.â
You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.
Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxedâand, unfortunately, talkative.Â
God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what shouldâve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.
âFlight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.â
âDescending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know thatââ
âFlight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.â
He sighed. âCopy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.â
It started professional enoughâwell, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control âbeautifulââbut overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend.Â
âGood morning, gorgeous.â
âDid you miss my voice, honey?â
âUntil next time, beautiful.â
Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldnât help himselfâlike heâd physically explode if he didnât borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.
Heâd never even seen you. Didnât know your name, wouldnât recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldnât even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.
And oh my God, the ramblingâthe fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.
âYou know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesnât it?â
You already felt your soul leaving your body.
âAlthough I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. Youâve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like thatââ
Sometimes heâd yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that youâd rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichiâan actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victimâwould sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojoâs rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.
âFlight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.â
A pause. âOh. Um. Flight level 380. SorryâIs the other controller⌠did sheâŚ?â
âFlight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.â
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, âYour boyfriendâs looking for youâ while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report youâd already read four times.
Youâd complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yagaâs office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.
Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojoâs voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, heâd leaned back in his chair and given you that lookâthe one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didnât want to hear.
âHas he ever caused a delay?â Yaga asked.
âWell, no, butââ
âMissed a radio call?â
âNo, howeverââ
âFailed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?â
âThatâs not the pointââ
âHas he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?â
Youâd opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.
Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.
âThe guyâs annoying but harmless,â Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.
Harmless. Right.
Harmless if you didnât count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.
But damn itâyou worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. Youâd studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes.Â
You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergenciesâall while being always fucking calm and polite.Â
Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and thatâs what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.
Okay, forget about the calm part, too.
It didnât help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Makiâwho handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilotsâhad already labelled Gojo your âwork husbandâ.
And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, sheâd make kissy faces in your direction and sing, âOh, your boyfriendâs calling,â to which youâd reply âHeâs not my boyfriend.â Or worse, sheâd lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when youâd finally ask him out. Of course, she knew heâd hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, âSheâs right. When will you finally ask me?â
âFlight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.â
âLeft 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your⌠well, I canât see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.â
Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and youâd have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.
And it didnât help that everyone loved him, of course.Â
Everyone except you, apparently.
The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. Youâd see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled inâlike teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.
Youâve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick âjust in caseâ she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover.Â
Even the janitorsâthe fucking janitorsâsomehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, whoâd been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.
It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.
Youâd never actually seen him. In the months heâd been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrivedâor you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.
Everyone said he was stupidly prettyâso damn dreamy and everything. You couldâve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didnât. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.
Which only made it worse.
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment youâd stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backupâwho was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.
So when Flight 447âs call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.â
You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. Youâd scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.
âFlight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.â
âLeft 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?â
Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.
âJust doing my job, 447.â
âOuch. Thatâs definitely tension. Let me guessâcomputer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I knowâthe coffee machine spat out mud again, didnât it?â
You blinked at your screen. How could he possiblyâ
âFlight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.â
âCome on, donât be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.â
You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. âYou⌠brought me something?â
âMhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.â
You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.
âYou donât even know who I am.â
âI know enough,â he said, still annoyingly casual. âI know you prefer late international routes because theyâre usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because Iâve heard you complainâmore than onceâthat no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, Iâm guessing no oneâs done that in a while, so now the good machineâs off to maintenance again, and youâre stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.â
A pause.
âAnd I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because Iâve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, youâve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like youâre not seconds away from strangling them. Itâs kind of adorable, really.â
You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?
You didnât respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.
âFlight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.â
âWait, thatâs it? No âthank youâ or âwow, youâre so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseasâ? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.â
Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. âYou declared chocolate at customs?â
âHad to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.â
âYou told customs agents I was special?â
âI told them the truth. âŚThough I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.â
âYou what?â
His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. âRelax, beautiful. Customs agents donât exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.â
âFlight 447, Iâm transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.â
âSo weâre not dating? Huh. Thatâs news to me.â
âIâm doing my job.â
âYeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.â
âMy job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.â
âSee? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.â
You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Makiâfinally free from her emergencyâwas trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.
âFlight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.â
âYou wouldnât dare. Youâd miss me too much.â
âTry me.â
âOkay, okay, Iâm switching,â he said, still laughing. âIâll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. Itâs got your name on it. Well⌠your call sign, anyway. Couldnât exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and thereâs a little something extra in the box, too.â
Your finger froze over the transmit button. âWhat kind of extra?â
âJust a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.â
The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.
Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. âDid he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?â
âApparently.â
âAnd declared you his girlfriend to customs?â
âI hate him.â
âAnd thereâs something extra waiting for you at the gate?â
You gave her a warning look. âStop that.â
âYou realize most guys donât even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless theyâre into you.â
âItâs creepy.â
âSure,â she said. âSo creepy that youâre smiling about it.â
âIâm not smiling.â
âYou absolutely are.â She leaned closer. âAnd youâre totally going to check the gate during your break.â
You turned back to your screen. âI have work to do.â
âRight. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?â
âIâm notââÂ
Your radar lit up. âTower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.â Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar.Â
You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.
Or whatever extra he brought.
Not even a little.
Okay, maybe a little.
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone elseâs problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythmâslower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.
âOff to investigate your love offerings?â Maki called as you headed for the elevator.
âGate operations check,â you tried, but you couldnât fool her.
The box was sitting right there at the international gate deskâimpossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.
âOh! Youâre Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to âthe controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.ââ She giggled like a schoolgirl. âHeâs so romantic.â
You stared at the box. It was bigger than youâd expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.
âDid he⌠say anything else?â
âJust that youâd had a rough day and deserved something sweet.â Hana sighed. âHeâs so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.â
Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.
âRight. Well. Thanks.â
Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.
âHoly shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?â
âItâs just chocolate.â
âJust chocolate?â Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. âThese are, like, forty bucks each. Thereâs at least thirty pieces in here.â
Ijichi gave a low whistle. âYour pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.â
âHeâs not my boyfriend.â But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone whoâd never even seen your face.
âOh my God, try one,â Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. âDonât be shy.â
You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing youâd ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.
âGirl, you are so lucky,â Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. âA hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?â
âHeâs probably not even attractive. Iâve never actually seen him.â
Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.
âWait,â Maki said slowly. âYouâve never seen him?â
âOur shifts donât overlap. Iâm always in the tower when his flights come in.â
âOh my God.â Maki turned to her computer. âIâm looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?â
âTower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,â crackled your headset.Â
You grabbed your radio. âFlight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.â
You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around.Â
As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and thatâs when you noticed the âsomething extraâ. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.
âFor the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.â â S
You shivered.
Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
Youâd barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, youâd thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when heâd called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.
Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and youâd agreedâmore or less voluntarilyâto stay and help out.
The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.â
It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. Heâd just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.
âFlight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.â
âCopy that. Left 270. Long night down there?â
You rubbed your eyes. âMedical emergency earlier. Youâll be in the hold for about an hour.â
âRoger. Heyâdid you get the chocolates?"
Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. âYes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.â
âBut good?â
You exhaled. âReally good.â
âKnew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?â
You checked your watch. âFourteen hours.â
âYou shouldnât be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but youâve got to take care of yourself too, you know.â
You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didnât sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concernedâand it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didnât even have the energy to fight him on it.
âSomeone had to cover.â
âNot at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I donât mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.â
âI did eat something a few hours ago. Iâm okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.â
âIs she okay?â
âBaby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that theyâve named her Sky. Itâs kinda cheesy.â
âThatâs beautiful.â His voice was soft. âYou helped bring a little life into the world tonight.â
âItâs just part of the job.â
âItâs not just your job, you know that,â he said gently. âItâs you being the person people count on when it really matters.â
âI donât knowâŚâ
âYou know why I always ask for this route?â
âBecause you like to annoy me?â
He laughed quietly. âBecause your voice is the best part of my day. Doesnât matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal withâthe moment I hear you on frequency⌠I know Iâm okay. I know Iâm home.â
You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small.Â
It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojoâs soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse.Â
You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, âWhy? Why are you being so⌠like this? You donât even know me.â
âI know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know youâre calm even when the towerâs on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice Iâve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.â
You could barely breathe.
âYou deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,â he added, almost like an afterthought.
âYouâre so stupid,â you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.
âYouâre exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.â A pause. âYou know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.â His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. âIâd love to show you someday.â
âYour girlfriend probably wouldnât appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.â
âI donât have a girlfriend,â he said without hesitation. âI wish you were my girlfriend.â
You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didnât help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldnât settle, and worst of all, you couldnât even pretend it wasnât happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information?Â
Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happenâthis slow unraveling of the careful distance youâd built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit
âYouâre insane.â
âYouâre beautiful.â
You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldnât still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.
âWhat? No comeback?â he teased. âYou really must be tired.â
âI hate how you say stuff like that,â you mumbled into your sleeve, âwhen you know Iâm too tired to fight back.â
âSounds like good timing, then.â
âYouâre the worst.â
âMhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,â he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. âItâs really cute.â
âShouldnât you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?â
âSounds like you want me to ask you.â
âI donât.â You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. âIâm not looking for anything.â
âGood,â he said. âSo no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.â
A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. âYou donât even know me. Why are you so persistent?â
It was silent for a whileâso long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.
âBecause for months, your voice has been the only thing thatâs felt like home,â he said. âEvery flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe thatâs stupid. Maybe Iâm just a pilot whoâs spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what itâd be like to hear you say my nameâmy real nameâjust once, but IâŚâ
The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.
âFlight 447ââ
âCan I ask you something? And you can say no.â
ââŚWhat?â
âDo you want to switch to a private frequency?â
You shouldnât. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.
âFrequency 121.9,â you said.
âCopy that. Switching now.â
Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.
âTower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.â
âIâm here.â
You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. âTell me something about you.â
âWhat do you want to know?â
âAnything. Doesnât matter. I just want to listen to your voice.â
You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.
âThatâs⌠I donât know what to say.â
âStart simple. What did you have for breakfast?â
Despite everything, you almost smiled. âCoffee.â
âJust coffee?â He groaned. âThatâs terrible for you. You need read food.â
âSays the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.â
âI make great scrambled eggs, actually,â he said, a little smug. âSecret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.â
âYou cook?â
âMhmm. And I make the best carbonara.â
âAccording to who?â
âAccording to me. And Iâm a very reliable source.â
You smiled again. âVery humble, too.â
âAbsolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when youâre not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?â
You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of âWonderwallâ. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts.Â
It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even.Â
You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest.Â
You hadnât realized until now how much youâd come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequencyâbut this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.
You were quiet for a moment, then asked, âWhy did you become a pilot?â
A breath passed. Maybe two.
âI had a little sister. She died when she was twelveâleukemia.â He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. âShe was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to seeâthe Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.â
You didnât move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.
âShe never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise Iâd see the world for her. That Iâd go to all the places and tell her about them.â Another shaky breath. âSo I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the cloudsâsheâs with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.â His laugh barely held. âProbably sounds crazy.â
âIt doesnât sound crazy at all.â You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night airâs chill. âSo the postcards from ZurichâŚâ
âI brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe youâd like it too.â
âFlight 447,â you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.
âShe wouldâve liked you,â he added. âShe always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like homeâeven when youâre thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.â
You were silent for a while, unable to find words.
âControl? Can I ask you something else?â
ââŚYeah.â
âWould you like to go out with me?â
You didnât say anything at first. Didnât even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stoodâlegs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.
You werenât ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you werenât sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.
âIâŚâ you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.
âYou donât have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?â
Then Kaiâs voice cut through your main frequency. âControl Seven, runwayâs clear for your holding traffic.â
You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt.Â
âFlight 447, youâre cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.â
âRoger, cleared for approach runway 24L.â
You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, âLand safe, Satoru.â
Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.
âYouâre so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that Iâve finally heard you say my name like that?â
Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.
âSee you on the ground, Control⌠and sleep easy tonight.â
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
After that night, everything changed.
What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447âs call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance youâd worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.â
You didnât even try to hide your smile anymore. âGood morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.â
âHowâs that terrible tower coffee treating you today?â
âStill tastes like mud. But itâs keeping me awake.â
âYou really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.â
âFlight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.â
âWill do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?â
You caught yourself still smiling after heâd switched frequencies.Â
Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didnât even say anythingâjust raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.
Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, heâd offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoruâs voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.
The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. Heâd tell you about the cities he flew toâthe morning mist over Pragueâs cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.
âThereâs this little bakery in Prague,â he said once. âSells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear theyâre really good.â
You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you couldâve been there with him.
One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. âI saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,â he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. âOver Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they donât do it justice, but⌠I tried.â
âYour sister wouldâve loved that.â
âYeah. She would have.â His voice grew soft. âI wish you could have seen them too. With me.â
You hadnât planned on any of this. You didnât know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadnât even seen his face.
At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You werenât sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next⌠you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.
Heâd compliment your voice and your hair heâd never even seen, and youâd toss something sharp right back at his ego. Heâd ask about your day like it mattered, and youâd ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky.Â
Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didnât matter. Stopped pretending you didnât wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something heâd been waiting all day to say.
âYou sound tired today,â he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.
You stifled a yawn. âDouble shift. Someone called in sick.â
âThatâs the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.â
âIâm fine.â
âWhenâs the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?â
You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldnât remember.
âThat settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, weâre going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesnât come from a vending machine.â
âIs that a request or a demand, Captain?â
âItâs a promise.â
Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you werenât abusing the systemâyou just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.
When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.
âCanât sleep up there?â youâd ask when his voice came through the static.
âAutopilotâs handling the boring parts. Thought Iâd check on my favorite insomniac instead.â
âIâm not an insomniac,â youâd say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. âIâm working.â
âItâs 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.â
âSomeoneâs gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.â
He never missed a beat. âJust one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.â
And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you werenât Control Sevenâyou were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everythingâbut somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.
You didnât have a name for what was growing between youâbut it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.
Those conversations could last hoursâhim circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. Heâd tell you about passengers heâd met, youâd share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. Heâd describe the view from his cockpit, youâd explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.
âDo you ever wonder what it would be like if weâd met differently?â he asked one night.
âHow do you mean?â
âIf I wasnât a pilot, and you werenât up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.â
âWould you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?â
âProbably.â He laughed. âThough I might have started with the weather like a normal person.â
âI donât think you know how to be normal, Captain.â
You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasnât there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, youâd feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.
âMiss me?â heâd tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.
âYou wish.â
âI do, actually. Horribly.â
You rolled your eyes, even though he couldnât see it. âThe frequencyâs been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldnât believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.â
âLiar. You were bored as hell.â
âFlight 447, Iâm transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.â
âDonât you think itâs a little to late for that, Control? Itâs this big since you said my name that one time.â
You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.
ââŚI missed you.â
You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.
âApproach is waiting, Captain.â
A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadnât given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didnât have the courage to admit it yet.
âSo,â he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, âabout that dateâŚâ
Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.
âI know a little cafĂŠ in Shibuya. Itâs away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.â
âWe are colleagues, Flight 447.â
âColleagues who happen to enjoy each otherâs company.â
âColleagues who work together professionally.â
âColleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.â His voice carried that familiar teasing note. âCome on, whatâs the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.â
âThe worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.â
âItâs already complicated.â
You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.
âFlight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.â
âThe cafĂŠâs called Blue Mountain,â he said before switching. âSaturday afternoon. If youâre free.â
âIâll think about it.â
Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time heâd called you beautiful.
You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.
And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man youâd never even seen in person.
It didnât make sense. Pilots are arrogant. Thatâs a universal truth youâd learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.
Satoru was a pilot.Â
Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.
Youâd learned that lesson the hard wayâgiven your heart to people whoâd seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didnât. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.
But now here was himâpersistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy heâd constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.
You didnât know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didnât know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didnât even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.
For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency heâd tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.
Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities youâd never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.
But this wasnât real. Whatever this wasâchemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndromeâit couldnât be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.
Heâd never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didnât know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.
This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.
But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadnât even had the chance to exist?
You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.
You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people heâd met in Dublin and that little bakery heâd found in Budapest, that heâs sure of youâd love.
And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend whoâd left him because she couldnât handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, whoâd always expected him to run the familyâs company, and how they still didnât understand why heâd chosen to spend his life in the sky.
You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed momentsâyour failed engagement to a man whoâd wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was âtoo stressfulâ, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.
âIâve never told anyone that before,â you said softly after confessing how youâd chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancĂŠ thought was too difficult for you.
âI'm glad you told me,â Satoruâs voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. âI love listening to your voice, especially when youâre being honest about things that matter.â
âSatoruâŚâ you said, without thinkingâhis name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.
âSay that again.â
âYour name?â
âYes,â he breathed, the single word aching. âPlease.â
You hesitated. Not because you didn't want toâbut because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.
âSatoru,â you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.
On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.
âSatoru?â you asked. âAre you there?â
âIâm here. I was just⌠thinking.â
âAbout what?â
A beat.
âAbout how much I want to kiss you right now.â
Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.
You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadnât heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldnât stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadnât even begun to process, let alone given permission for.
Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didnât know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.
After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.
âDid I scare you with that?â
âNo,â you said quietly. âItâs⌠itâs fine.â
âI mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.â
âThis is insane. Weâve never even met.â
âIt doesnât feel that way to me. Feels like Iâve known you forever.â
His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.
âSatoruâŚâ
âI know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when youâre tired, and what makes you laugh when youâre trying not to. I know you bite your lip when youâre concentratingâbecause I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldnât. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.â A pause. âWhat else do I need to know?â
âWhat I look like, for starters.â
âI donât care.â
âYou donât care?â
âNo, because itâs your voice I think about at night. Thatâs what drew me in. The rest⌠it never mattered.â
You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.
âSay something,â he whispered. âPlease.â
âI donât know what to say.â
âSay youâll have coffee with me. Say youâll give me a chance to see the woman Iâve fallen for.â
Your breath caught again. âFallen for?â you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.
âYes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.â
Your hands liftedâwithout thinking, almost desperateâand pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closerâpull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadnât said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.
âIâŚâ You stopped, swallowed, tried again. âI have toââ You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. âIjichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.â
âYeah,â you said. âJust need a bathroom break.â
You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.
You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldnât go away, chest rising and falling too fast.
What is happening?Â
He couldnât be serious. He couldnât just⌠fall for your voice. That wasnât how this worked. That wasnât how any of this worked. You hadnât even met him. You didnât know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didnât know how you looked when you werenât exhausted. And yetâ
Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one whoâd made the confession.
This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But whyâGod, whyâdid you want to kiss him back so badly?
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
You took a week off without telling him.
It was cruelâyou knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didnât feel like space. It felt like ache.
You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadnât visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they havenât in years.Â
And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just⌠thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.
You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession.Â
Completely, hopelessly fallen for.Â
You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.
You hadnât meant to fall for him. But you had.
Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents heâd never meet again.
You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasnât real, but because youâd wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things.Â
So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didnât. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didnât, and the ache only grew stronger.
By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If heâd call them âbeautifulâ too.
By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.
You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.
Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone elseâs voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.
Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. âYour pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.â
You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didnât care, but because you didnât know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.
****
You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyoâs sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.
The call came at 3:42 AMâall available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.
You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages.Â
A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyoâs airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.
Flowers.Â
A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and babyâs breath in a clear glass vase.
âHe sends them every day,â Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. âAsks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.â
You couldnât speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut.Â
Six days.Â
Heâd been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.
âYou okay?â Maki asked.
âIâm good,â you managed, swallowing hard. âI need toââ But there was no time.Â
âTower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.â
For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.
âFlight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.â
Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didnât shake. At least, not on the outside.Â
A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the towerâs windows.
And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen.Â
Flight 447.
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, andââ He pausedâlike heâd caught the shaky breath you hadnât meant to let slip through. âControl, is that you?â
It shouldnât have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.
âFlight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. Thereâs a gap in the storm cell at your two oâclock.â
âRoger, left 090, down to 6,000.â A beat. âItâs good to hear your voice again.â
You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.
âFlight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.â
âNegative, weâre already committed to this approach. Weâll ride itââ
Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.
You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.
âFlight 447, come in.â
No response.
âSatoru, do you copy?â
Still nothing. Only white noise.
Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice shouldâve been.
Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. âFlight 447, please respond.â
Then, finally, cutting through the noise, âControl. Iâm here. Lost comms for a moment there.â
You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.Â
âWhatâs with the silence now,â he whispered softly. âWere you worried about me, love?â
Love.
Heâd never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honeyâbut never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like youâd been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.
He is alive. He is safe. And heâd called you love.
âFlight 447, confirm youâre okay.âÂ
âWeâre fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we canât handle.â
Neither of you said anything for a moment.
âIâve missed you.â
Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious heâd thought heâd lost.Â
As if your absence had mattered.Â
As if heâd missed you the way youâd missed him.
âThank you,â you said. âFor the flowers.â
âYou donât have to thank me. Just⌠donât go quiet on me again, okay? Itâs hard to feel like Iâm coming home when youâre not the one guiding me there.â
You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?
And the worst part was how easily he said itâlike you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasnât just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.
âI wonât,â you said, barely above a whisper.
âPromise?â
âI promise.â
And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week offâit felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, heâd been looking for your voice.
âSee you on the ground, beautiful.â
And then the line went silent.
Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because youâd been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him.Â
What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?
He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didnât know how to say any of it.
You watched his altitude drop.
8,000 feet.Â
6,000.
4,000.
Each number bringing him closer to solid groundâcloser to you.
Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The planeâs wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.
Your heart flatlined.
âMaki, can you cover for me?â you asked, voice tight, already moving.
She looked away from the window. âWhat? Yeah, butââÂ
You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didnât matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.
Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didnât slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphaltâone heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.
Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.
You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.
 It was stupid, so stupid. You didnât even know what he looked like. But thenâ
You saw him. For the first time in your life.
He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilotâs uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue youâd somehow always known theyâd be. And thenâ
And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.
Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didnât feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertaintyâyou knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.
The voice youâd fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like heâd just found something heâd been searching for his entire life.Â
And now heâd found you.
You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing.Â
You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at youâthose impossible blue eyes youâd imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than youâd let yourself believe.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. âWould you like to go out with me?â you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.
Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.
âYeah,â he said, voice rough with emotion. âIâd really like that.â
And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindropsâor maybe tears, you couldnât tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like heâd been waiting forever to do it.
When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.
Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.
When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldnât believe this was real.
âGod, youâre so beautiful,â he whispered.
Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.
Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the worldâsuspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
A few weeks later.
âCareful with that,â Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. âUnless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.â
You were perched in the captainâs seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than youâd imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.
âYou actually understand all of this?â
âEach and every switch, gauge, and warning light.â He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captainâs seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. âSee this? Itâs the primary flight displayâshows our altitude, airspeed, heading. Thatâs the navigation display, weather radar hereâŚâ
You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like thisâthe way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.
âAnd this,â he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, âshows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.â
You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.
âThatâs not what that screen shows.â
âNo? Then why canât I look away from it?â
âYouâre stupid.â But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. âShow me something else.â
âDemanding little controller.â His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. âThese control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systemsâŚâ
You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.
âThese are the autopilot controls.â His hand moved again. âThis button engages the systemâbasically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan weâve programmed.â His finger moved to another switch. âThis one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.â
âBut hereâs the most important thing.â Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy nightâcompletely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.
âI still canât believe Hana managed to get this shot,â you said, taking it from him. âShe really thought âOh, what a perfect time for a pictureâ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.â
Satoru laughed. âBut arenât you gald she took it?â
âWe look absolutely stupid.âÂ
Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.
âYou look perfect,â he said, leaning closer. âAnd you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.â
âI did not have a meltdownââ
âYou ran across an active runway. In a storm.â He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. âMy professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âIâm just sayingââ He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. âFor someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.â
âI was worried about you.â
His smile softened. âYou didnât have to.â He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. âNo matter how rough the storm or the landing, Iâm never really lostânot when I know youâre there. You always guide me home safely.â
âYouâre stupid.â
âStupidly in love, yeah,â he murmuredâand then he kissed you.
What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.
âController,â Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. âWhat exactly are you starting here?â
âIâm not starting anything,â you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.
âClearly.â
You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captainâs seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldnât stand another second apart.
âMy breakâs over in fifteen,â you murmured against his lips. âAnd the planeâs grounded for another hour. No one should be around.â
He pulled back just enough to give you a look. âWait⌠did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?â
âMaybe.â
âGod,â he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. âDo you even know what you do to me?â
âIâm just making efficient use of our time, Captain,â you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. âIsnât that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?â
His laugh came out breathless, strained. âPretty sure this isnât in any manual Iâve read.â
âThen I guess youâll have to improvise.â You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. âYouâre good at handling unexpected situations, arenât you?â
Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.
You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.
âWhy do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?âÂ
Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.
âSays the man undressing me in his cockpit,â you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.
âI canât believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.â
âYouâre cute when youâre being all professional and nerdy.â
âYouâre terrible.âÂ
His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.
âCareful. Donât want us getting caught, right?â
You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didnât take long to push aside everything that wasnât necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoruâs hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.
His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. âFuck,â he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.
Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldnât help but think about how it all started. This was where it beganâthirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment heâd called you beautiful, it had always been leading here.Â
As if inevitable.
Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From âFlight 447â to âSatoru.â From guiding him home to finally being home.
And that felt pretty damn good.
ââ ⢠¡â¸â¸
Six months later.
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,â came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.
You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. âFlight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?â
âEven better. Let them all know how lucky I am.â
Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoruâs radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy whoâd accidentally walked into a lingerie store.
The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, heâd brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman heâd chatted with during his layoverâand it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you heâs a good cook.Â
From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant youâd surely kill again, but it didnât matter as heâd secretly replace it in the middle of the night so youâd think youâd finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges heâd handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.
And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. Youâd started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.
âYou know you donât have to bring me something from every city,â youâd told him after heâd brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.
âLet me spoil my girl,â heâd replied simply, watching you take a bite. âBesides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.â
The radio banter had only gotten worseâor better, depending on your perspective.
âTower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.â
âFlight 447 keep it professional or Iâm diverting you to Osaka.â
âOof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, youâll never see what I brought you from Rome.â
Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. âFlight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphereâ was Makiâs current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for âRequesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for youâagain.â
Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.
Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.
âYour apartmentâs bigger,â youâd pointed out, when you finally made it official.
âYours has the better balcony. But mineâs closer to the airport.â
âSo, your place then. But Iâm bringing my good coffee maker.â
âAnd wonât let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? Youâre heartless.â
But the real adjustment wasnât space or schedules. It was learning each otherâs bodies with the same intensity youâd spent months learning each otherâs voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.
Some weekends you didnât even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldnât decide where to focus first.
âI used to fantazise about this,â he murmured between kisses.
âAbout what?â
âThis.â His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. âWhat youâd sound like when you werenât trying so hard to be professional⌠imagining the sounds youâre making now, how youâd moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.â
You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.
 âYeah?â
He smiled against your mouth. âYou have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.â
Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. âGood thing weâve got time now to find out.â
âYeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,â he whisperedâjust before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.
And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio.Â
In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly. Â
How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.
You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.
You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each otherâs bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.
âYou know,â he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, âI spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.â
âAnd now?â
âNow I get to find out what happens when I do thisââ His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what youâd been reading. âWhile youâre trying to be all professional.â
âThatâs unfair.â
âThatâs what makes it fun.â
The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.
âBored up there, Captain?â
âNever bored when Iâm talking to you. Though I was thinkingâŚâ
âDangerous pastime for you.â
âWeâre both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.â His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. âFeels like the perfect date to me.â
You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.
âStrange how this all started, donât you think?â you mused during a quiet moment. âTwo voices falling for each other over radio frequency.â
âYouâre not having second thoughts, are you?â
âNo. Itâs just⌠kind of crazy, isnât it? All of this.â
He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was differentânervous, almost fragile.
âCan I ask you something?â
âOf course.â
âWill you marry me?â
Your heart stopped.
âI know itâs not how this is supposed to go. I know itâs not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. Iâm thirty thousand feet in the air, youâre down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.â
Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what heâd just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.
âYes,â you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.
âYes?â
âYes. Iâll marry you.â
He let out a heavy breath. âGod, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.â
You blinked back tears, smiling. âJust come home safe, you idiot.â
âAlways,â he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. âYour voice guides me home, remember? It always has.â
You thought youâd mapped every corner of him after six months of living togetherâevery habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.
But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.
Youâd known he came from moneyâthe expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartmentâbut you hadnât grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his fatherâs company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.
âI was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,â he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. âWe could take one of the jets.â
âWait wait wait⌠you have access to a private jet?â
âTechnically, I have access to several.â
Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.
The first time he took you somewhereâa long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom seasonâyou finally understood why heâd fallen in love with flying.Â
Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.
âSo this is what you see every day?â you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.
âThis is what I used to see.â He glanced over at you. âNow I only see you.â
It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.
Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudiâs wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot springâfinally experiencing all the places heâd described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.
âYour sister would have loved this,â you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.
âShe would have loved you,â he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. âShe always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.â
âRemember when you used to tell me about this place?â you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery heâd told you about months ago over the radio.
He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. âI remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what youâd say about the cobblestones, or if youâd laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.â
You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. âAnd now?â
âNow I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.â He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. âNow I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I donât have to imagine anymore.â
Each trip revealed new layers of himâand new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other.Â
Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitaskingâokay, autopilot might have helpedâhis hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two.Â
âI used to get hard just from hearing your voice,â he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.
âJust from my voice?â
âEspecially when youâd get that stern controller tone. âFlight 447, maintain current heading.ââ His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. âYou have no idea what that did to me.â
âShow me what it did to you.â
He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much heâd wanted you during all those professional exchanges.
The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan.Â
He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.
Years passed like this.
At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.
But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when heâd surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.
âWhere to next?â
âAnywhere you want,â was always his answer. âAs long as weâre flying together.â
And through it all, some things remained beautifully constantâthe flutter in your stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.
âTower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yesâI want everyone to hear it.â
âFlight 447, youâre the worst.â
His laugh crackled through the radio. âI love you,â he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.
And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passedâhe always came back to you.
After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.
The End
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author's note â wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, iâd be forever grateful if youâd consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my masterâs thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3
here's the link.
itâs completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesnât feel right for you.
thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3
and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !
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Š lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.
Gojo just casually touching readers tits when heâs horny during a movie, like gently rubbing circles on it and playing with her nipples to let her know he wants her to fuck him. So she ends up pushing him down on the couch and rides him till he cums with her twice tits still in his mouthđĽ°
đŕ¨ŕ§ mdni. nipple play, riding, creampie
the movieâs some dumb action flick, explosions flickering on the screen, but satoruâs barely watching. youâre curled up on the couch next to him, your head on his shoulder, his arm slung around you.
itâs cozy, until you feel his fingers start to wander, sliding under your loose tank top. his touch is warm, lazy, but thereâs a spark in it that makes your breath catch.
heâs hornyâyou know the signs by now.
satoruâs hand cups your tit, thumb brushing slow circles over your nipple through your bra, teasing it to a hard peak. âsatoru,â you murmur, glancing at him, but heâs got that smug little grin, eyes half-lidded, pretending to focus on the movie. âwhat?â he says, all innocent, but his fingers pinch your nipple lightly, making you squirm.
âyouâre distracting,â you huff, but heatâs already pooling between your thighs. he chuckles, leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. âcanât help it, babe. these are too fucking perfect.â his other hand joins, both now under your shirt, pushing your bra up to free your tits.
heâs gentle but also mean, rolling your nipples between his fingers, tugging just enough to make you gasp. âfeel good?â he asks, and you nod, biting your lip.
heâs hardâyou can feel his cock straining against his sweatpants, pressing into your hip. his touches get bolder, one hand kneading your breast while his mouth dips to kiss your neck, whispering, âwant you so bad.â itâs his way of begging, that needy edge in his voice, and itâs got you soaked, thighs clenching.
and heâs in heaven, your soft, heavy breasts in his palms, so perfect he canât stop groaning, his cock throbbing just from touching you. every squeeze, every tug, makes him hungrier, his mouth watering to taste you.
âsatoru, the movieââ you start, but he groans, cutting you off, and youâve had enough. you shove him back, his head hitting the couch cushions, his blue eyes wide with surprise, then darkening.
âfuck, yes,â he breathes as you straddle him, yanking his sweatpants down. his cock springs free, thick and leaking, tip flushed, and youâre already aching to take him. you tug your shorts and panties off and line him up, his cock nudging your slick entrance, and sink down slow, gasping as he stretches you, filling you deep.
satoruâs eyes roll back, a low moan escaping as your tight, wet pussy grips him, so warm and perfect heâs losing his mind. every inch feels like fucking bliss, your walls squeezing him just right, like you were made for his cock. you start to ride him, hips rocking, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting deep, making you moan.
âshit, youâre so tight,â he gasps, hands flying back to your tits, squeezing as you start moving. heâs obsessed, the way your breasts bounce under your top, so full and soft, makes him thrust up harder, wanting to stay buried in you forever.
he leans in, pushes your top up over your tits and then his mouth is on them, sucking one nipple, then the other. âfuck, youâre so hot,â he mutters. he sucks hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, and itâs too muchâyouâre clenching around him, riding faster.
âsatoru,â you whimper, tugging his white hair, and he growls, sucking harder, his whole body trembling from how good your tits feel in his mouth, how your pussy milks his cock.
his hips buck, meeting your thrusts, the couch creaking, wet sounds filling the room. youâre close, your clit grinding against him, and heâs right there with you, hands gripping your tits like heâll die if he lets go.
âcum for me,â he pants, biting your nipple lightly, and thatâs itâyouâre cumming, hard, walls squeezing his cock as you cry out, shaking in his lap. heâs still sucking your tit, hands gripping your hips, guiding you through it. âfuck, thatâs my girl.â
you keep riding, oversensitive but needy, wanting him to cum too. his mouth switches to your other breast, latching on, sucking like heâs starving, and itâs pushing you toward another edge.
âsatoru, oh god,â you gasp, and heâs doneâyour pussyâs grip pulling him under, the way your tits fill his mouth making him cum, cock pulsing, spilling hot and thick inside you. he groans, loud, still sucking your nipple, thrusts slowing as he rides it out, every spurt feeling like heâs marking you, claiming you.
youâre not done, thoughâyour hips keep moving, slower now, milking him, and heâs whimpering, oversensitive, but he doesnât stop you. his mouth stays on your nipple, sucking softer, and the feelingâs got you cumming again, a smaller, shuddering wave, your pussy clenching tight around his softening cock.
you collapse against him, both of you panting, his arms wrapping around you. he pulls back, kissing your swollen nipples gently, then your lips, soft and sweet. âyouâre so fucking hot,â he murmurs, grinning, still half-hard inside you. âmovieâs shit anyway. round two in bed?â
Synopsis. The universe was surely playing a joke on you. Here you were, trapped on a luxury getaway with your - dangerously handsome, extremely obnoxious - ex. Either you were going to kill each other or end up pinned beneath him, split apart on his cĂłck. You just didnât know what would come first.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, exes to lovers, unprotected, argument as foreplay, slight enemies to lovers, more like annoyances actually, cunnilingus, oral (male + female), spitting, creampiÊ, one bed trope, rough, Satoru is still EXTREMELY down bad for you, and unfairly hot, forced proximity, cúmplay, pet names (sweetheart), swearing.
Word count. 8.5k
A/N. Itâs impossible to not write Satoru without bullying him at least a little bit.
You broke up with Gojo Satoru exactly 5 months, 2 weeks, and 16 hours ago - not that you were keeping count, of course.
So why was he outside of your resort room blasting âKill Billâ by SZA like heâs auditioning for the worldâs most dramatic comeback tour? On what shouldâve marked your fourth anniversary, no less.
Well, given you were the one to lock him out, but still - the stubborn bastard could at least have some decorum.Â
With an exasperated sigh, you throw yourself onto the king-sized bed of your honeymoon suite, trying to will away that annoying, grating voice - not SZA, no, more so Satoru singing along at the top of his lungs to the chorus.Â
How did you even get here? And with Satoru of all people - your Satoru. Or at least he was this time a little over a year ago.Â
You first met Satoru when you were in university, back when he wore those pretentious circled sunglasses and waltzed around those halls like he owned the place. And after a single literature assignment together, he wasnât just your (self-proclaimed) best friend; he was the reluctantly favorite thorn in your side.Â
Like the rest of him, Satoruâs introduction into your love-life was anything but subtle. It wasnât like he strolled in, gave a polite nod, and blended into the background. Oh no, he bulldozed his way in and dragged you to dance with him on the tables of some dingy frat party in what you could only assume was some joke from the universe at your expense.
And damn him, you think bitterly, you couldn't resist him that night. Spinning you into a dramatic dip, silver chain brushing your face as his half-lidded eyes bored into yours. You couldnât not kiss him after the way his hands were just searing into your skin.Â
God, youâve never been able to listen to âGasolinaâ the same way ever since. Â
Satoru was in love as he was in the rest of life - a force of nature, and it was too easy to find yourself caught up in him.
That night at the frat party was just the beginning. From then on was a rollercoaster of everything from heated debates over the best flavor of ramen to impromptu road trips where youâd end up under a carpet of stars. Wrapped in each otherâs arms and sharing whispered secrets for an unpromised future - oftentimes where Satoru would crack a joke or two about running away to Tokyo with him. To which youâd laugh it off with a âYeah yeah, Iâd leave everything Iâve known behind in a heartbeat for your dumbass, Toru.â
You just didnât think that it would be the downfall to your relationship. All the empty promises.Â
Because as those heavenly days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, eventually two years had gone by. The whirlwind romance settled into a comfortable rhythm, but with it came the looming promise of graduation and Satoru moving to work under his family company in Tokyo.
Under pressure, it wasnât long before the cracks began to show, the arguments more frequent, and the silences more deafening. And as your relationship slowly turned into nothing more than a husk of what it used to be - so did the both of you.
Long story short, graduation was a bittersweet goodbye - and you think both of you knew long before it was actually over. Neither of you attended the afterparty - with Satoru on a flight straight to Tokyo and you at home to stuff your face with chocolate. Hey, at least you could blame your tears on finally leaving university, right?Â
You had meticulously erased his name from your phone, your social media, and even your dreams - well, almost, the bastard still came around to bother you occasionally. It was messy, painful, and final.
But âfinalâ really didnât explain your current predicament. Because if thereâs one thing youâve learned about Satoru is that heâs always there - whether you liked it or not. He was there when you needed a partner for that literature assignment, and he was there to turn your world upside down at that dingy frat party.
Hell, he was even there to help you stubbornly chug mountains of ice cream and win that raffle for this five day-long getaway trip to the Maldives. Though, you think he mightâve chugged the ice cream without the promise of a vacation anyway.
But, when ultimately those shiny tickets came in the mail - Satoru wasnât there. Oh well, it mightâve been a coupleâs trip - but you could have a hot girl summer, right? Maybe you could even snag a hottie by the end. Youâd almost forgotten that heâd be getting his copy of the tickets as well.
Yet, unfortunately - as the beginning notes of P!nkâs âSo Whatâ bursts through the heavy wooden door - you were inevitably reminded of the fact that he was here. Right now. Goading you into coming outside.
You find yourself groaning inwardly (and outwardly) because of course, why wouldnât he come back even more obnoxious than before? You havenât seen him in ages, yet here he is, crashing back into your life with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Or - you furrow your brows at his purposefully off-key singing carrying over the sounds of the waves outside - with the subtlety of a manchild with a JBL and a premium account on Spotify. Â
Rubbing your temples in frustration, you contemplate how much longer of this it would take before youâre both kicked out of this resort. And after you ate so many ice creams to win this getaway trip? No chance.
With a resigned sigh, you rise from the bed, smoothing out the bathing suit youâd just put on before the devil incarnate showed up knocking at your door. Something hot and prickly pools in your stomach as you approach it, and you canât help but roll your eyes at the sheer absurdity of the situation. So like Satoru.
Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you shakily reach for the handle. Itâs fine. Itâs not a big deal actually.
âŚ
Whatâs the worst that can happen?
Slam!Â
The door swings open, and there in all his smug glory stands a very shirtless Satoru. Gojo pain-in-your-ass Satoru, the same asshole youâve blocked on even Gmail.Â
Except, youâre momentarily struck by how high you have to raise your eyes to meet his. Are growth spurts even a thing anymore? You didnât have a chance to take a good look last time before slamming the door shut at the first flash of white hair and a smug grin.
But right now, traitorously, your gaze catches on just how broad his shoulders look andâŚsince when was he so chiseled? Damn you, Tokyo - you were doing him too good.
His hair is slightly longer too, curtaining those slightly more mature features, stopping just above that ever-immature grin. One which moves as he hums, âWell, happy fourth anniversary to me, If I knew this came with the suite then Iâd have swam here myself.â
You scoff, suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious as he wiggles his brows, striking blue eyes sweeping your figure from head to toe. âIâd prefer if you swam back. What are you doing?âÂ
âWhy, just showing up to our room on our lilâ honeymoon, sweetheart.â Satoru sing-songs, leaning against the doorframe to fully prevent you from slamming the door in his (admittedly) pretty face again. âAnd before you try to break my nose with that door again, I won that ticket here fair and square, yâknow. I ate just as much ice cream as you did for it.â
âYou ate most of those before you knew about the getaway raffle.â you sigh over his nonchalant shrug, pinching your nose, âAnd stop calling it our honeymoon, I dumped you five months ago.â
âWell arenât you just the gift that keeps on giving. Keeping count?â
âNo. Donât be a pest.â
âAlways thought you had a thing for pests. After all, you did date me.â As Satoru grins impossibly wider, you couldnât help but roll your eyes. He winks, âAnd if Iâm a pest then youâre an itch that just wonât go away.â
âAt least Iâm not the itch that shows up uninvited to someoneâs honeymoon suite.â you hiss. And with that you start shutting the door ever-so-slowly, delighting in the panic that overtakes Satoruâs features as he reaches out frantically.
âHey!â he sputters, âI didnât know youâd be here! And besides this âpestâ forgot his slippers all the way in Tokyo and canât stand on flaming-hot boardwalks for too long so let me in.â
And sure enough, you glance down to see that Satoru isnât wearing any slippers on the scorching boardwalk. The realization almost brings a smirk to your lips. This idiot.Â
âWow.â
ââWowâ at my feet or-â
âI should leave you here to rot just for your pure idiocy.â you deadpan, eyes locked on the way heâs burning his soles off yet still has the audacity to flash you a cocky smile.
âBut you wonât.â he hums.
A beat passes. One. Two. And Satoruâs grin almost falters, before you finally relent - opening the door just a crack, cursing his entire bloodline under your breath. âYouâre incorrigibleâ you mutter as he saunters inside victoriously, dragging his hefty luggage behind.
âWhy change perfection, sweetheart~â he calls out, heading straight for the bedroom, only to let out a delighted âOooOOoâ at the sight of the king-sized bed in the middle. The only bed. âHow scandalous, maybe youâll even fall in lov-âÂ
âDonât. Iâd rather gouge my eyes out with a seashell.â you warn, holding up both keycards threateningly, âI get the bed, you take the couch.â
âBut-â
âAnd Iâve got the keys, so slippers or not youâll be back out on that boardwalk.âÂ
A slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips at the way Satoru looked so dramatically crestfallen, you continue - just to be petty, âAnd no more âKill Billâ thatâs on my angry ex playlist.â
With a heavy sigh he sulkily makes his way to the bathroom, calling out as he does, âFine. But Iâm showering first.â
As he disappears from sight you throw yourself onto your bed, basking in what little peace and quiet youâll have because of your unwanted guest. This was going to be a-
âAnd Iâm using all of your body lotions.â
â...â
âI will use one of your body lotions.â
Groaning, you sink into the plush mattress, just wishing it would swallow you whole and spare you from this torment. And this was only Day 1? This was going to be a very long five days.Â
---
The first night with Satoru, honestly, wasnât too bad.Â
You donât know what you expected exactly - maybe for him to pour hair dye in your shampoo or something. But he actually stuck to his word, slept on the couch after only a bit of taunting, and used only one of your body lotions. Your best-smelling, most expensive one, but one nonetheless.
Feeling slightly more optimistic, you spent most of the second day at the beach, meanwhile he stuck to lounging by the pool. Add in a bit of pretending you didnât know him by the salad bar at dinner and that made for an almost-perfect hot girl summer.Â
Well, considering that you were rooming with your insufferable longtime ex - in a honeymoon suite of all places.Â
The only catch came that night, fully content at the burning soreness from being pushed around by the waves outside. You got ready to splay out on your bed, humming along to the tunes of your playlist andâŚSatoruâs lamenting?
âI swear my back feels like itâs been run over by a truck. Five of them, and a zoo.â he complains from behind you, dramatically draping himself over the couch - his impromptu bed.Â
âGood.â
âWhat if that was my last straw?â
âEven better.â
His exaggerated, disappointed whine is both embarrassing and almost-endearing as you roll your eyes, resisting the urge to suffocate him with a pillow. âMaybe call your chiropractor guy.â
Satoru shot you a pointed look, his expression a mixture of faux innocence and irritation, which you knew too well. âI wish but heâs trekking through the Himalayas. Câmon~ Donât you think that lovely king-sized bed is too big for just one?â
âNo, but the boardwalk sure is. Maybe you should try it out.â you monotone, getting ready to end this conversation once and for all.Â
But when has Satoru ever let you off easy? He sits up abruptly, a devious smile curling his lips. âOhh, I get it.â he taunts, batting his long lashes mockingly, âYouâre scared to sleep in the same bed with me.â
Huh?
âOut of all the idiotic-â you cut yourself off by whirling around to face his smug grin, âWhy would I be scared to sleep in a bed with you. Iâve done that far too many times already.â
âExactly,â he chuckles. âAnd all those times you could barely last an hour before without keeping your hands off of me. Scared youâll end up pinned underneath me and stuffed full like old times, sweetheart?â
You narrow your eyes at him despite the heat burning your face. âThe only thing Iâm scared of is your icicle feet on my side.â
He laughs, a sound thatâs equal parts irritating and endearing, and stands up from where he was slumped on the couch. Making his way slowly, but surely towards you, âOh, câmon. For old timesâ sake, admit it, you miss me.â
"Yeah, missed the peace and quiet I donât have because of your big mouth,â you scoff. Finding it hard to meet his twinkling gaze as he comes close enough that youâre toe to toe with him. Your cheeks burn at the proximity - hot enough to match the heat radiating off his body.Â
Satoru shakes his head, undeterred by your threats. And suddenly you get the overwhelming urge to throw him out the window and straight into the ocean. âYou can deny it all you want, but you still have feelings for me.â
Your jaw clenches at his audacity. âYou wish. Iâd never.â
âThen prove it.â
Damn, he was good.
Which is probably how you found yourself lying in the same bed as Satoru, with a wall of all the pillows in the room erected between you two - and a few extra from room service just in case.Â
âSweetheart, this is a king-sized bed. Is the fortress really necessary?â
You wrap your blankets tighter around yourself, trying to ignore the figure radiating warm right next to you. Muttering out a muffled little, âYeah, so you can keep your mitts off of me.â
Satoru groans dramatically, bed creaking as he shuffles what you can only assume to be closer to you. âYou keep your mitts off of me, you lecher.â he quips, voice dripping with sarcasm as he inches closer.
You stiffen at his proximity, feeling his warmth seep through the layers of blankets and pillows as he chuckles softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine, âOh, come on, donât be like that. We used to share a bed all the time.â
âThat was before,â you interject. God, you didnât like where this conversation was going.Â
âBefore what?â Satoru presses, his voice low and insistent.Â
Now, you mightâve let yourself be goaded into sharing a bed but these were old wounds better off left alone. You hiss, tone firm, âBefore. Now sleepâÂ
Before when you didnât have to make a wall of pillows. Before when he would hold you tight and whisper sweet secrets into your ear. That heâd buy you the biggest ring he saw and promise you the world. Before-Â
âI missed you, yâknow.â Satoru breaks the silence barely audible over the sound of your own thoughts. The word pangs through your mind and claws at your chest. And at your silence he continues, tone a little lighter, âAnd stop hogging all the blankets, Iâm gonna freeze to-â
âBoardwalk.â
âMy apologies, maâam. Goodnight, maâam.â
And he sinks back into his pillow with a huff, you let out a sigh of relief. Something hot coiling in your stomach as you close try to catch as much sleep as you possibly could with the bane of your existence laying right beside you. The suddenly taller, dangerously handsome, still as-obnoxious-as-ever bane of your existence.Â
You just wonder if he remembered âbeforeâ.
Oh, how Satoru remembered âbeforeâ. So much so that he had sixteen different playlists dedicated to you even after the breakup.
Itâs divine punishment - it has to be. Satoru thinks thereâs no reasonable explanation for the series of unfortunate events happening to him other than punishment from his ancestors above for being such a pussy and losing the love of his life.
First he forgets his slippers, then he ends up locked out of his own honeymoon suite by said love of his life. Granted, all thoughts of his poor burnt soles went out the window the moment he caught a glimpse of you in that positively sinful bikini. God, were you glowing. A goddess upon Earth - he could really give the Gojo Satoru of five months ago a good, hard kick.
And now heâs stuck in a - very comfortable - prison with you just inches away, tossing and turning in that way he knows means that you canât sleep either.Â
Honestly, very funny universe, the great Gojo Satoru demands a refund. Way to punkâd him into confronting the feelings heâs desperately been trying to bury these past few months - ever since he got on that plane to Tokyo and contemplated faking a heart attack just to get off.Â
Realizing just then that he lost the love of his life - and the only woman whoâd tolerate his karaoke nights. But with that realization came another, more jarring one: he was too late.Â
Every touch, every laugh, and even every time you rolled your eyes was etched into his very soul, and it felt like a montage from a sappy breakup movie directed by a sadistic screenwriter who had it out for him.Â
And it really didnât help that this was the exact suite he was planning once upon a time to propose in. God, how youâd feed him to the crabs if he said anything about that - nevermind the fact that he was actually one that booked this-
But still, some traitorous, annoying part of his heart interrupts, she still hasnât made you sleep on the boardwalk yet.
Maybe - just maybe - heâll wake up to a second chance?
âŚ
Ha. As if.
âI canât sleep.â Satoru groans out loud, more so to drown out his own thoughts than anything.
âWell, I can. Goodnight.â
Ah, his girl was such a lilâ liar. Undeterred, the mattress creaks as he shuffles his weight to excitedly face you, taking a moment to admire how pretty you looked under the dim moonlight. He plows on, âHey, if you promise not to make me crab food, wanna walk along the beach and watch the stars?â
A beat of silence. One. Two. so deafening and tense that Satoru was half a second away from obnoxiously laughing it off as a joke and pulling out his Emo Times⢠playlist.Â
âOr I can go back to the couch and-â
âShut up. Letâs watch the stars, Satoru.â
But what do you know - maybe the universe hasnât given up on him just yet.Â
And, well, if he woke up the next morning breaching your fortress - your warm breath tickling his neck and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like the lifeline he never knew he needed - then, neither of you mentioned it.
---
âHey, Satoru. You think weâll always be like this?â you hum into your boyfriendâs chest, barely a whisper as the looming fears of, well, everything ring in your mind.Â
He pulls you close, flashing a mischievous grin before planting a dramatic kiss on the top of your head. âDuh, Iâll always be around to drive you dangerously close to a stroke, sweetheart.âÂ
You roll your eyes, yet bury yourself closer to his warmth anyway.
âBesides, it doesnât matter if I have to drag you by the leg to Tokyo. Wherever you are is where I belong. â
---
Youâve come to learn that a resort island is only so big when youâre actively trying to avoid your 6â3 manchild of an ex.
Now that you were rooming with Satoru, sleeping with Satoru (in a literal sense only, of course), and just-so-happening to bump into him at the beach - somehow, talking with him is a little easier, his presence just a bit more exciting than youâd care to admit.Â
If the you of four days ago could see what had become of you, then sheâd probably slap some sense into you faster than you could say âKill Billâ. Sleeping in the same bed (still only literally), having dinner, watching the stars - with Gojo Satoru? Youâve gone completely off your rocker.Â
But could you really be blamed? These last few days have you feeling like maybe youâve been dropped into an alternate universe, where you and Satoru never broke up.Â
Yet, reality is a persistent little bastard. And with the end of your trip looming dangerously closer, the past you would be cackling mockingly in your face, flashing a large sign in big, red letters reading âI TOLD you so.âÂ
Whatever. Maybe by this time tomorrow both of you could laugh this all off as a silly little adventure and call yourself somewhat begrudging friends. Maybe youâd even end up unblocking him by the end - on Gmail, at least.
At the very least, dinnertime was a solace - both from your thoughts and the smug bastard talking your ear off about how he could âmake that spaghetti better than a thousand Italian grandmothers.â
Until the fourth - and final - night, that is. When the resort, deciding that your current torture wasnât already enough, arranged a special candlelit dinner. A romantic one. By the beach. With Satoru of all people.Â
Great. Wonderful. Perfect, in fact. Going out with a bang. Was this really part of the all-inclusive package? It was like the universe was playing some twisted joke on you - or some awful version of wingmanning.Â
You grit your teeth silently as youâre ushered to the beachside table, thoughts barely audible over the waves crashing against the shore and the soft, romantic music drifting from the band nearby.Â
The complete opposite of Satoru, who was already seated at the table and enjoying himself far too much for your liking. He lounged back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watched you sit opposite him uncomfortably.
You hated to admit it - but God was he dangerously beautiful in that crisp white button-up, one that you knew was from his overpriced collection for special occasions. You found yourself fighting to avoid the amber hues twinkling in his eyes as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm shadows that bring out his pretty features.
Pretty? So frighteningly pretty - until he speaks, that is.
âAnd here I thought our honeymoon couldnât get any worse. Youâre sweating bullets, sweetheart. This your first date with me or something?â
âWeâre not on a honeymoon, Satoru. And no, it just brings back memories.â you scoff. Relishing in the way he inches his chair closer to listen, clearly not expecting this sudden sentimentality. âMemories of why I blocked you on every social media.â
All but slamming his head down on the table, Satoru whines out, âOuch, straight for the jugular. That mouth is still as bitchy as ever, huh? Though I do prefer it choking on my-â
âIâm going to throw you into the ocean.â
âOoo, kinky~â he hums, swirling his wine glass, âBut you know what this reminds me of? That one time we had dinner under the stars.â
You froze, the memories suddenly flashing back to you despite your best efforts to suppress them. âOh yeah,â you muse. A chuckle leaving your mouth despite yourself, âWasnât that where you spilled ketchup all over your shirt and then insisted it was a fashion statement?â
He leans in closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. âHey! It worked, didnât it? I got compliments from everyone including you.â
âI was just trying to stop you from bursting into tears.â you roll your eyes, shaking your head at the memory.Â
âExactly, sweetheart. Like moths to a flame.â
âMore like to a bug-zapper.â
Satoru throws his head back and laughs, loud and unabashed. A sound that echoes across the beach and makes something warm and sticky strum at your heartstrings. And at that moment, that stupid, little part of you didnât even mind that you were at a special candlelit dinner. A romantic one. By the beach. With Satoru of all people.Â
And he didnât even have to goad you into it with SZA this time.
As the orange glow of the setting sun melded into the cool blue of the night, it almost felt like slipping back into an old routine. The food had long since been finished. Jabs and shared memories flowing through the air like the gentle waves lapping at the shore.
The cool air was now thick with contentment and something so unknown yet so familiar that it made your heart race.Â
 âI swear.â you groan over Satoruâs loud cackles, âHe tried to charm his way out of the bill by flirting with the waitress. In front of me.â
Satoru doubles over, clutching his stomach as he laughs uproariously. âClassic move! If heâs going to be a cheapskate then he shouldâve at least been successful with it.â
Damn, was he eternally grateful for these dim candles. Otherwise youâd surely have caught the rosy flushing tinting his cheeks. How dare you sit there so gorgeous and perfect in front of him. Perfect for him - you havenât changed one bit.
âRight? She looked ready to fling us both out.â You chuckle, eyes catching on the little dimple just at the corner of his mouth as Satoru shoots you a sly grin. âMhm, I know if it were me I wouldâve charmed us out of the bill successfully.â
You raise a brow, retorting, âOh please. Iâve had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of that âcharmâ. Youâd probably end up charming us into washing dishes in the kitchen.âÂ
Ah, right now, he doesnât think he wants to be anywhere but here - bickering with you.Â
âOuch, you wound me, woman!â Satoru feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically before leaning down to whisper, low and conspiratorial, âBesides, I doubt you even remember what pleasure feels like since being with me.â
A thrill goes down your spine as you realize the insinuation of his words, steady and searing - matching that of Satoruâs fingers on yours - which had snuck their way across the table, lazily tracing patterns along your skin.Â
When did they even get there? Sly bastard.
Your mouth drops into a soft oh! at the dangerous glint in his eyes. But you refuse to back down, âDonât flatter yourself, Satoru. Iâve had other guys make me cum much harder than you have.â
Touch burning. Mapping every curve and dip heâd known so well, and this time - you graze them back. A challenge. God, you missed that warm little flutter in your chest.Â
That seems to catch him by surprise, as those darkened blue eyes widen. But thereâs a dangerous edge to his grin as he purrs, voice low. âIs that so?âÂ
And with that, Satoruâs chair is scraping softly against the sand as he stands up, âCâmon, youâre gonna regret that, sweetheart.â
Oh.Â
Satoru knows that itâs been 5 months, 4 weeks, and 8 hours since you two lasted an entire dinner civilly - not that he was counting, duh.
So when he begged the resort staff into setting the two of you up on this special candlelit dinner, he was expecting you to drown him in the lobster tank halfway through or at least end the night with a slap.Â
What he certainly did not expect was to end dinner with you shoved against the closed door of your suite, legs wrapped impossibly tight around his waist, and lips trailing hot, openmouthed kisses down your neck. He angles your neck, body pressing so impossibly close to yours.
Inwardly, you curse his button-up for being so goddamn thin that you could feel his abs rub against you with every little movement. Toned chest rumbling as he groans at your hands tugging at those soft locks - just a tiny revenge, for your body lotion.Â
âS-Satoru,â you whisper, and he breathes it in with an almost-pained sigh - not wanting to part for even a second. Because fuck it took so long to get you back and he wasnât going to waste a single moment.Â
Pulling just a hairâs breadth away, âTell me what you want. Always knew weâd end up-â
âJust shut up and kiss me, you smug bastard.â
âYes, maâam.â
And, well, who was he to deny you? So he does.Â
His lips are searing on yours, hasty and greedy. With a tinge of something so painfully familiar. Your hands make their way onto his chest, feeling the thundering heartbeat against your fingertips - matching that of yours.Â
Sweet. You tasted so sweet. Just like honey, and all the dreams where he didnât leave you behind. Where he didnât get on that damned plane but instead ran to you all the way from the airport like those sappy romcoms you love.Â
He licks at the seam of your lips, drinking in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Kissing you like heâll never be able to again. Because, God, knowing his luck - he probably wonât.Â
One hand cups your cheek so gently - a tenderness that doesnât translate to his lips as he kisses you deeper. Meanwhile the other wanders the expanse of your body, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake.
Satoru parts with a playful nip to your bottom lip - and before you realize whatâs happening, the zipper hits the ground. Heâs ripping your pretty dress off - mumbling something about âbuying a new oneâ before large hands surge forward, groping and kneading your tits.
His mouth waters at the sight of your bra. Light blue - to match his eyes. âYou evil, evil woman.â he mutters into the soft valley of your breasts as you giggle delightedly. Oh, how he couldnât get enough of you.
And if there was ever a moment that Satoru thinks he could cream his pants right there, then this would be at the very top, followed very closely by the sight of that withering glare you shot after opening that suite door to him just a few days ago.
He unhooks your bra with one hand, throwing it blindly across the room as if it killed him to see you clothed.Â
Immediately, Satoru drops to his knees with the desperation of a madman, coming face-to face with the heavenly sight of your clothed cunt, soaking through your thin panties.Â
âDidnât specify where I had to kiss, sweetheart.â
Your gaze pierces through him, as it always did. âWhat are you-â Your words get choked up in your throat as his tongue darts out. Licking a long, languid stripe over your clothed cunt.Â
âShit. So sweet fâme, jusâ like I remember. Just one taste and I feel like mâgonna cum in my pants.â Satoru groans, urgently sliding your wet panties down your quivering legs.Â
âF-flattery wonât work.â you stammer out as his hot breath fans your quivering entrance as he waits just a second - one, two.
Drinking in the view of your pretty pussy with dazed, half-lidded eyes. Wet - so wet, he almost wants to tease you - just a bit, to see if youâll get even wetter. Ah, he doesnât have enough time to take in this view - probably never will. Would it ruin the mood if he took a picture?
âOh, Iâd say it worked pretty well.â
Cock twitching carnally, Satoru needed to taste you now. He immediately surges forward. Breathing you in so sinfully, pooling your juices on his tongue. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he tips his head back back back to let it slide down his throat.Â
Shit, if you were the forbidden fruit then he would gladly be cast out of the garden of Eden.Â
Half-delirious thoughts running through his mind, Satoru flattens his tongue across your swollen folds. Leisurely sliding between them, catching on your throbbing clit up and down up and down up and-
âOh- hngh, Satoru faster-â
âSo bossy.â he hums prettily around your swollen clit, the vibrations stimulating it just right. But of course, what his girl wants, she will get.Â
Lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. Rolling his tongue harshly along your clit, sucking so sensually. Licking at your sweet cunt, dipping just into your sloppy hole.Â
You almost miss the long fingers that deftly slide their way up your thigh, spreading your folds with his thumbs. A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as your walls flutter so sinfully around nothing - aching for more friction.Â
Urgently, Satoru bullies his fingers past your folds, sinking deep into your plushy walls as his tongue continues its abuse. So warm and wet around him. Curling his fingers just right.
âAh- fuck, Satoru- Feels sâgood.â you gasp as he starts thrusting his fingers back and forth. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and-
âOh yeah? Thought you didnât like my âbig mouthâ?â he purrs, muffled around your clit, âLook at you, sweetheart, now falling apart cosâ of it.â
You scoff, fingers tangling in his silky hair, pushing him deeper into your dripping pussy - mostly because you needed it, but somewhat because you really needed him to shut up. âYeah, I like it better when you shut the fuck up.â
And with a dark chuckle, his mouth is back on your cunt. Your slick glossy and dripping down the corner of his mouth as he alternates between sucking unforgivingly on your ravaged clit and fucking into you at the same time as his fingers.Â
And in the delicious stretch of your cunt, you barely register the metallic clinking of a belt before Satoru presses his clothed erection into you.
Shit. You clench so obscenely around his tongue at the feeling of his clothed, painfully hard and throbbing against your leg. Fuck - as big as you remember. You werenât gonna be able to walk for a while.
âYou like this, huh?â he murmurs, speeding up the rhythm of his fingers. Vibrations sending white-hot jolts of pleasure down your spine.
Cracking an eye open you risk a glance downward. Greedily eyeing the hand wrapped tightly around the base, moving up up up. Pumping in small, jerky movements at the same pace of his fingers fucking into you. âLike the way mâgetting off to tonguefucking my girl?â
âLike thinking about how this is what I thought about all those lonely fucking night without you?â You arch into his touch, fingers searing on his scalp and angling Satoru just right to make your knees weak.Â
Heâs so close that you can feel the precum smearing onto your leg. Mouth fucking you in a way you knew he wanted to with his cock right now. Rough and unrelenting.Â
âLike thinking about how youâre all I can fucking think about.â
âHngh- Yes, Satoru! Yes-âÂ
You see stars as you cum - or maybe those were the tears in your eyes. Pulling Satoru impossibly closer to your quivering pussy so that you could ride out your high on his pretty face. And he readily accepts it - letting himself be handled roughly with the conviction of a man that wouldnât mind dying if it was suffocating in-between your pretty thighs.Â
Your vision is hazy, blood still roaring in your ears as Satoru stands up. Not even bothering to wipe away the wet trail of your slick prettily glossing his lips before capturing yours in a searing kiss.Â
âYâknow, sweetheart,â he gasps in between heated kisses. âWe got a king-sized bed so we better make use of it, hm?â
Your back hits the mattress before you can even react. Reeling from shock and the audacity as you bounce at the sheer force of his throw.Â
âNext time you do that youâre-âÂ
Whatever insult at the tip of your tongue melts away immediately at the purely pornographic sight of Satoru stalking his way towards you from the foot of the bed. Eyes hooded, cock rock-hard, kiss-bitten lips parted slightly in a way that was so fucked-out.
Unhurriedly approaching you with such a predatory glint in his darkened eyes as he fucks his fist slowly - so agonizingly slowly. Eyes locked on you.
Despite cumming not even minutes before, your pussy jumps in anticipation. Immediately reaching over as soon as heâs close enough - as if in a trance - to replace his hand with yours.Â
He was big - so mouthwateringly big. Flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light - every part of Satoru was so unfairly pretty.
So hot and heavy in your hand as you pump him at a steady, methodical pace. Precum smearing on your palm, trailing down your wrist as you pump. Tighter on the base, thumbing teasingly under his slit the way you knew he used to like.Â
âOh fuck, sweetheart. Still remember, huh?â he hisses lowly. Ah, the way he still likes.Â
âMhm.â you hum absentmindedly, thighs clenching together at the way his hips grind in shallow, mindless little motions into your soft hand. Meeting your strokes as if trying to fuck something so delicious out of him.
And, well, you just couldnât resist a taste. Bending down in one, fluid motion to delicately lick at his angry, hard head. Slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip. Tracing lightly - ever-so-lightly - down his prominent veins.Â
Satoru groans, low and hoarse with desire, âShit, hah- you donâ ngh- have to-â
âShut up, Satoru.âÂ
And with that, youâre shoving down as much as you can of his throbbing erection down your throat. Cunt clenching at the way he hardens impossibly as you choke and gag around him.
âShit, oh- Oh fuck, mâgirl. Yes yes yes-.â Satoru lets out a guttural moan. Fingers threading through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth. Hips stuttering and jerky with pleasure. Yeah, he definitely missed this.Â
Half-delirious and cock-drunk, you take him all the way till your nose was buried in the tufts of white at his toned pelvis, already so wet with saliva and precum.Â
Still got it, some smug, utterly debauched part of yourself titters.Â
It was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his heady scent filling your senses. Beginning to move up and down up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. Pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.Â
You moan around Satoruâs thick cock, clawing at his toned hips for some semblance of stability. Some truly animalistic part of yourself relishing in the neat, red lines down his milky skin. The sight hazy through the tears that spring to your eyes at the way his fat tip hits your abused throat. A relentless, sinful tempo you were steadily losing your mind to.
Messy. It was so fucking messy.
You just wondered if his orgasm would be the sameâŚ
But, alas, one canât always get what they want. Because Satoru pulls you off of his achingly hard cock with a lewd pop! that rings in his ears and makes your cunt twitch.Â
âShit, sweetheart. Any longer and Iâll have to start thinking about olâ Prof. Gakuganji to not cum.â he pants through ragged breaths, flashing you a deceptively innocent grin. âNow, lay back and spread âem fâme and let me see if your pretty pussy can still handle me.â
And that you donât argue with.Â
Itâs almost embarrassing - the way you scramble desperately to sink back into the mattress. Letting Satoru manhandle your legs open so shamefully for him, throwing them over his muscled shoulders. But thatâs a problem for the future, not lust-drunk you.Â
Right now you couldnât give less of a fuck as his hungry gaze locks on your glistening pussy. Pausing for just a split-second before spitting once. Twice. Thrice onto your waiting cunt. Making you feel more and more like an object as the warm saliva mixes obscenely with your slick, trickling down to form such a sinful pool on the sheets below.Â
And you liked it.
Almost as much as you loved the way Satoru drags his tip along your swollen folds, catching so maddeningly on your clit. Teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. It was so sloppy. And too slow.Â
âSatoru, Iâve waited five months too long for this. If youâre going to fuck me then fuck me like you mean it.â you grit out, frustration and pure need boiling over within you.Â
âOh? So itâs like that, huh?âÂ
And maybe you were a mastermind, maybe you were an idiot - probably both. Because Satoru immediately pushes in one, long thrust into your dripping cunt. Your words catch pathetically in your throat as he loses grip on whatever semblance of restraint he had - or his sanity - whichever one would break you first.Â
Fuck, it feels so heavenly. Oh, how you missed him.
Bowing his body down down down till his damp forehead met yours. Folding you completely underneath him in the way youâve found that only the smug bastard, Gojo Satoru can.Â
You could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in - deliciously painful, borderline insane, and exactly what youâd been trying to deny that youâd been craving all these past five months. Being split apart on his throbbing cock, feeling like you were about to be absolutely devoured underneath him.Â
It seems Satoru was just as needy for you, hot and throbbing agonizingly inside you, each little bump bump bump against your walls matching that of your heart thundering against your chest.Â
Or was that Satoruâs? At this point you couldnât even tell.Â
âOh, god yes-, jusâ like that ah shit shit shit-â
âThis what you wanted, yeah?â A low growl leaves his throat at how sinfully your walls were milking him as he pulls back. All the way till his leaking tip was just innocently kissing your sloppy hole - only to ram his cock all the way back into your snug cunt. âTo be split apart on my cock?âÂ
Shit, he could just about pass out right now with the way your cunt was sucking him in so greedily like she never wanted to part.Â
Guess she missed him too, he thinks deliriously. Not even having to think about it as he starts fucking into you in shallow, mindless little thrusts. Pushing himself deeper and deeper into your plushy cunt.Â
âĂh- fuck, yeah. Sâall Iâve wanted.â you mewl, feeling so vulnerable and exposed under the hungry eyes boring into yours. A dark gleam in them as he grins, âThen take it back.â
Disoriented, you gasp out a strangled, âWhat?â before Satoruâs hips become rougher, chasing his high as much as yours.Â
âWhat you said at dinner.â your lips fall into a soft oh! as you realize just what heâs talking about, âAdmit that no man makes you cum as hard as I do.â
God, you donât think you could answer even if you wanted to, choking on the harsh, purposeful movements of his hips just to fuck your soul out.Â
Heavy balls stinging your skin, the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin fills the heady air. Driving you to insanity. An absolutely unforgiving cadence that has the bed creaking in protest. Ah, whatever, he could buy them a new one anyway if this one just so happens to break.
âTake it back yet?â He had to break you first though.
Slick gushes out of your heated cunt, dripping down his length and pooling at his heavy balls, stinging your ass at each merciless thrust. âNo.âÂ
A large hand hastily makes its way down to draw rough, frenzied little circles on your throbbing clit. Voice strangled, sweat beading on his forehead, thrusts becoming increasingly sloppier. âHow about now?â
âAh- hngh- oh fuck. Satoru!â You could only moan softly in response, broken whimpers leaving you each time his tip kissed your cervix. Angling his hips just right to expertly brush against that one spot he knew so well would have you keening and bucking up into his cock. Your face almost burns at the sheer familiarity of it all. This bastard knew you too well.Â
And something about that made such an uncomfortable, prickly feeling pool in your stomach.Â
Something which you knew would only be sated if you looped your arms around his neck. Nails digging into his sculpted back as you pulled him impossibly closer.
Kissing his flushed cheeks as he murmurs, âTake it back, sweetheart.â
Despite the thick cock splitting you in half till you probably couldnât walk tomorrow morning, you find it in yourself to huff out a soft laugh at the way Satoruâs tone teetered on just that endearing side of sulky. âFine. You win, Toru.â you whisper into his lips,
And then youâre cumming. White-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes and Satoruâs lips gently slotting against yours as he fucked you through your high. Acting as if the fucked-out whimper of his nickname is one heâll never forget.Â
As if he couldnât cum simply from hearing it leave your pretty lips. And he does, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum painting your plushy walls white with a raw groan of your name. It oozes out of your cunt and onto the mess of sheets below as he fucks his seed into you as a lover would. As he would.Â
It was intoxicating - everything from the way you milked his cock so sinfully, to the arms tight around his shoulders. Pulling him close, running soothingly along his skin as Satoru collapses onto you with a final, fucked-out thrust.Â
And despite being a lightweight, Satoruâs never been so easily drunk off of something than he was off of you. God how he missed this - how he missed you.Â
So much so that he canât put it into words - and probably wonât ever be able to. But itâs alright, because your sticky body snug against his, and Satoru arms tenderly around your waist - but you didnât mind. Both of you understood.
Satoru traces his fingers lazily along your side, neither of you bothering to tackle the mammoth task of cleaning up for now. Each movement slow and gentle, as if any sudden movement might shatter the delicate balance between you.Â
All is quiet in your little haven, and you could almost fall asleep. The most contented one youâve had in a while - 5 months, 3 weeks, and 7 hours ago to be exact.
But, of course, Satoru canât keep his mouth shut for nothing. You jolt out of your reverie as he hastily tries to stifle the startled laugh that huffs out of him. Your dazed eyes meet his in the dim lighting, raising a brow in question.
âItâs justâŚâ he starts, voice soft, âYou still call me Toru. Feels like home.â
Ah.
You find yourself chuckling softly with him. Heat rushing to your cheeks, burying yourself deeper into his warm chest, to hide the embarrassingly flustered smile breaking out across your face if anything.Â
Chuckling, Satoru shifts closer, touch now feather-light against your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingertips. Faltering ever-so-slightly as you mutter out, âHappy anniversary, by the way. I didnât say it earlier because someone was being a public menace.â
âHey! Itâs not my fault that someone locked me out of my own honeymoon suite.â he laughs, drinking in your pretty lilâ smile.Â
Ah, you were perfect. As you always were. Satoru canât help but utter out a little, âHey, if I tell you something absolutely stupid, would you promise not to make me fish food?â
âAbsolutely not.â
He knew youâd say that. So he flashes you an easy grin, a hint of nervousness in it that heâs sure you see through - you always do.Â
âSoâŚâ he begins, âFirst thingâs first, Iâm thinking of expanding my fatherâs company further overseas and it might just so happen that Iâm leading the branch development and get to pick where exactly.â
God, you made him feel like such a teenager. At your stunned silence, Satoru could barely raise his eyes to meet yours as he plows on, stumbling so uncharacteristically over his words, âYou, I picked where you are.â
Youâre breathless, words barely audible as his sinks in. âWhat? Toru thatâs-â
âAnd donât be mad but you kinda sorta didnât-win-the-raffle-so-instead-I-planned-this-getaway-when-we-were-together.â
Any and every trace of breathless euphoria leaves your tone as you narrow your eyes at the very guilty Satoru beside you. Fidgeting under your intense scrutiny. Finally - after what seems like an eternity - you find your senses after his whiplash-inducing information dump.Â
A hand immediately shoots out to squeeze his side, right where you knew he was dangerously ticklish.
âYou sneaky little-â you scold over his laughed out yells of, âMercy! No murder on our honeymoon!â squirming helplessly beneath you.
âI canât believe you let me chug all that ice cream.â
âExactly- hah- help! You w-wouldâve been so sad that you ah- didnât win.â he manages to choke out under your attack.
Finally relenting, only once youâre sure heâll be feeling the burn of laughter until your flight tomorrow, you release him from your grasp. A satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you lean in close. âYouâre lucky I still love you, you smug bastardâ you deadpan.
âAww, you beat me to it.â Satoru whines. Yet he reaches out to cup your cheek, âAnd I love you,â words hanging in the air like a promise. âWith every fiber of my being.â
You let yourself be begrudgingly pulled into his embrace again, hands caressing along your skin like the highest form of worship. Satoru sighs out a contented, âBest honeymoon ever.âÂ
But of course, you couldnât help but bully your idiotic boyfriend. âThis is not a honeymoon, Toru.â you mutter into his heated skin.
He only presses you closer to him. Yeah maybe not, fingers deftly dancing along your left hand. But maybe next time.Â
âWanna watch the stars and tell me all about that branch development?â
âOf course, sweetheart, but first can you at least unblock me on Gmail now?â
â...â
You broke up with Gojo Satoru exactly 5 months, 3 weeks, and 12 hours ago. And as for how long itâs been since he won you back - well, you think it might just be one of the few things you didnât keep count of.
A/N. Based on my vacay at Lily Beach except I didnât meet my future husband there :0
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âangleâs good, keep going,â satoru says, holding your phone steady, blue eyes locked on you in the bathtub, bubbles barely covering your chest. youâre friends, but heâs been helping with your onlyfans lately, filming spicy content for your subscribers.
tonightâs shootâfucking in the tubâwas his idea, and the way heâs staring, heâs not just doing you a favor.
âsatoru,â you breathe, water sloshing as you move, straddling him, his cock hard against you. the phoneâs capturing it all, but his free hand grips your hip, guiding you, too eager for just a performance. âwhat?â he grins, cocky, but his eyes are dark, hungry, not the usual playful friend vibe. âfansâll love this.â heâs right, but the way he thrusts up, slow and deep, feels personal, not scripted.
you moan, hands on his shoulders, water splashing, and he groans, louder than he should, like heâs forgotten the camera. âfuck, youâre tight,â he mutters, and itâs not for showâhis grip tightens, pulling you closer, chest to chest, bubbles popping around you. you grind down, teasing, and his head tips back, a low âshitâ escaping, his control slipping. the phone shakes slightly, but he keeps filming, too into it, eyes flicking between your face and where youâre joined.
âfuck, cum for me,â he growls, not caring about the shot anymore, and you do, hard, clinging to him as he follows, spilling inside, a groan ripping from him. he steadies the phone, but his eyes stay on you, soft, possessive. âcontentâs gonna break the internet,â he teases, kissing your neck, but you both know this wasnât just for the fans.
caleb, who is absolutely obsessed with making sex messy. he wants it to be filthy, downright disgustingâ enough to make someone furrow their brows and wonder how he can even like that. how you can like itâ because both you and caleb are absolute freaks.
âcaleb.â you mumble, tone surprisingly stable despite the way heâs thrusting so roughly into you. caleb hums in response, his hand loosening itâs right hold on the bedsheets beside your head. the man leans down, the tags of his necklace dangling so temptingly in your eyesightâ you really canât help it when you grab it and tug him down, pressing a messy kiss to his lips. your tongue meets with his, moans filtering through both of your mouths. âspit in my mouth.â you insist, parting your lips as he pulls away.
the man grins, his free hand reaching to grab your chin. his thrusts never slow or stutter, not even when you stick out your tongue, eyes focused on hisâ youâre waiting. waiting for him. he spares no time in spitting down into the warmth of your mouth, letting out a groan as he watches you swallow it. caleb leans down, letting more saliva drip down before kissing your lips roughly. he moans into your mouth, letting his seed spill deep into your pussy for another time that he really canât countâ heâs came so many times that heâs lost count.
caleb smiles down at you, watching your back arch and lips part, glossy with both of your combined spit and cum. you whine, cumming around his lengthâ he never falters, hips snapping against yours in a steady rhythm. your eyes flutter open just enough to catch caleb staring down at you lovingly, admiring the absolute mess that the two of you have madeâ sure, itâll be a lot of laundry.. but you two canât bring yourself to care. not as long as youâre entangled in this filthy, sweaty embrace.
loveotus - ĘÉ - do not plagiarise, modify, or feed to ai
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