You sit on the edge of your bed in the low amber glow of your bedside lamp, phone warm in your palm. It’s 11:47 p.m. The apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. Your hair is still damp from the shower, strands clinging to the back of your neck. You’re wearing nothing but a pair of grey lace panties that sit low on your hips, the fabric barely there. The rest of you is bare, skin still flushed and slightly dewy, nipples tight from the cool air that slips through the cracked window.

The past few months have been a slow, exquisite kind of torture.

It started innocently enough. You and Garrett had been friends for over a year. Easy and comfortable, the kind of friendship where he’d show up at your door with your favorite takeout after a brutal exam and you’d drag him to the bookstore on Sunday mornings because he “owed you” for sitting through his last away game. But somewhere between the late-night study sessions that turned into whispered conversations until 3 a.m. and the way his hand started lingering a second too long on the small of your back when he guided you through crowded parties, something shifted. The air between you grew heavier.

His texts went from memes and hockey scores to “Can’t sleep. You up?” at two in the morning, his voice rough and low when you called him back. The almost-kiss at Dean’s party two weeks ago still haunts you, the way he’d backed you against the balcony railing, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, eyes dropping to your mouth like he was starving. You’d both leaned in. Then someone shouted his name from inside and the moment cracked wide open. Since then it’s been glances that last too long, jokes that dip into dangerous territory, the brush of his thigh against yours on the couch during movie nights that makes your pulse trip over itself.

You’ve both been pretending nothing’s changed.

You’re both failing miserably.

Tonight something inside you snapped. You got the tattoo last week, a delicate trail of tiny wildflowers and winding vines curling along the curve of your left hip bone, something small and secret and entirely yours. You hadn’t shown anyone. But you wanted him to see it. Not just see it. You wanted to push.

So you stand in front of the full-length mirror now, heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat. You angle your body sideways, one hand resting lightly on your waist, thumb brushing just above the fresh ink. The other holds your phone. Your bare breasts catch the soft light, skin glowing, the peaks tightened into soft peaks. The lace of your panties clings to the swell of your ass, the front dipping low enough that the dark thatch of hair is just barely visible beneath the sheer fabric. Your stomach is soft, the dip of your waist dramatic in this light. Damp hair falls over one shoulder. Your lips are parted, eyes dark and nervous and daring all at once as you look straight into the camera like you’re looking straight at him.

You tap the shutter.

Click.

The photo fills the screen. You zoom in, checking every detail with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The tattoo stands out clearly against your skin. Tiny petals, delicate stems, still a little pink around the edges from healing. Your breast is fully visible on one side, the curve of it soft and inviting. The way your waist narrows then flares into your hip makes the whole thing look like an offering. It’s risky. It’s blatant. It’s the kind of photo you can never take back.

Your thumb hovers over Garrett’s name in your messages, the thread that used to be nothing but stupid inside jokes and now holds weeks of charged, careful flirting. You could unsend it. You should just close it.

Instead you hit send.

The little checkmark appears instantly.

Delivered.

You don’t wait for the three dots. You don’t let yourself stare. The second it’s gone you flip the phone face-down on your dresser like it burned you. Out of sight. Out of mind. Sort of.

You pull on the oversized gray hoodie that still smells like his detergent, because of course you kept the one he lent you after you spilled coffee all over yourself at his apartment, and pad barefoot into the kitchen. The dishes from dinner are waiting in the sink. You turn the faucet on full blast, hot water steaming, and squeeze lemon-scented soap onto the sponge until it’s a ridiculous mountain of suds. You scrub the first plate in tight, furious circles, water splashing up onto your wrists. Your mind won’t shut up.

What if he opens it right now? What if he’s with the guys? What if he thinks you’re pathetic? What if he doesn’t think anything at all?

You rinse the plate, set it on the drying rack with a clatter that’s too loud in the quiet apartment. Your hands are shaking. You grab the next one and scrub harder, the sponge squeaking against ceramic. The tattoo on your hip feels like it’s glowing under the hoodie. You can still see the photo in your head… the way your body looked, the way you looked at the camera like you were already his. The memory of his voice saying your name the other night, low and rough, loops in your head until you’re scrubbing the same spot over and over.

When the sink is empty you dry your hands on a dish towel and move to the bathroom like you’re on autopilot. You squeeze toothpaste onto your brush, the mint sharp and familiar. The mirror shows you flushed cheeks and wide eyes. You brush like you’re trying to erase the last ten minutes. Back and forth, back and forth. Until your gums tingle. You spit. Rinse. Spit again. Then your hand is reaching for the phone on the edge of the sink before you can stop yourself.

You flip it over.

No notifications.

Just the time: 12:06 a.m.

The screen goes dark again when you don’t touch it.

You finish getting ready for bed in a daze, wash your face, moisturize, pull the hoodie off and slip into an old t-shirt that’s even softer. The sheets are cool when you slide between them. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, one arm flung over your eyes. Every few minutes your hand creeps out to grab the phone from the nightstand.

Check.

Nothing.

Check again.

Still nothing.

You roll onto your side, then your stomach, then your back again. The tattoo on your hip presses against the mattress and you swear you can feel the phantom weight of his gaze on it. You imagine him opening the message in his dark bedroom, the glow of his phone lighting up those sharp green eyes, the way his jaw would tighten, the way his hand might drag over his mouth like he’s trying not to do something stupid. You imagine him typing. Deleting. Typing again. Or maybe he just stared at it and locked his phone and went to sleep like nothing happened.

Your stomach twists. Your thighs press together under the sheets.

You check one more time.

The chat is still empty except for that single photo you sent.

You set the phone face-down on the pillow beside you and close your eyes, heart still racing, skin still warm, the ghost of his almost-kiss and the weight of what you just did pressing down on your chest like a living thing.

Sleep refuses to come. The sheets feel too hot, too tangled around your legs. Every time you start to drift, your mind jerks back to that photo, to the curve of your bare skin, the new tattoo blooming against your hip, the way you’d looked straight into the lens like you were daring him to finally cross the line. Minutes bleed into more minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Your fingers twitch against the pillow.

You give in.

Flipping the phone over, the screen lights up your face in the dark. Your thumb swipes across the lock screen, heart lodged somewhere in your throat as you open the chat.

Read.

The single word sits beneath your message like a verdict. No reply. No typing bubble. Just that cold, damning little status staring back at you. He’d seen it. He’d looked at your body, at the tattoo he’d never known about, at the way you’d offered yourself up in black lace and nothing else… and then nothing.

Your stomach drops.

Fuck. Fuck. You completely fucked up.

The panic hits fast and sharp, like ice water dumped over your head. You’d pushed too hard. Too far. What was supposed to be a risky, flirty step across the line now feels like you’d sprinted over it and set the whole bridge on fire. He’s probably staring at his ceiling right now, regretting every late-night text, every lingering touch, every almost-moment. Maybe he’s already typing out a gentle let-down. Or worse, maybe he’s just going to pretend it never happened and things will go back to awkward, stilted friendship until eventually they fade altogether.

You sit up in bed, chest tight, the oversized t-shirt suddenly feeling suffocating against your skin. Your mouth tastes like mint from brushing your teeth earlier, but the anxiety has your stomach in knots and somehow… empty. Restless. You need something in your hands, something normal to do while your brain screams at you.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you flick on the under-cabinet light so it’s soft and low, barely chasing away the shadows. The tile is cool beneath your feet. You open the fridge and stare inside like it holds answers. Leftover pasta. A half-empty carton of strawberries. Greek yogurt. Your hand hovers, then grabs the strawberries and a spoon for the yogurt. Comfort food, even if it’s not really food. Even if you brushed your teeth fifteen minutes ago and the mint is still sharp on your tongue.

You settle at the small kitchen table, knees pulled up, spooning yogurt into your mouth without tasting it. The strawberries are sweet and cold, juice staining your fingers as you bite into one. Each chew feels mechanical. Your eyes keep darting to the phone you set on the table like a live grenade.

Read. The word echoes in your head on loop.

You imagine him opening the message in his dorm or wherever he crashed tonight after practice, those broad hockey shoulders tensing, green eyes narrowing, that cocky smirk slipping off his face into something like disappointment. Or pity. God, pity would be worse. You’ve spent months dancing around this tension, building something fragile and electric, and one impulsive photo might have shattered it completely. The tattoo you’d been so proud of, so eager for him to see, now feels like evidence of how badly you misread everything.

Another strawberry. The juice runs down your thumb and you suck it off absently, mind racing. He’s probably showing the guys. Laughing about how his “just a friend” sent him nudes like some desperate…

No. You cut the thought off, but it leaves a sour taste that the sweet fruit can’t fix. You set the spoon down, yogurt container half-empty, and rest your forehead on your arms on the cool table. The apartment is so quiet you can hear the low hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the wall clock. Your hip aches faintly where the tattoo still sits tender under the soft fabric of your shirt, a secret you’d shared with him in the most exposing way possible.

You reach for the phone one more time, screen lighting up again.

Still nothing.

Just Read staring back at you, silent and damning in the dim kitchen light.

The yogurt and strawberries aren’t cutting it anymore. Your nerves are raw, buzzing under your skin like live wires, and the sweet-tart bite of fruit only makes the anxiety sharper. You need something heavier, creamier, something to drown the spiral. Pushing back from the table, you pad over to the freezer and yank the door open. Cold air rolls out in a frosty wave, raising goosebumps along your bare thighs. There it is: the pint of salted caramel brownie ice cream you and your roommate had picked up on a grocery run last weekend, still unopened, the plastic lid frosted over.

You grab it, peel the lid off with a satisfying pop, and dig a spoon straight into the thick, fudgy center without bothering with a bowl. The first bite is pure relief, rich, and cold, and velvety caramel melting on your tongue with chunks of brownie. You lean against the counter, spooning another generous mouthful, letting the chill numb your racing thoughts even as your mind keeps replaying that single word. Read. He saw everything. The tattoo. Your body. The way you’d looked at the camera like you were already aching for his hands.

Another bite. The sweetness coats your mouth, mixing with the faint strawberry residue on your lips. You’re halfway through the pint, standing there in nothing but the oversized t-shirt and panties, when a sharp knock echoes through the quiet apartment.

Your heart leaps in hope, but you know that behind your door there’s Mona, you roommate. You’d seen her keys on the table earlier, she must have forgotten them or come back early from wherever she’d gone tonight. You don’t even think twice. Spoon still in hand, a smear of caramel on your lower lip, you cross the living room and pull the door open.

It’s not your roommate.

Garrett stands in the hallway, chest heaving like he’d sprinted the entire way here. His dark hair is damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. A thin sheen of perspiration glistens along the column of his neck and soaks into the collar of his gray Briar U hockey hoodie. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, breath coming in rough, visible puffs. Those eyes, usually sparkling with cocky humor, are dark now, locked on you with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

“Garrett… ” The apology is already tumbling out, your voice small and shaky around the spoon still clutched in your fingers. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He doesn’t let you finish.

One big hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you forward as he steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him with his foot. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and urgent and starving.

The kiss is immediate, overwhelming. His lips are firm and demanding, tasting like salt and the faint mint of whatever he’d been chewing on the way over. The cold sweetness of your ice cream collides with the heat of him, caramel and strawberry melting against his tongue as he licks into your mouth like he’s been dying for it. A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating against you. His other hand finds your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, yanking your body flush against his. You can feel the damp heat of his sweat through his hoodie, the rapid thud of his heart, the hard lines of muscle still buzzing from whatever sprint brought him here.

He kisses like he plays hockey. Aggressive, all-consuming, no holding back. His tongue slides against yours, deep and possessive, chasing the creamy sweetness still lingering on your lips. You taste the faint trace of strawberry from earlier mixed with the rich caramel, and he seems to savor it too, tilting his head to deepen the angle, sucking on your bottom lip before diving back in. It’s messy, breathless, teeth grazing and breaths mingling. One of his hands slides lower, palming the curve of your ass under the hem of the t-shirt, pulling you tighter until you’re on your toes, the forgotten spoon clattering to the floor.

You melt into it, the panic from minutes ago burning away under the raw hunger of his mouth. His stubble scratches deliciously against your chin. Sweat from his hair drips onto your cheek as he kisses you harder, like he’s pouring weeks of restrained tension into every stroke of his tongue.

When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, his voice is rough, wrecked.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where ice cream had been. His eyes drop to your lips, then lower, like he’s remembering every inch of the photo you sent. “Fuck, I’ve been losing my mind over you for months. That picture…” He exhales shakily, kissing you again, shorter this time but no less fierce. “I ran here. Didn’t even wait for the elevator.”

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your hands still fisted in his hoodie, heart slamming against your ribs. A breathless laugh escapes you, half relief and half disbelief. “You ran? Garrett, I thought I ruined everything…”

He cuts you off with another kiss, this one softer but deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips like he’s still chasing the taste of salted caramel and strawberries on your tongue. “Ruined?” he murmurs against your mouth, the word vibrating through you. “Baby, that picture almost killed me. I’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes trying not to lose my damn mind. Even begged that fucker Tuck to drive me over.”

You smile into the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip playfully as the tension that had been choking you all night finally snaps into something electric and giddy. “You made me wait for twenty minutes? I was stress-eating ice cream and spiraling, thinking you’d ghost me forever.”

Garrett chuckles, low and rough, the sound sending heat pooling low in your belly. His hands slide down to grip your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your t-shirt to brush the sensitive skin right above that new tattoo. “Ghost you? After you sent me that? I’ve wanted you for months, every damn study session, every late-night call. You think I gave you this hoodie because I’m nice?” He walks you backward, mouths still connected, the kiss turning messy and hungry again as your shoulders hit the wall beside the kitchen entryway.

You gasp softly when your back meets the cool surface, but you pull him closer, one hand sliding up to tangle in his damp hair. “Could’ve fooled me with all that ‘we’re just friends’ bullshit,” you tease between kisses, tugging his hair lightly. He groans at the pull, pressing his body fully against yours so you feel every hard inch of him, still warm from the run, heart racing, the faint salt of his sweat mixing with the sweet remnants on your lips.

“Yeah, well, friends don’t send photos like that,” he retorts, nipping at your jaw before capturing your mouth again. The kiss is fiercer now, tongues tangling, his hand sliding lower to palm your ass and lift you slightly so your toes barely touch the floor. You taste the urgency on him, that same barely-leashed want that’s been simmering between you for months. “Friends definitely don’t make me run across campus at midnight with a fucking hard-on because of a hip tattoo I’ve never seen before.”

You laugh breathlessly into his mouth, the sound turning into a soft moan as he kisses you deeper, devouring the strawberry-caramel sweetness still clinging to your tongue. Your free hand slips under his hoodie, palm flattening against the warm, sweat-slick skin of his abdomen. “It’s new,” you murmur when he lets you breathe for half a second. “Wanted you to see it first. Guess I got impatient.”

“Impatient looks fucking good on you,” he growls, walking you backward again, mouths fused together. You stumble together down the short hallway, bumping into the corner of the wall with a shared laugh that dissolves into another heated kiss. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your chin. One of his hands stays possessively on your hip, thumb tracing the edge of your tattoo through the fabric like he’s memorizing it by touch, while the other braces against the doorframe as you finally reach your bedroom.

You push the door open without looking, tugging him inside by the front of his hoodie. “Then stop talking about it and come see it up close, Graham.”

Garrett kicks the door shut behind you, eyes dark and gleaming with that familiar cocky spark mixed with raw need. He backs you toward the bed, kissing you the whole way, slow and deep one moment, frantic and biting the next. “Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs against your lips, the words half-teasing, half-reverent.

You tumble onto the mattress together in a tangle of limbs and laughter that quickly melts into something hotter. His body covers yours, heavy and solid, the weight of him pressing you down into the sheets in the best way. Your hands push at his hoodie until he yanks it off one-handed, tossing it somewhere behind him. His muscles shifting under your palms as you explore the planes of his chest and shoulders.

He kisses down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point, then lower, pushing your t-shirt up and off. Cool air hits your bare breasts and you arch into him with a shaky breath. “Garrett… fuck, I can’t believe this is happening,” you whisper, words spilling out before you can stop them. “All that time pretending and I send one risky picture and now you’re here—”

“Shh,” he teases, but his grin is wicked as he hooks his fingers into your panties and drags them down your legs, eyes locked on the new tattoo curving along your hip like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. He presses an open-mouthed kiss right over the ink, tongue tracing the delicate lines. “Been thinking about this exact spot for the last half hour. So fucking pretty.”

You’re already wet, aching, and he doesn’t make you wait long. He settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open, and presses a slow, teasing kiss to your inner thigh first, then the other, making you squirm.

“Garrett,” you breathe, already talking because your brain won’t stop. “Don’t tease me, I’ve been dying for this, you have no idea how many times I…”

He cuts you off by dragging his tongue up your center in one long, firm stroke. The sensation rips a moan from your throat. He’s good. Devastatingly good. Like he’s studied exactly how to unravel you. His tongue circles your clit with perfect pressure, alternating between flat, broad licks and quick flicks that make your hips jerk. He hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core, and you can’t shut up.

“Oh my god… yes, just like that. Fuck, Garrett, your mouth… I knew you’d be good at this but this is ah unfair.”

He chuckles darkly, the sound muffled against your soaked folds, and the vibration makes you clench. One of his hands grips your thigh, holding you open while the other slides up your body. His palm settles over your throat, firm but careful, fingers wrapping just enough to apply light pressure. Not cutting off air, just there. Possessive. Grounding.

You moan louder, hips bucking against his face as heat floods through you. “Yes… fuck, yes. I love your hand there. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Garrett groans in response, the sound vibrating through you as he doubles down. His tongue works you relentlessly, lapping, sucking your clit between his lips, then dipping lower to push inside you. He’s messy and thorough, chin glistening, eyes flicking up to watch your face while his thumb strokes the side of your neck in time with every devastating lick. The combination of his talented mouth and the steady pressure on your throat has you spiraling fast.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against you during a brief pause, voice rough. “Sweeter than that ice cream you were eating. Been dreaming about this pussy for months.”

You whimper, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Then keep going. Don’t talk, just, fuck, right there, Garrett. Your tongue is so good, I’m gonna… I can’t stop talking, I’m sorry, it feels too good.”

He tightens his grip on your throat just a fraction, just enough to make your eyes flutter, and sucks hard on your clit. The pressure, the heat, the way he devours you like he’s starving sends you hurtling toward the edge. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, one hand fisting the sheets while the other grips his hair, holding him exactly where you need him.

“Garrett, I’m close, so close, please, your hand feels so fucking perfect on my throat, I love it, I love…”

He doesn’t let up. The teasing flicks turn into focused, rhythmic strokes, and with one last perfect curl of his tongue combined with the steady squeeze at your neck, you shatter. Your back arches hard off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He works you through it, tongue gentling but not stopping, hand still firm on your throat until you’re shaking and panting, babbling his name like a prayer.

When you finally slump back against the pillows, boneless and glowing, Garrett presses one last soft kiss to your sensitive clit before crawling up your body. His chin is shiny, eyes dark with satisfaction and hunger as he leans down to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Still talking?” he teases softly against your lips, thumb stroking your throat where his hand had been.

You let out a breathless laugh and nod, cheeks flushed, body still tingling from the aftershocks. “Good. I want to hear every single sound you make tonight.”

You reach for him immediately, hands sliding down his bare chest, fingers tracing the hard ridges of his abs before hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants. “Then you better get these off,” you murmur, voice husky and still a little shaky. “I’ve waited months for this, Garrett. I need to feel all of you.”

He kisses you again, deep and slow, while you push the fabric down his hips. He helps you, kicking the sweatpants and his boxers away in one impatient motion until he’s gloriously naked above you. Your eyes drag over him hungrily, broad shoulders, defined chest, the sharp V of his hips, and his cock, thick and hard, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, twice, and he groans into your mouth, hips jerking forward.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “Keep talking like that and this is gonna be over way too fast.”

You don’t stop. You can’t. The words keep spilling out as he settles between your thighs, the heavy weight of his cock resting against your soaked pussy. “Then don’t go fast. I want to feel everything. I want you slow… I need you to ruin me for anyone else.”

Garrett’s eyes darken at your words. He reaches between you, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit until you’re whimpering and rocking against him. Then he lines up and pushes in. Slow, inch by thick inch.

The stretch is perfect, intense. He fills you completely, bottoming out with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through his chest into yours. You both still for a moment, breathing each other in. His hand finds your throat again, resting there with that perfect light pressure as he looks down at you, eyes locked on yours.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You feel even better than I imagined. So fucking tight… warm… perfect.”

He starts to move in rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. It’s passionate and fucking intense. Every stroke is deep, purposeful, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel around him. His hips roll in a steady rhythm, grinding against your clit on every downstroke. The hand on your throat stays firm, possessive, while his other arm braces beside your head, muscles flexing as he holds himself above you.

You can’t stop talking, the pleasure loosening your tongue completely.

“Garrett, fuck, you’re so deep. I can feel you everywhere. Don’t stop… just like that, yes, god, you’re amazing at this. How are you so good?” Your nails dig into his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. “I’ve thought about this so many times… you inside me, stretching me, owning me, ah!”

He leans down and kisses you through a particularly deep thrust, swallowing your moan as he grinds against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. His pace stays agonizingly slow and passionate, but each thrust carries raw power, controlled intensity that makes your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. “Been thinking about you too,” he growls against your lips, voice strained. “Every practice. Every game. Every fucking night. This pussy is mine now, you hear me?” He punctuates the words with a slow, circling grind that makes you cry out.

“Yes, yours. It’s yours,” you babble, head tipping back as his thumb strokes the side of your neck. The pressure there, combined with the relentless, perfect drag of his cock, has you spiraling again. “Harder… wait, no, don’t go faster. Keep it slow, I want to feel every inch. Fuck, Garrett, you’re hitting so deep I can’t think straight. Your hand on my throat… I love it, I love how you feel…”

He captures your mouth again, kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re air. His thrusts stay deep and unhurried, but they grow more intense, each one pressing you harder into the mattress, his hips rolling with athletic precision, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. The hand on your throat tightens just enough to make everything sharper, brighter, pushing you right to the edge.

Then something shifts. His control frays.

“Fuck, I can’t…” Garrett’s voice breaks into a growl as his rhythm changes. He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with powerful, relentless strokes that punch the air out of your lungs. The slow, passionate grind turns into something raw and urgent, the wet sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. Each thrust is deeper, harder, the head of his cock dragging perfectly against that spot inside you over and over. Without warning, he grabs your left leg and hooks it over his shoulder, opening you up even more. The new angle lets him sink impossibly deeper, the head of his cock pressing against places that make your eyes roll back.

You cry out, legs tightening around him. “Yes, faster, Garrett. Just like that. God, you feel so fucking good when you let go…”

He pulls back slightly, eyes blazing as he looks down at you, a flushed, babbling mess, taking everything he gives you. His hand leaves your throat only for a moment before his palm connects with your cheek in a sharp, controlled slap, not hard enough to truly hurt, but firm enough to sting in the hottest way possible. The sound cracks through the room.

Your reaction is immediate. A loud, needy moan rips from your throat as fresh heat floods your body. Your pussy clenches hard around him, hips bucking up to meet his faster thrusts. “Again,” you gasp, eyes glassy with pleasure. “Fuck, do it again. I love it.”

Garrett’s eyes widen, surprise flashing across his face even as he drives into you harder. “Holy shit,” he breathes, voice rough with awe and lust. “You’re fucking filthy. I had no idea you were this kinky.” A wicked, surprised grin tugs at his lips as he slaps your other cheek, lighter this time, testing, watching your reaction like he’s discovering a whole new side of you.

You moan louder, head turning slightly into the sting, a breathless laugh mixing with the sounds. “Surprised? I’ve been holding back too, you know. Wanted you to ruin me, wanted you to be rough. Slap me again while you fuck me harder. Please.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-groaning at how turned on you are. The surprise only seems to fuel him. He picks up the pace even more, pounding into you with deep, punishing strokes, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. His hand returns to your face, delivering another firm slap that makes your skin bloom with heat. You clench around him so hard he curses.

“Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” he growls, leaning down to bite at your neck while still driving into you relentlessly. “My sweet little friend. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Yes, yes, I do, I love it,” you babble, words tumbling out faster than you can think. “Harder, Garrett. Fuck me harder. Slap me again, I’m so close. Your cock is perfect, you’re so deep, I can’t… fuck!”

He obliges, delivering one more sharp slap across your cheek as his hips snap forward with bruising intensity. The combination sends you flying over the edge again. Your orgasm crashes through you violently, walls fluttering and squeezing around him as you cry out his name, body shaking beneath him. Garrett follows right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes hard, hips stuttering against yours. He collapses on top of you, both of you panting, sweaty, and utterly spent.

After a long moment, he lifts his head, still buried inside you, and looks at you with a dazed, impressed grin. “Remind me never to underestimate you again,” he murmurs, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your stinging cheek. “That was… unexpected. And so fucking hot.”

You smile up at him, body still humming with aftershocks, and run your fingers through his messy, sweat-damp hair. “Told you I’ve been holding back. There’s more where that came from, Graham.”

He chuckles tiredly, the sound low and warm against your skin, and finally eases out of you with a shared groan. Rolling onto his back, he pulls you against his chest, one strong arm wrapping around your waist. His breathing is still heavy, chest rising and falling as the exhaustion from his midnight run and everything that followed starts to settle in. But you’re buzzing, wide awake with a giddy, post-orgasm energy that won’t let you stay still.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, tracing lazy circles over his abs. “Hey… I want to show you the tattoo properly. In good lighting. Up close. No rush, but… can I?”

Garrett cracks one eye open, looking thoroughly fucked-out and amused. “Right now? Baby, I just ran across campus and railed you into next week. I’m running on fumes here.”

“Please?” You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, using your sweetest voice. “It’ll only take a second. I’ve been dying for you to really see it. It’s my favorite one I’ve ever gotten.”

He sighs dramatically, but the fond smile tugging at his lips gives him away. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re excited.” With a groan, he lets you tug him up into a sitting position. You switch on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a soft golden glow, and kneel on the bed beside him, turning your hip toward him.

You guide his hand to rest on your skin, right over the delicate vine of wildflowers and tiny stars that curls along your hip bone. “See? I designed it myself. The flowers are for new beginnings… and the stars because you’re always dragging me to look at the sky after games, remember?”

Garrett’s fingers trace the ink gently, reverently, even as his eyelids look heavy. He leans in, pressing a slow kiss right over the tattoo, then another a little lower. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, voice thick with tiredness and something softer. “Suits you. I can’t believe I get to be the first one to see it like this.”

You beam, heart full, and crawl back into his arms. “Good. Because you’re gonna see a lot more of it from now on.”

He pulls the covers over both of you, tucking you against his side with a sleepy, satisfied hum. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” His hand stays possessively on your hip, thumb brushing over the fresh ink as his breathing evens out.

Character Profile

Curt and intense, Kohn is the most hostile robot that pursues the player through the ruins of the outer streets. As the leader of the patrols, he’s both strong and highly intelligent.

Although he remains distrustful of the player for the entirety of the game, Kohn is well respected among the robots, if a little intimidating. Those who work more closely with him will assure you that he’s actually quite reasonable despite his outward appearance.

Kohn lurks everywhere, but most of his time is spent patrolling the outer streets. Between shifts, he can be found instructing guards in the repurposed factory base, asking about stock in the warehouse, and having repairs done in Channelle's workshop.

Relationships

Channelle - TLDR, best buddies and confidants.

They are extremely close, sharing many of the same views and a generally dry personality off the clock. The two frequently seek each other’s company to talk, both for leisure and regarding work, but are just as comfortable hanging out in silence.

They also work on a side project together that the player can piece together through the environment. Kohn approached her about creating a leg model that other robots could use to replace faulty limbs. The two have since continued to develop and test duplicates of the current model he uses in their spare time.

Garrett - They’ve known each other for years and while friendly, as co-workers tend to be, they’re more work acquaintances than friends. While they encounter each other regularly they have difficulty holding an amiable conversation for long.

Still, Kohn views Garrett favorably. He appreciates Garrett's dependability and can respect his distaste for violence despite their disagreements over Kohn’s use of the latter.

Kohn occasionally asks him for advice on how to be more approachable to newer scouts, though he's hard pressed to admit it. He also lingers in the area when Garrett plays guitar. While he's just 'passing through', he seems to enjoy the music.

Sydney - His work partner/protégé. His patrol group has four robots total, but they usually split into two duos for pursuits.

Trivia:

- While he stands stock still at rest, he’s very reactive. He may impulsively crush things in his hands at loud noises and become snappy at false alarms. Kohn keeps an even temper in most other circumstances.

- He’s light for his height, like a scarecrow, and is built for speed. Channelle and other workers can, and have, half-dragged half-carried him back to the base when injured.

- Kohn is instinctively physical. He’d rather grab you by the shoulders to turn you towards a target instead of wasting time explaining it to you. Unfortunately, this doesn’t combine with his clawed hands very well.

- Kohn does his laundry the most among anyone in the group. This is usually due to blood and grime.

- He has worn giant oven mittens over his hands while helping Sydney with stray dogs in the past.