jakescakeislateforourdate

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

omg that don fic was amazing!!!! could you write another smutty one please? 🥹🫶🏻

your wish is my command so I present to you nothing but Don and his lovely hands

Piano Man

Jack's Don Hume x reader

wc: 4,000

⚠️ WARNINGS ⚠️: fingering, oral, riding Don, Don trying to be bossy, minors do not interact lest I have to water board you

Enjoy this garbage!

Don Hume always had gorgeous hands. They had elegant curves and dignified bones and moved so forcefully yet gracefully. And he was downright intentional in his every use of them. 

He always had immaculate technique when rowing, perfectly executing every twist and pull of the oar. He was a most excellent pianist and could play almost any piece he wanted. He had beautiful handwriting. If there was anything that had to do with hands, Don could do it. Better than most.

You know this to be true. 

Mostly because you felt them on you.

It happened the night of their first win. The boys dragged poor Don on stage and made him play. The simple then was too humble for him but he was nervous. Once it was over and he was allowed to leave the stage, he made a point of sitting on the same bench you were. By himself. Just a few feet away. 

“Congratulations on your big win, Don.” You scoot closer so he can hear you. His face drains of color. He’d always thought you pretty but that’s exactly what made him shy. Too shy to ever really make a move or even talk to you outside of your shared classes. 

“Th-thanks.” He stutters and jams two fingers between his throat and his collar, trying to swallow down the lump of nerves choking him.

“I had no idea you played the piano.” 

“Oh yeah, I uh…” 

You keep talking to him, and he keeps responding. The people on the dance floor become a blur in his peripheral and the music is a jumble of white noise. He doesn’t even notice the boys pointing and shouting excitedly at seeing Don talking. They would come looking for him eventually, thinking he was dancing with you in a secluded corner, but by that time Don would be long gone.

Walking you home had turned into a kiss on the cheek to the full enclosure of lips. He was so dizzy. So unable to comprehend the earnestness in the kiss until you grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and pressed him to the door. “Maybe you should come inside?” Your whisper against his lips makes his vision spin. He’s half worried he’ll pass out on you but that doesn’t stop his eager nod. 

Your hand closes around the brass doorknob and you twist. Don is met with the sensation of falling. But he’s weightless; he hardly feels the stumble and scuff of his shoes. The door closes and locks and it’s just you and Don away from prying eyes. Something happens that Don cannot explain. His initial shyness dissipates; and he finds himself tugging you onto his lap when you collapse onto the bed. 

Your dress skirt, soft as silk over his rough knuckles, sweeps up your thighs as he wanders. He distracts you with kisses as his fingertips brush the hem of your tights. They trail over and find the seam, tracing downwards towards the gusset. One of Don’s tentative fingers rubs over the gusset. There’s a slight dampness over the puffy labia and his fingertip lingers. Gentle swipes of the digit tease your slit; his touch is just light enough to map out the ridges and valleys of your core. He graduates to two fingers pushing through the growing wet patch. He enjoys the huffs and gasps against his lips, drinking them down to fuel his newfound confidence. 

You’re busy too. You undo his tie and fling it onto the nightstand. The buttons of his halfheartedly ironed shirt come next, exposing the scape of his alabaster skin. When your hands touch his bare chest, he flushes all the way down to his clavicles. Your touch is so cloud-light he’d miss it if he wasn’t so intensely absorbed in the moment. You break apart just so you can look down while you explore him. 

He thinks it’s the first time he’s ever been touched like this, by someone who has more care than greed. It’s not hasty or ravaging, the way some others had been before you. Where theirs was trying to get in and out of his pants, yours is trying breach something deeper than just his body. Don had never felt this before. This tingling in his muscles and nervous that resonated from the places your skin meets. How his heart hammers and blood rushes in his ears. He’s tempted to let you strip him down and take him apart like he’s done so many other nights. But he can’t. Tonight, cannot be those other nights because you are not those other women.

Don bunches up your dress in his fist and yanks it over your head. He takes note of the goosebumps rising on your skin from the kiss of the cold air and he brings you in closer. Hot breaths puff over your cheeks as he rubs over the gusset more seriously, fervently. 

“Don—”

His name passing through lips is like the call of a beloved memory, of a favorite song over the radio coming to life on a piano’s keys. He remembers hearing you say it for the first time when you met up in the library for a group project. “You’re Don, right?” That melodic “aw” was beautiful in your mouth. It became ingrained in the folds of his brain as he heard it again and again until that sound could pluck his heartstring when it rattled his ears.

And you had no fucking idea just how deep it ran. 

You’re pushing at his shirt now, wanting it off him so you could know more of him. He allows you this because it’s only fair. And also, because he’s addicted to the zap of connection. He calls your name back as he applies more pressure through his fingers. You’re dripping now and shifting uncomfortably in those tights. Time to get you out of them. 

Don slips his arms around you, bundling you up as he swaps your places and gracefully lays you down. He fixes a kiss to your lips as he works the tights down your thighs, over your knees, and off your ankles. His kiss slides from your lips to the underside of your jaw and begins to travel down your throat. He moves to slide a finger through your folds only to find a paper-thin strip of lace keeping him from you. 

He pulls away and stares down in shock. He hadn’t even noticed them. How had he not noticed them? They’re frilly and black and coordinate with your bra; you’ve put on a matching set just for him. You’d planned on bedding him long before he’d gotten the balls to kiss you. 

“Everything okay?” You ask, hips canting upwards. 

“Yeah, yeah—” he’s just speechless.  The longer he thinks about it, he realizes he’s always been the one to initiate things. He had never considered that someone would want him back enough to actually plan ahead. He’s never actually seen lingerie before, and he feels stupid and inexperienced for it. He should say something so that the silence doesn’t stretch for too long. “You might just be too pretty for—”

“Oh, don’t even start with that.” Your legs settle around his waist, “You don’t hear half the things people say about you, women in particular.” 

“They talk about me?”

“All the time. Usually about how cute you are. Or how strong you look. And sometimes, about these beautiful hands of yours.” You lift his hand and suck two of his fingers into your mouth. 

Don gapes at you. As you suckle at his digits, he absentmindedly makes a pass over your clit with his free hand. You gasp as he slips one fingertip under the lace and drags it through the sticky slick. As your mouth opens wider, he pushes his fingers further across the velvety expanse of your tongue, pressing down on at the back of your throat.

You don’t choke.

Good hell, you don’t even gag. His fingers are sunk to the third knuckles, and you hardly react save for your fluttering eyelids and belabored breaths. He’s hypnotized by the sucking sensation and flow of saliva and the scrubbing of tastebuds. He dreams of stuffing his painfully hard cock into your mouth and prays you’d be able to deep throat him even further. 

Shit, if he keeps going on like this in his head he’s going to cum in his pants.

Don musters up enough sense of mind to tug his fingers free of your drooling mouth. He takes your jaw into his wet grip and lays a vigorous kiss on your lips. Meanwhile, his other fingers trace your clenching entrance and tease the gushing hole. In that bleak, dead quietness of night he can hear it; he can hear the faint squelch of his finger pushing in and stretching you out. You whimper against his lips. Your sweaty palms ball up along the rise of his spine. 

After he’s done bruising your lips, he strips your drenched panties off and shuffles off the foot of your bed. He drags you down until your feet hang off the edge and your cunt is set before him. 

A real delicacy you are. 

Slick strings across your folds and clinging to your most pleasurable spots. One careful stroke parts your folds so he can put it in again, carving along your walls. Each careful push and pull of his finger ricochets from nerve to nerve like wildfire and leaves your chest heaving. He begins to meticulously unravel your stroke by stroke. 

Patient, he needs to be patient. He remembers spending hours and hours practicing the piano as a child and into his teen years. How that progress took so much time and patience. Sometimes he’d felt so frustrated he’d wanted to rip the pages out of his piano books, but he knew that wouldn’t make him a better player.

Similarly, rushing this night just to get an unsatisfying but instantly gratifying high won’t make him a better lover. At least, not the kind he wants to be. He recognizes that keeping you means showing you a good enough time that you want it from him again. That you need to be just as hooked on his every breath as he is on yours. 

“Want another—” 

Your airy cry rips him from his stupor. He registers the arousal dripping down the back of his hand from your pussy. His middle finger unfolds as his index finger withdraws. Two blunt fingertips greet your hole this time, wriggling past the initial tightness of your entrance and resuming his ginger pace. This is about building up, he reminds himself, his foreplay has to fulfill you but leave you desperate at the same time. 

While his fingers find a steady rhythm and pattern of thrusts, his tongue wanders out of his mouth and the very tip curiously tastes the wetness on your swollen clit. 

You choke, “Sh—it! DON!” feet scraping over the sheets as your knees come up. He’s sure he’s not giving you enough to cum but the way you react to each circle of his tongue around your clit makes him wonder if he underestimated your sensitivity. 

“Feel good?”

“So fucking good!”

This makes him grin, tongue retracting so he can place a loving kiss to your folds, “I’m glad but try to keep it down. I’d prefer to be the only one hearing you like this.” Then his tongue is back at its nagging swipes. You’re burning to the touch, pulsing against his splayed mouth, and glistening like a crystalized renaissance painting. You talk of his hands like they’re something magical and he wonders if they might just be with what they’re doing to you. It makes him proud. 

Don slows the thrust of his fingers to a maddening caress that grazes your walls like the edge of a feather. “What do you need?” Don mutters between licks. He’d tell you to beg because that’s what he really wants but he doesn’t know how far he can push you and he’d rather play it safe than sorry. Patience, care, and tact, he tells himself. Tonight must be handled delicately.

“Wan’ you.”

In a moment of ego Don breaks away with a wet pop, “I know, sweetheart, but you’re going to have to do a little better than that.”

You whine and nudge him with your ankle, but Don doesn’t budge. He simply returns to his shallow thrusts and slow, sloppy kisses. He figures you’ll give in and, “You said to be quiet.” You complain.

“Bullshi-that’s not what I meant!” In a way you’re not wrong but he did not expect attitude, “and complaining won’t get you anywhere.” He withdraws his fingers entirely, leaving his only his lips to soothe your burning skin. 

You chuff unhappily and thread your fingers through his hair, “Want you in me, Don, ‘ve been wanting it for a while.”

Finally. 

“Why didn’t you say so?” 

You’d love to get smart with him and slap the smirk off his lips but he’s undeniable cute in his smugness. It doesn’t help that you find his secretly darndest behavior very much attractive. You would have never guessed this about him; that he would be so authoritative when intimate when his mellow demeanor had blindsided you. 

Don dusts kisses up your tummy and breasts as he moves the both of you back up the bed. His knees dig into the mattress as he kneels, pulling you up to straddle him. Chest to chest, you wrap your arms around each other in a sweaty embrace. The bedframe rattles slightly and you can see the midnight sky out of your window now. You wonder when the dance ends and pray that it’s not soon so you can take your time with him. Or more likely, so he can take his sweet time with you. 

“We can stop if you want?” You must have been staring out the window for a moment too long because when you look back at Don, there’s concern filling his shadowed eyes. Nighttime is just as pretty on him as afternoon sun on his shoulders as he rows or the warm stage lights as he plays. He probably thought he overstepped. 

“You’re gorgeous, Don.” 

Even in the dim moonlight you can see his blush. The red blooms swallowing up his freckles and erasing his nervousness. “Where do you find the gall to be so blatant?” It’s a genuine question, he’s never been able to be so flatly open about what he thinks. He’s always marveled at the people who can 

 At some point he must have shed his pants because you realize that he’s bare beneath. A happy trail of dark downy hair winds down his navel. Then there’s his erection, where the rest of his body is pale as porcelain, his leaking cock is ruby red and glistening with a rivulet of precum streaming down the underside. 

He guides himself to your entrance and replaces his arm around your waist. “Tell me if you need a moment.” He his head tilts forward, forehead pressing against yours, eyes sweeping over your face.  He pushes his throbbing tip into your entrance and sucks in a huge breath. You both clutch each other tighter, fighting off moans as he works himself in. His eyes have fluttered closed and his jaw his clenched painfully. 

He bottoms out, thighs flush with yours, and sighs mightily as you relax around him. You cup his face to keep your foreheads together. He resolves that you must like this proximity then. That you like it enough kiss him hard and drain away his composure. Before he can lose too much, Don’s arms flex, his abbs tensing as he drags you up his cock and then drops you back onto it. Two strained cries echo off each other. He does it again, again, bouncing you on his lap. You grip his shoulders for better support; your nails digging into his sun-bitten skin. “Don, baby—” 

“Holy f-fuck!” His voice breaks into your mouth as he slots your lips together. Earlier he’d been drunk on the pulse of your cunt against his tongue but now that it’s surrounding him, he feels helpless. A ringing fills his ears, he squeezes his eyes shut, and his entire body clenches up as he slams you down harder. His hands splay over your waist and are probably bruising you but both of you are too absorbed. At some point you’re done kissing, but your lips stay brushing each other, open mouthed and utterly consumed in a mind-melting pleasure. 

Sweat trickles down Don’s face. His hair is a mess from your fingers raking through it and he’s flushed from the tip of his nose to his belly. While he’s on the border of knocking himself out, you find it in you to slip your hands off his shoulders, trusting his strength, and bring your uncoordinated fingers to his chest. Don practically screams when your fingertips graze his pert nipples. His back bows into you, pushing his chest into your hands. He nearly loses his balance. You pinch them, hard, and Don has no choice but to drop one hand to the mattress and lean away from you. In this position, you’ve got enough leverage to ride him yourself, bringing your hips down to meet his thrusts. And no matter how Don seems to squirm, he can’t escape your mean fingers. Then you’re bending down, and your lips wrap around the sensitive bud. 

Don is beside himself. What is he supposed to do? You drooling pussy is swallowing him every heartbeat and your tongue and lips are ravaging his chest. He feels a low pulsing deep in his stomach and knows he has to stop this now. The remaining hand on your waist travels up your spine and tangles in the roots of your hair. He pulls. Your lips pop off his chest and you peel away from him. He must not let tonight go like those other nights. He reminds himself.

“If I remember right, I’m supposed to be treating the lady.” Don sits back up which forces you to slow your pace, your balance off kilter now. 

“You were.” 

“Turn around.” There’s newfound resolve in Don’s eyes and you want to test it, but you can sense his restraint. He’s been playing nice for most of the night probably. “I’d rather not ask again.” You listen to the bite in his words and climb off him. Once you’re on your hands and knees, Don takes your hips in his hands. You feel his tip at your entrance again. He bottoms out in a single thrust this time and decides to show you a bit of the endurance he’s been able to pick up. 

You were right about him holding back earlier because now he’s truly fucking you. And he’s doing it just right, hard enough that your walls spasm and clench but not so hard that it hurts. He’s managing to tiptoe the border of pain and pleasure. His chest (still wet with your saliva) presses to your back as he adjusts himself. A hand has returned to your hair, guiding your head up and back so he has access to your throat. Briefly you wonder if all those girls who talked about his body and hands knew anything at all about his mouth. Maybe you’d keep it as a coveted secret. 

The sound of it all is absolutely ludicrous. His hips bruising your ass creating a sharp smacking sound. Occasionally the sound of his lips sucking at your neck. But worst of all are those moans he’d told you to keep to just his ears. You can’t help it. He’s efficiently fucked himself into your head well enough to keep you hooked on his every move and careless to the outside world. 

“All you wanna do is talk about how pretty I am but you forget yourself.”

Don’s voice has picked up a rasp. He may have incredible stamina, but his care is costing him. Each squeeze of your walls is bringing him closer to an edge he’s not ready for. He needs you to cum first which is why he had to abandon the softer sex because he’s too prone to the intimacy. He’d have been finished minutes ago if he hadn’t pulled you off him. 

“You’ve got no idea how badly I’ve been wanting to do this. How many times Bobby’s had to curse me out for letting me mind out of that boat, or how many times I miss lecture notes because I can’t take my eyes off you, or many damn times I fall asleep to thoughts of you and wake with cum in my pants. Fuck you! Fuck you for making me like this! What the hell!”

Then comes that victorious moment when he feels your whole body tense up. 

“You gonna cum? Gonna fuckin’ cum for me? That’s right! C’mon, let go. I’ve got you.”

Don let’s go of your hair and cradles you to his chest as he holds his pace steady. A shudder racks your body and you let out a strangled moan as the blinding hot heat washes over you. You go silent, drool pooling on your bedsheets, cum gushing as you squeeze the life out of him. Your head spins, body becoming light, it shocks you to the core.

“Baby! Baby!” Don pleads into your ear. He’s gonna cum, he swears it’s taking his everything not to. “Sweetheart!” 

You vaguely register him begging you for something, reaching a shaky hand to clutch his forearm. 

“Where do you want me?” He sounds like he’s going to cry. 

“Please!”

“—please!”

He doesn’t know what to do. He should probably pull out but then what. He doesn’t have enough time to think too hard. He jerks away and falls back on the bed. His rough hand, much less favorable to your gummy soft walls, strokes rapidly over his cock. He wails and grips himself too tight but then he’s cumming, hot spurts of white seed splattering on his torso. 

Both of you stay frozen in place, shaking from your orgasms. Don recovers enough to reach a now clumsy hand for your waist and roll you over. Your eyes a shut tight and you’re breathing hard. Your thighs quiver and close as the cold night air chills your body. He knows it’s probably time to leave. The party should be ending soon, and your roommates will be back. 

He soothes a hand over your thigh before getting up to open the windows. He cleans his cum off his stomach the best he can and then scoops you up into his arms. “Donny.” You curl into him, and it breaks Don’s heart. He really just wants to stay right here but he can’t.

“I know,” He strokes your hair and kisses your forehead. For the first time he feels truly satisfied. He feels loved and like this is how it’s meant to be. And it’s only reaffirmed when straighten up and kiss his balmy cheek.

“Promise me we’ll do this again.”

“Swear on my stroke seat.” Don murmurs, sharing a tender kiss with you.  He feels you smile and congratulates himself on the accomplishing his goal. “You need to get cleaned up. Your friends will probably be back soon.”

You sigh and slowly extract yourself from his arms. You open your wardrobe as Don redresses himself. “You really mean you’ll come back.” 

“Truthfully, I wasn’t intent on leaving at all, but these dorms—” he trails off. It’s a curse for everyone he supposes. Once he looks suitable for going out, Don hugs you one last time. His forehead rests on yours, a position he must like, and he gives you another soft kiss. “See you tomorrow in geology?” He asks, sweeping the hair out of your face. 

“Only if I can walk to class.” 

“C’mon now, you said you’d tell me if I went too hard.”

“It wasn’t too hard. It was perfect. You’re perfect. Now get out before anyone sees you.”

“By the way, I’ve got about an hour between geology and English, we should you know—”

“Out, Don.”

…

Masterlist

#boys in the boat #don hume #don hume x reader #smut #mdni

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Writers Truth & Dare Ask Game

🎱 ⇢ post your AO3 total stats  🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction?  🌵 ⇢ share the link to a playlist you love 🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that? 🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis 🥑 ⇢ you accidentally killed somebody, which mutual(s) do you text for help? 🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love 💌 ⇢ how many unread emails do you have right now?  🌻 ⇢ tag someone you appreciate but don't talk to on a regular basis 🐇 ⇢ do you prefer writing original characters, reader inserts, or a mix of both?  🧃 ⇢ share some personal lore you never posted about before 🎲 ⇢ what stops you from writing more in your free time?  🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings 🧸 ⇢ what's the fastest way to become your mutual? 🪐 ⇢ name three good things going on in your life right now 📚 ⇢ what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app?  🍬 ⇢ post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character 🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project? 🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on ❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best? 🌿 ⇢ give some advice on writer's block and low creativity 🥐 ⇢ name one internet reference that will always make you laugh  🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work? 🍦 ⇢ name three good things about a character you hate 🥝 ⇢ do you lie a lot? what's the most recent lie you told? 🦋 ⇢ share something that has been on your heart and mind lately  🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?  🍅 ⇢ give yourself some constructive criticism on your own writing 🐚 ⇢ do you like or dislike surprises? 🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here ☁️ ⇢ what made you choose your username? 🐝 ⇢ tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them 🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them 🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it 🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Hi! Are you still taking requests?🫶🏻

Yep I’m just on a trip right now so your request might get delayed a few days. What do you have in mind?

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Hey guys, sorry I’m on a trip right now so your requests might be delayed a few days. So sorry

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

hi I am the anon from the other day I was thinking about being in a established relationship w Don and he has a rough day a practise I don’t have your talent at writing lol so do what you please after that ahah

Perfect Form

Don Hume x fem reader

wc: 2,900

tbitb masterlist

⚠️ WARNINGS ⚠️ : smut, little plot, mdni, minors get out right now, penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, overstimulation, Don denying his own orgasm, aftercare

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Don’s skin glimmers with sweat. His hair is wet and slicked back from his shower not even twenty minutes ago. His pants leaning into his forearms that prop him up over you. His hips roll gently, and he slides in and out of you irritatingly slow. 

“Don.” You whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek. He’s burning, face heavily blushed from the bridge of his nose and down his neck and chest, “need you to go harder.”

His eyes blink open, glancing over you agitated features. They travel down your sternum and stomach and catch on the desperate thrust of your hips to meet him. Instead of helping you out, he places a mean hand on your hip bone and pushes you down, holding you still. His pace does not change, arousal soaking the juncture of your bodies and poisoning the air. You whine at him and try to push against him but the only measured strain it takes to keep you down is the new flex in his bicep. “Just lay down and take what I give you—” 

“C’mon, Hume!”

“Faster, Hume!”

Bobby wouldn’t let him catch a break. Poor Don had been catching crabs all morning, his oar piercing the water at the wrong angle or the wrong time. Something was always wrong with him. 

“Don’t give me that shit, Donny! You can do better!”

“What is that form!”

He just needed to breathe for a second, get his feet under him. He could Joe angrily huffing behind him. Shorty groaning in frustration behind Joe. All Don could feel were their annoyed glares and the sting of their complaints. He was in the stroke seat, he could not afford to be off his game ever and yet there he was, floundering like an idiot. 

“Get it together, you’re slowing this boat down!”

“Pull that again and you’re outta that seat!”

He did not get better by the end of practice and the crew would not get off his case. They complained on the way to the locker room, inside the locker room, in the showers, on their way out of the shell house. Coach Ulbrickson couldn’t even give him the time of day, telling him “If you don’t have yourself sorted out by tomorrow, we’re gonna have problems.” As if Don hadn’t been told off enough. He fumbled through his routine, tuned out to half of what everyone was saying. He tugged on his jacket and then his shoes, not even bothering to tie the laces. 

At this point the crew was more concerned than they were angry. Don was quieter than usual. His face was long and sullen. His gaze distant.

“What’s wrong with Don?”

“What should we do about Don?”

“How can we help Don?”

On and on and he just wanted everyone to shut up and let him fix whatever problem he’s got. He left the locker room, his hair still dripping with the shower water. He found his way to your room without even thinking about, subconsciously knowing what he needed. 

“F-fuck! You feel too good.” His head dips, hair tickling your collarbone. Your hands tangle in the dark strands of hair at the at the back of his head, holding him close. His bare body moves rhythmically. Slow and steady and restrained. He just wants to feel you, prove to himself that he as control. You’d offered to ride him, let him rest his tired body but he flat out refused and shut you up with a kiss. “Just—I just—” As he trails off his pace slows even more. 

“Don! Don, please!”

You can’t handle this leisure fucking, you want him faster and harder. The drag of his cock through your drenched walls is lugging you to a harrowing climax. You feel that knot forming in the pit of your stomach. The broiling heat that electrocutes your veins and shocks your muscles. 

“Faster, faster, faster…”

But Don just doesn’t listen. His thrusts remain soft, and his pace still relaxed. It frustrates you to no end and the need curls painfully inside of you. You arch off the bed, straining against the hand pinning you to the mattress. Your hands latch onto his shoulders. You actually gain some leverage against him which allows you to buck your hips into his oncoming thrust. The excess force creates the most delicious sensation as his thick cock is stuffed further into your soaked pussy. 

“Hn—ngh!” Don’s lashes flutter and his brows draw tight, “Ha’ahfuck! Don’t do that.” The way you squeeze him makes his head spin. Not to mention the fact you’re now grinding back. Don reckons that the only way to keep you still is to drop his full weight onto you. 

That glorious feeling of finally getting that mind-tickling pleasure dies away has Don’s sweaty skin presses fully to yours. Chest to chest, you’re effectively trapped between him and the mattress. “No-no. Why won’t you let me,” his lips cover yours in a callous kiss. The taste of that mint gum he likes to chew spreads over your tongue as his licks into your mouth. Your teeth clack, noses knocking as he rips away your precious breath. Your hands rake down his freckled arms. His own rough hands chase them down and fill in the gaps between your fingers and jam them into the pillows. Aside from your legs, folded by his hips, you’re completely stuck. 

“Will you jus’ listen to me.” His lips abandon yours and he resumes his cold-hearted pace. 

Tears well in your eyes, blurring his facial features and strangling your throat. It softens Don up a little as he watches you begin to cry because it’s how he’s been feeling all day. Finding some sympathy, Don grants you a deeper, harder thrust. He feels your stomach spasm at the newfound sensation. Your insides churn and you toss your head back and moan. Don tucks his knees under you, lifting your pelvis onto his thighs and forcing you to spread your legs wider. You squeeze his hands and sob as he hits deeper. His cock head drags over your g-spot, that rough little patch inside you that makes you twitch, with each of his calculated thrusts. Slick paints your folds, squelching as he pulls out to the tip and then shoves all his length and girth back in. You’re speechless and squirming and totally helpless to his whims. 

“Better?” He plants a kiss on your tear-streaked cheekbone and nuzzles. 

You choke and moan again, but you don’t try to fight him. Instead, your toe curls and you twist. Your orgasm is building faster than he wanted but he figures he can just give you more. He feels the stress of the day melting away as he watches you slip into the mind-numbing pleasure he gives you. He does that. He does it perfectly and controlled and with excellent form. 

“That’s right. You fucking love this, don’t you? Love me and my dick.” 

You wail and shudder as your insides uncoil. He delivers one more measured stroke and you cum hard. Your curl into him as your muscles tense. Clutching onto his hands so tight the knuckles crack. He can’t even move his hips once your legs lock together behind him. The waves of your orgasm wash over you and your walls wring out wetness around him. He wants to cum too, so bad, but he forces his way out of your hold and lets his climax fizzle out before it can shred him.

You whimper at the loss of contact. Your eyes peel open to see him not far away, hovering over you and breathing deeply. His thumb finds your clit and draws circles around the under stimulated bud. “Why...” You can’t catch your breath. “Why did you not—”

“Don’t want this to be over just yet.” 

Don scoops you up and moves you towards the top of the bed. Your back rests against the headboard, a pillow jammed under your hips. He props your legs open and plants a few kisses on your sternum and ribcage before trailing down your belly. Your spasming, dripping core is fully exposed to him and he ravishes you with a ravenous tongue. 

The velvety muscle curls and licks around your clit. It moves fluidly through your folds and prods your clenching entrance. “Hnn, Don!” You’re sensitive and lightheaded and now he’s giving you more than you bargained for. 

He mouths at your core for a while, making an even bigger mess of you. Your fingers tug at his hair and grab at his shoulders but he cannot be coaxed away. His lips, bruised from your rough kiss, suck on your clit and drive you insane. He braces his hands on your thighs and dips his tongue into your hole. You shiver and grind against his mouth as he tongue-fucks your sensitive core. Each brush of his tongue along your walls makes your toes curl and your chest heave. You didn’t get a chance to really recover from the last orgasm he gave you and he’s already steadily working you towards another. 

His thumbs find the petal-soft labia and spreads your folds. You bawl. His tongue flattens out and draws over your exposed parts. Don is relentless in this, his coarse tastebuds relishing the sweetness at oozes out of your cunt. He licks from your clit to your hole, circles the tip just around the inside, then licks back to your clit. Don suckles at the bundle until your thighs shake before he allows his teeth to graze the swell of nerves. Slick and saliva drip down his chin even as he slurps down what he can. 

You chant his name, “Don. Don. Don—” desperate and horny.

His hand leaves your clammy thigh, a rough fingertip pressing on the edge of your hole. His mouth works your clit, a faint slurping filling the breaths between your noises. One long finger pushes in. Then a second. Two rugged digits stroke your pussy and make you squirm. “Fuck Don, fucking—hell!” He can barely hear you cursing he’s so immersed. When you’re not looking at him buried between your thighs or studying the back of your eyelids, you’re watching his hips hump the comforter and sheets. 

Freckles like constellations dot his sinuous back. The pointed ridge of his spine divides the expanse of muscle. He’s tense. Still bothered by whatever has gotten into him today. He digs his fingers into that sore spongy g-spot and you writhe. Pleasure radiates from your overwhelmed core. The next high approaches fast as an avalanche. He works a third finger into you and it’s over. You go completely rigid as you cum again, gushing around his fingers. 

“That’s it, makin’ such a mess.” Don smirks, lips shining with cum.

You think he’s finished when his mouth leaves your cunt and lunges into a sloppy kiss, but then his fingers drag through your folds and pinch your clit. You jolt and keen, still fighting through the aftershocks of the last orgasm, and now he’s belligerently overstimulating that sensitive bud. You can’t get a word in with his tongue down your throat either, all you can do his clutch at him and whimper.

Once your lungs are exhausted of air, his mouth pops off your lips and he wedges himself between your thighs. “Stop trying to close your legs.” 

“Please—it’s so—f-fuck-ing—I can’t!”

“You can take it.”

His fingers rub fast, slicked up by your cum. He catches your clit between his digits and pinches again; it’s just enough pressure to border on pain. He bullies you against the headboard and steals your words away again. You try to kiss him back only to pant into his grin as you begin to wheeze. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Your blood is boiling, body spasming, your mind blank. Your third orgasm hits just as hard as the first two, making you cry out. He eases you down and pulls you back down the bed. He falls into place behind you and lifts one of your tired legs.

“Don, I can’t.”

“Give me one more, one more.” He promises, arm wrapping protectively around you. Your body feels like lead as the arm curled around you props your leg up. The other disappears and then promptly reappears with his cock pinched between his fingers. He pushes the tip through your folds and collects your slick. He’s already drenched in precum, a wet spot on the sheets from where he was grinding.  “Can you do that for me?” He rests the tip against your weeping hole, waiting for you to reply. “Need you to talk to me, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck, I—yes,”

He nudges the tip in and gently works his way back in. He’s long and thick and well aware that he’s a lot to take whether or not he was just inside you minutes ago. But he’s going too slow, that same stupid pace that drove you nuts earlier. 

“Not again, Don, please not a-again!” Fat tears drop across the bridge of your nose as you slump against him.

Don’s free hand soothes you, “Shh, don’t worry, just don’t want to hurt you.” Upon your distressed whines he begins to fuck, hard and fast. He rests his cheek on your temple and rolls his hips as fast as he can while still pushing deep. You go alarmingly silent, and gun grabs ahold of your chin. “Hey, hey, you okay?” 

“Hnnn!” 

You clench and his pattern falters, he’s painfully hard and hungry for release but you must cum first. You raise up on one elbow; Don follows and slips his arm through the newly formed crevice. His fingers find the pert pink but that is your nipple and trace around it. He flicks it back and forth and eventually pinches it between his index and thumb. A drawn-out cry leaves your drooling lips. Don’s free hand finds lifted knee and he hoists it even higher and rolls his hips harder. 

“Oh—” your head falls back, and Don pecks your temple. “I-hah-have to…gonna cum.”

“Yeah?”

Don fucks you so hard the bed creaks and mattress shifts, his skin slaps against yours and leaves behind a sharp sting. His leftover frustration bubbles up and takes over. He’s absolutely savage in giving you your last climax. Broken moans tumble out of his lips as your pussy constricts around him. You suck up empty breaths and Don knows you’re close. He drapes your suspended leg over his hip and reaches for your clit. He musters up enough coordination to find his way through the mess and stroke the aggravated organ. He feels where his cock has stretched you and lets out the most guttural groan as he pinches his throbbing cock between his fingers. 

Black spots obscure your vision as you cum. You thrash and collapse into him, “I got you. I got you. I’m right here.” He whispers into your ear as you cream around him. He takes it for as long as he can withstand, wanting to help you ride out your high, but when the dam bursts he has to pull out and roll onto his back. He strokes himself from balls to tip once, twice, before his insides are racked with his delayed orgasm, and he spills creamy white semen all over his stomach. He pulls you close, rubbing your tummy with the hand still tucked under you. 

“You alright?” He partially sits up and brushes back your hair. Sweat has beaded on your forehead and your eyes have shut tight. He jostles your shoulder until you nod. “Good, let me clean you up.” 

He climbs off the mattress and crosses the room on his shaky legs. He draws a warm bath, adding some bubbles to it before scooping you up setting you in the tub. “Are you okay, Donny?” Your eyes open just a hair and kiss his hand. The blisters and callouses hurt your heart. 

“I am now.” He returns the kiss to your nose before turning to analyze the state of your room. The mattress is damn near falling off the bedframe and the sheets have somehow been tugged from the corner. He lugs the mattress back onto the frame and replaces the sheets. He scrubs his cum off his belly then he’s climbing into the bath with you. The hot water eases the soreness in his whole body. 

You soak together, billing and cooing about the day. Don lets it slip about practice and you snort. “That’s what this has been about?” 

“Hey, now,” A smile plays at his lips as you tease.

You swat him, “Don’t even play innocent. Not after what you just did.” 

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m only teasing, Donny, I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, you worry wart.” You kiss his tender lips. He cleans you with soap and and washes your hair, fingers massaging your scalp. For a while you rest your head on his chest. Until your eyelids become heavy and you’re in danger of falling asleep in the bathtub. Don helps you out of the tub and into some pjs before he’s ushering you into bed. “You should stay.”

“You want me to?”

“You ask too many questions, Don, get in.” He slips in and nestles himself against you. He’s still bare, knowing he’ll get too hot in his sleep and also knowing what he’ll be like in the morning. The only reason her got you dressed was for the soul purpose and privilege of undressing you later. But that’s for the morning and for now he just wants to cuddle up and sleep off a long day. 

...

Dear reader,

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this fic please check out my other works on my masterlist. Requests are open if you want to ask . Have a nice day.

-the author

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Stealing Kisses

(Actors from The Boys in the Boat)

Joe Rantz, Don Hume, Bobby Moch, George (Shorty) Hunt

tbitb masterlist

A collection of kissing scenes. Might write something for Chuck Day later, we’ll see, anyway, got carried away with Don, I would die for Bobby

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Joe Rantz:

Joe is a gentleman. He plans it’s out, wanting to take you on a decent date beforehand to set the mood and feel out just how much you like him. He doesn’t have money or a nice apartment or cooking skills for that matter. What he does have is his strength and his smarts.

So he takes you for a boat ride one sunny afternoon. He brings his guitar, opting for a little less country than the banjo, and paddles you out to a secluded spot. Despite his protest, you brought a basket full of treats and you talk as you share them under the hot sun.

His blond curls become waves of amber grain in the sunlight. After a while you fall into a comfortable silence which gives him the opportunity to pull out his guitar. Now he’s been planning this date for a little while so he picked some new songs to memorize. Sweet and romantic but not too lovey dovey. Though he doesn’t hide the fact that he loves country music.

As he strums his guitar he catches you intently staring at him. You look at him with so much affection that it makes him blush and stutter and he forget the words to his song.

“You’re cute, Joe.”

It makes him laugh so much he has to stop playing entirely. You tease him, enjoying his laughter.

After he recovers you both decide to venture out onto land. Wild flowers grow along the banks in great colorful bunches. Joe begins collection some, blue and purple and white and yellow, and he begins to weave them together.

It’s a special trick he learned while he lived alone, cutting and clearing trees for a living. During his breaks he taught himself to do this. The braid the delicate flower stems into bracelets and rings and crowns.

Joe makes the finest crown his has ever managed. He carefully lays the creation on your head and tucks away any loose strands of hair. ‘You’re gorgeous’ he wants to say. If he was a little more gutsy he would.

His hands trail down to cradle your cheeks. He’s not gutsy enough to tell you you’re pretty but for some reason he has the gall to lean down and kiss you.

His lips are a little chapped from rowing practices, the heavy breathing dropping his jaw and the wind biting his lips. But they’re gentle and sweet. Joe soaks up the private moment and rests his forehead on yours. He wraps his arms around your waist and sways back and forth with you. He starts singing again and you dance together in the afternoon sun.

Don Hume:

Let’s be honest here, you’re more likely to kiss him first. You simply make him too nervous to even find the coordination to plant his lips over yours.

After their first win, Don is dragged out to celebrate. Luckily his sweetheart of a few weeks now is already there. You’re happy to see Don out and about whether or not he likes it. Bobby flashes you a wink as he pushes Don into a chair next to you.

It’s too loud. You can’t hear a word the other says. In a blinding moment of courage, Don takes your hand and pulls you out of the hall. His calloused palm is sweaty. His fingers tremble between yours. You remember him first approaching you, Bobby pushing him forward and then abandoning him at your library table.

“Hey, you’re Don Hume right? From the rowing team, right?”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“What can I do for you, Don?”

His tongue had gone dry. Where are his words? His mouth dropped open “I—” you smiled at him and it made everything worse.

“C’mon, Don!” You heard Bobby whisper shout, a collection of the rowing team has amassed behind a bookshelf, quietly cheering him on.

“Can-can I takeyouonadate?”

He panicked and cursed himself out, thinking he spoke too fast and you don’t catch what he said and now he’s going to have to ask all over again.

“I’d love to go on a date.” Your smile brightened and Don’s shoulders drooped in relief.

He still stutters asking you on dates now.

Don finds himself walking you across campus grounds and the pale light of the moon. “You did so good, Don, in your race.”

“Thanks.” He speaks so softly the whistle of the night breeze in the leaves is almost louder. He turns to you, catching your gaze first and then blushing and nervously glancing down at your lips.

He’s never kissed anyone before, but he thinks he wants to kiss you.

There’s a comfortable silence that fills the space between your faces. Don’s eyes keep flickering to your Cupid’s bow. To that perfect curve. He starts to say something but his words leave him again as he feels soft lips shutting his mouth.

His lips are rough, worn from the blustering winds. He smells faintly of sweat and the river water that sprays up from the churning oars.

Don can hardly think enough to kiss you back. He blinks, stunned and you lean in to kiss him again and again. He’s overwhelmed by the warmth of your lips and the velvet soft press of your tongue. His shaking hands clutch at your cheeks, trying to ensure that it doesn’t end.

“Don, baby—”

“Kiss me again, please.”

There’s a smile on your lips when you wrap your arms around him. “Only if you promise to dance with me.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Just…”

This time he kisses first.

Bobby Moch:

Bobby is a confident man. He maybe shorter than your average guy but his boldness makes up for it. But I also think you’d kiss him first.

You’re waiting for him to finish up practice, your routine being to go on a long walk and let Bobby blow off some steam before studying together and then going home. Bobby emerges from the shell house, clearly bothered, but he can’t help his smile when he sees you waiting on a bench with two warm cups of tea in your hand.

“Good evening, lovely, should we go to the library or the bridge?”

You hand him a cup and take his free hand. “I think… the library would be nice.”

“Me too.”

He squeezes your hand. He starts his rant and angrily blabbers on until you’re at the steps of the library. Somehow, between all his complaining, he’s managed to chug his whole cup of tea.

The library is fairly empty at this hour. Most students having given up on studying for the day and retired to either their dorms or gone off to work. Bobby drops his bag onto a secluded sofa and the two of you sit down for a nice, quiet study date.

While Bobby reads over his textbook chapter, you notice things about him. The wrinkle that forms on his forehead when he's focused. The tilt of his eyebrows. How his lips purse. You notice the tiny blemishes on his cheeks; they were once little nicks or pimples that he picked. You keep stealing glances of him. Absolutely fascinated by the way lamplight reflects off his skin or the curve of his jaw or the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows. He hadn't really bothered to straighten out his hair after his shower and it's dried wild, tickling his face.

Bobby catches your gaze and it's stunning, how light pools in his eyes. How his irises brighten. His gives you an adoring look and returns to pouring over his textbook.

Then there's his lips. They look so soft and they're so gently rounded they look hand carved. Occasionally he'll lick his lips and you get a flash of tongue and white teeth. At some point you decide to just go for it. You've been dreaming of kissing Bobby for some time now but he's been content to let you take things at your own pace.

You reach of his textbook, "Need something?" Bobby asks genuinely. His gaze is uncharacteristically kind. He's always yelling at the top of his lungs or bossing around or saying something snappy. That's just Bobby. So why does he look at you like this? Like he's watching the sun rise.

"Yes, actually." And then you deliver a kiss to his lips. Bobby is caught off guard and before he can really even kiss you back, you're pulling away. "Sorry--"

"Don't even think about it." Bobby quips, "Get back here." He cups the juncture of your jaw and throat to bring you in but you hide in his palm. "Finish what you started. C'mon. Don't you feel like trying it again? I'm ready."

When your lips touch again Bobby is gentle in making it last. He never presses too hard but be doesn't let you shy away again either. He kisses you until the taste of him has stained your tongue and the oxygen is gone from your lungs.

George "Shorty" Hunt:

Sly dog, this one is.

George is highly tactical(he likes to think so) and because he’s so brilliant he hatched a perfect plan to get you to kiss him. He wants to see how bold you can be.

He makes three plans, two of which fail. They go like this. The first time he tries it, you’re walking him to practice. His jacket is slung over his shoulder and he’s telling you about his engineering class. “You know there’s this term we use called osculate which is where the curve of on surface meets the curve over another and they share a common tangent.” You raise a brow. Shorty licks his lips, “It’s also formal code for kissing.”

“Don’t even—” you swat at him and push him towards the shell house. “Go practice and share a tangent with Day!”

“Hey now,” Shorty pouts and disappears into the shell house, defeated. That was attempt 1. The second attempt hardly goes better.

It’s the night after their first win and Shorty is dancing with you. His nerdy pick up lines proved to be a failure so he goes for building some good old fashion romance. He’d gotten you flowers and taken you out for dinner before he brought you here where the music is so loud it blocks out everyone else around you.

Now you’re slow dancing, cheeks pressed together, hands laced with one another. The first thing you notice is that he smells good. You have no idea if he’s wearing cologne or if it’s the soap he uses to wash his clothes but he smells divine. The second thing is how soft his hands are despite the wear and tear of the pad. The third is that he didn’t put any product in his hair. You’ve always loved to play with the dark curls and fluff it up. But sometimes he styles his curls and the products make his hair stiff. But his curls are free today which tells you he’s been thinking about you and all the things you do.

“Watcha smilin’ about?” Shorty asks, his eyes light up as he smiles back. He hopes you’re thinking about it. He hopes you’re wanting to kiss him.

You plant your hands on his chest, “Nothing, you just make me happy.” It’s quite possibly quite possibly the nicest compliment he’s ever received. And then you rise up on your toes a place a kiss on his cheek. It’s not what he expected but he’s as pleased as ever.

The third and actually successful attempt is on the train before he leaves for Poughkeepsie. You’d arrived late and missed him boarding. You force your way to the train and look through the window. George sees you and throws the window open. “I was afraid you weren’t coming!” He shouts of the chatter. He’d actually been heartbroken.

“Had trouble getting here!”

“Can I…” you don’t catch what he says.

“What!”

Shorty smiles and shakes his head. He turns and gestures for something. He opens the window as far as he can and you see Chuck and Johnny behind him. And then George is falling out of the window. First his shoulders and chest and then his hips and your almost scream but Chuck and Johnny are holding his thighs. He wedges one hand on the window sill to support himself and the other reaches for you.

He pulls you as close as he can and gives you a kiss goodbye. “I’ll come home with a gold medal!” Don’t you worry!” The people who notice give him a cheer and a laugh as he’s pulled back into the train. He blows you one last kiss and then the train starts rolling.

tbitb masterlist

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this piece please be sure to check out my masterlist and if you want to request something you are more than welcome to. Have a nice day.

- the author

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Stealing Kisses

(Actors from The Boys in the Boat)

Joe Rantz, Don Hume, Bobby Moch, George (Shorty) Hunt

tbitb masterlist

A collection of kissing scenes. Might write something for Chuck Day later, we’ll see, anyway, got carried away with Don, I would die for Bobby

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Joe Rantz:

Joe is a gentleman. He plans it’s out, wanting to take you on a decent date beforehand to set the mood and feel out just how much you like him. He doesn’t have money or a nice apartment or cooking skills for that matter. What he does have is his strength and his smarts.

So he takes you for a boat ride one sunny afternoon. He brings his guitar, opting for a little less country than the banjo, and paddles you out to a secluded spot. Despite his protest, you brought a basket full of treats and you talk as you share them under the hot sun.

His blond curls become waves of amber grain in the sunlight. After a while you fall into a comfortable silence which gives him the opportunity to pull out his guitar. Now he’s been planning this date for a little while so he picked some new songs to memorize. Sweet and romantic but not too lovey dovey. Though he doesn’t hide the fact that he loves country music.

As he strums his guitar he catches you intently staring at him. You look at him with so much affection that it makes him blush and stutter and he forget the words to his song.

“You’re cute, Joe.”

It makes him laugh so much he has to stop playing entirely. You tease him, enjoying his laughter.

After he recovers you both decide to venture out onto land. Wild flowers grow along the banks in great colorful bunches. Joe begins collection some, blue and purple and white and yellow, and he begins to weave them together.

It’s a special trick he learned while he lived alone, cutting and clearing trees for a living. During his breaks he taught himself to do this. The braid the delicate flower stems into bracelets and rings and crowns.

Joe makes the finest crown his has ever managed. He carefully lays the creation on your head and tucks away any loose strands of hair. ‘You’re gorgeous’ he wants to say. If he was a little more gutsy he would.

His hands trail down to cradle your cheeks. He’s not gutsy enough to tell you you’re pretty but for some reason he has the gall to lean down and kiss you.

His lips are a little chapped from rowing practices, the heavy breathing dropping his jaw and the wind biting his lips. But they’re gentle and sweet. Joe soaks up the private moment and rests his forehead on yours. He wraps his arms around your waist and sways back and forth with you. He starts singing again and you dance together in the afternoon sun.

Don Hume:

Let’s be honest here, you’re more likely to kiss him first. You simply make him too nervous to even find the coordination to plant his lips over yours.

After their first win, Don is dragged out to celebrate. Luckily his sweetheart of a few weeks now is already there. You’re happy to see Don out and about whether or not he likes it. Bobby flashes you a wink as he pushes Don into a chair next to you.

It’s too loud. You can’t hear a word the other says. In a blinding moment of courage, Don takes your hand and pulls you out of the hall. His calloused palm is sweaty. His fingers tremble between yours. You remember him first approaching you, Bobby pushing him forward and then abandoning him at your library table.

“Hey, you’re Don Hume right? From the rowing team, right?”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“What can I do for you, Don?”

His tongue had gone dry. Where are his words? His mouth dropped open “I—” you smiled at him and it made everything worse.

“C’mon, Don!” You heard Bobby whisper shout, a collection of the rowing team has amassed behind a bookshelf, quietly cheering him on.

“Can-can I takeyouonadate?”

He panicked and cursed himself out, thinking he spoke too fast and you don’t catch what he said and now he’s going to have to ask all over again.

“I’d love to go on a date.” Your smile brightened and Don’s shoulders drooped in relief.

He still stutters asking you on dates now.

Don finds himself walking you across campus grounds and the pale light of the moon. “You did so good, Don, in your race.”

“Thanks.” He speaks so softly the whistle of the night breeze in the leaves is almost louder. He turns to you, catching your gaze first and then blushing and nervously glancing down at your lips.

He’s never kissed anyone before, but he thinks he wants to kiss you.

There’s a comfortable silence that fills the space between your faces. Don’s eyes keep flickering to your Cupid’s bow. To that perfect curve. He starts to say something but his words leave him again as he feels soft lips shutting his mouth.

His lips are rough, worn from the blustering winds. He smells faintly of sweat and the river water that sprays up from the churning oars.

Don can hardly think enough to kiss you back. He blinks, stunned and you lean in to kiss him again and again. He’s overwhelmed by the warmth of your lips and the velvet soft press of your tongue. His shaking hands clutch at your cheeks, trying to ensure that it doesn’t end.

“Don, baby—”

“Kiss me again, please.”

There’s a smile on your lips when you wrap your arms around him. “Only if you promise to dance with me.”

“Yes, yes, okay. Just…”

This time he kisses first.

Bobby Moch:

Bobby is a confident man. He maybe shorter than your average guy but his boldness makes up for it. But I also think you’d kiss him first.

You’re waiting for him to finish up practice, your routine being to go on a long walk and let Bobby blow off some steam before studying together and then going home. Bobby emerges from the shell house, clearly bothered, but he can’t help his smile when he sees you waiting on a bench with two warm cups of tea in your hand.

“Good evening, lovely, should we go to the library or the bridge?”

You hand him a cup and take his free hand. “I think… the library would be nice.”

“Me too.”

He squeezes your hand. He starts his rant and angrily blabbers on until you’re at the steps of the library. Somehow, between all his complaining, he’s managed to chug his whole cup of tea.

The library is fairly empty at this hour. Most students having given up on studying for the day and retired to either their dorms or gone off to work. Bobby drops his bag onto a secluded sofa and the two of you sit down for a nice, quiet study date.

While Bobby reads over his textbook chapter, you notice things about him. The wrinkle that forms on his forehead when he's focused. The tilt of his eyebrows. How his lips purse. You notice the tiny blemishes on his cheeks; they were once little nicks or pimples that he picked. You keep stealing glances of him. Absolutely fascinated by the way lamplight reflects off his skin or the curve of his jaw or the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows. He hadn't really bothered to straighten out his hair after his shower and it's dried wild, tickling his face.

Bobby catches your gaze and it's stunning, how light pools in his eyes. How his irises brighten. His gives you an adoring look and returns to pouring over his textbook.

Then there's his lips. They look so soft and they're so gently rounded they look hand carved. Occasionally he'll lick his lips and you get a flash of tongue and white teeth. At some point you decide to just go for it. You've been dreaming of kissing Bobby for some time now but he's been content to let you take things at your own pace.

You reach of his textbook, "Need something?" Bobby asks genuinely. His gaze is uncharacteristically kind. He's always yelling at the top of his lungs or bossing around or saying something snappy. That's just Bobby. So why does he look at you like this? Like he's watching the sun rise.

"Yes, actually." And then you deliver a kiss to his lips. Bobby is caught off guard and before he can really even kiss you back, you're pulling away. "Sorry--"

"Don't even think about it." Bobby quips, "Get back here." He cups the juncture of your jaw and throat to bring you in but you hide in his palm. "Finish what you started. C'mon. Don't you feel like trying it again? I'm ready."

When your lips touch again Bobby is gentle in making it last. He never presses too hard but be doesn't let you shy away again either. He kisses you until the taste of him has stained your tongue and the oxygen is gone from your lungs.

George "Shorty" Hunt:

Sly dog, this one is.

George is highly tactical(he likes to think so) and because he’s so brilliant he hatched a perfect plan to get you to kiss him. He wants to see how bold you can be.

He makes three plans, two of which fail. They go like this. The first time he tries it, you’re walking him to practice. His jacket is slung over his shoulder and he’s telling you about his engineering class. “You know there’s this term we use called osculate which is where the curve of on surface meets the curve over another and they share a common tangent.” You raise a brow. Shorty licks his lips, “It’s also formal code for kissing.”

“Don’t even—” you swat at him and push him towards the shell house. “Go practice and share a tangent with Day!”

“Hey now,” Shorty pouts and disappears into the shell house, defeated. That was attempt 1. The second attempt hardly goes better.

It’s the night after their first win and Shorty is dancing with you. His nerdy pick up lines proved to be a failure so he goes for building some good old fashion romance. He’d gotten you flowers and taken you out for dinner before he brought you here where the music is so loud it blocks out everyone else around you.

Now you’re slow dancing, cheeks pressed together, hands laced with one another. The first thing you notice is that he smells good. You have no idea if he’s wearing cologne or if it’s the soap he uses to wash his clothes but he smells divine. The second thing is how soft his hands are despite the wear and tear of the pad. The third is that he didn’t put any product in his hair. You’ve always loved to play with the dark curls and fluff it up. But sometimes he styles his curls and the products make his hair stiff. But his curls are free today which tells you he’s been thinking about you and all the things you do.

“Watcha smilin’ about?” Shorty asks, his eyes light up as he smiles back. He hopes you’re thinking about it. He hopes you’re wanting to kiss him.

You plant your hands on his chest, “Nothing, you just make me happy.” It’s quite possibly quite possibly the nicest compliment he’s ever received. And then you rise up on your toes a place a kiss on his cheek. It’s not what he expected but he’s as pleased as ever.

The third and actually successful attempt is on the train before he leaves for Poughkeepsie. You’d arrived late and missed him boarding. You force your way to the train and look through the window. George sees you and throws the window open. “I was afraid you weren’t coming!” He shouts of the chatter. He’d actually been heartbroken.

“Had trouble getting here!”

“Can I…” you don’t catch what he says.

“What!”

Shorty smiles and shakes his head. He turns and gestures for something. He opens the window as far as he can and you see Chuck and Johnny behind him. And then George is falling out of the window. First his shoulders and chest and then his hips and your almost scream but Chuck and Johnny are holding his thighs. He wedges one hand on the window sill to support himself and the other reaches for you.

He pulls you as close as he can and gives you a kiss goodbye. “I’ll come home with a gold medal!” Don’t you worry!” The people who notice give him a cheer and a laugh as he’s pulled back into the train. He blows you one last kiss and then the train starts rolling.

tbitb masterlist

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this piece please be sure to check out my masterlist and if you want to request something you are more than welcome to. Have a nice day.

- the author

#joe rantz #joe rantz x reader #bobby moch #bobby moch x reader #boys in the boat #callum turner x reader #don hume #don hume x reader #George hunt

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

hi I am the anon from the other day I was thinking about being in a established relationship w Don and he has a rough day a practise I don’t have your talent at writing lol so do what you please after that ahah

Perfect Form

Don Hume x fem reader

wc: 2,900

tbitb masterlist

⚠️ WARNINGS ⚠️ : smut, little plot, mdni, minors get out right now, penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, overstimulation, Don denying his own orgasm, aftercare

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Don’s skin glimmers with sweat. His hair is wet and slicked back from his shower not even twenty minutes ago. His pants leaning into his forearms that prop him up over you. His hips roll gently, and he slides in and out of you irritatingly slow. 

“Don.” You whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek. He’s burning, face heavily blushed from the bridge of his nose and down his neck and chest, “need you to go harder.”

His eyes blink open, glancing over you agitated features. They travel down your sternum and stomach and catch on the desperate thrust of your hips to meet him. Instead of helping you out, he places a mean hand on your hip bone and pushes you down, holding you still. His pace does not change, arousal soaking the juncture of your bodies and poisoning the air. You whine at him and try to push against him but the only measured strain it takes to keep you down is the new flex in his bicep. “Just lay down and take what I give you—” 

“C’mon, Hume!”

“Faster, Hume!”

Bobby wouldn’t let him catch a break. Poor Don had been catching crabs all morning, his oar piercing the water at the wrong angle or the wrong time. Something was always wrong with him. 

“Don’t give me that shit, Donny! You can do better!”

“What is that form!”

He just needed to breathe for a second, get his feet under him. He could Joe angrily huffing behind him. Shorty groaning in frustration behind Joe. All Don could feel were their annoyed glares and the sting of their complaints. He was in the stroke seat, he could not afford to be off his game ever and yet there he was, floundering like an idiot. 

“Get it together, you’re slowing this boat down!”

“Pull that again and you’re outta that seat!”

He did not get better by the end of practice and the crew would not get off his case. They complained on the way to the locker room, inside the locker room, in the showers, on their way out of the shell house. Coach Ulbrickson couldn’t even give him the time of day, telling him “If you don’t have yourself sorted out by tomorrow, we’re gonna have problems.” As if Don hadn’t been told off enough. He fumbled through his routine, tuned out to half of what everyone was saying. He tugged on his jacket and then his shoes, not even bothering to tie the laces. 

At this point the crew was more concerned than they were angry. Don was quieter than usual. His face was long and sullen. His gaze distant.

“What’s wrong with Don?”

“What should we do about Don?”

“How can we help Don?”

On and on and he just wanted everyone to shut up and let him fix whatever problem he’s got. He left the locker room, his hair still dripping with the shower water. He found his way to your room without even thinking about, subconsciously knowing what he needed. 

“F-fuck! You feel too good.” His head dips, hair tickling your collarbone. Your hands tangle in the dark strands of hair at the at the back of his head, holding him close. His bare body moves rhythmically. Slow and steady and restrained. He just wants to feel you, prove to himself that he as control. You’d offered to ride him, let him rest his tired body but he flat out refused and shut you up with a kiss. “Just—I just—” As he trails off his pace slows even more. 

“Don! Don, please!”

You can’t handle this leisure fucking, you want him faster and harder. The drag of his cock through your drenched walls is lugging you to a harrowing climax. You feel that knot forming in the pit of your stomach. The broiling heat that electrocutes your veins and shocks your muscles. 

“Faster, faster, faster…”

But Don just doesn’t listen. His thrusts remain soft, and his pace still relaxed. It frustrates you to no end and the need curls painfully inside of you. You arch off the bed, straining against the hand pinning you to the mattress. Your hands latch onto his shoulders. You actually gain some leverage against him which allows you to buck your hips into his oncoming thrust. The excess force creates the most delicious sensation as his thick cock is stuffed further into your soaked pussy. 

“Hn—ngh!” Don’s lashes flutter and his brows draw tight, “Ha’ahfuck! Don’t do that.” The way you squeeze him makes his head spin. Not to mention the fact you’re now grinding back. Don reckons that the only way to keep you still is to drop his full weight onto you. 

That glorious feeling of finally getting that mind-tickling pleasure dies away has Don’s sweaty skin presses fully to yours. Chest to chest, you’re effectively trapped between him and the mattress. “No-no. Why won’t you let me,” his lips cover yours in a callous kiss. The taste of that mint gum he likes to chew spreads over your tongue as his licks into your mouth. Your teeth clack, noses knocking as he rips away your precious breath. Your hands rake down his freckled arms. His own rough hands chase them down and fill in the gaps between your fingers and jam them into the pillows. Aside from your legs, folded by his hips, you’re completely stuck. 

“Will you jus’ listen to me.” His lips abandon yours and he resumes his cold-hearted pace. 

Tears well in your eyes, blurring his facial features and strangling your throat. It softens Don up a little as he watches you begin to cry because it’s how he’s been feeling all day. Finding some sympathy, Don grants you a deeper, harder thrust. He feels your stomach spasm at the newfound sensation. Your insides churn and you toss your head back and moan. Don tucks his knees under you, lifting your pelvis onto his thighs and forcing you to spread your legs wider. You squeeze his hands and sob as he hits deeper. His cock head drags over your g-spot, that rough little patch inside you that makes you twitch, with each of his calculated thrusts. Slick paints your folds, squelching as he pulls out to the tip and then shoves all his length and girth back in. You’re speechless and squirming and totally helpless to his whims. 

“Better?” He plants a kiss on your tear-streaked cheekbone and nuzzles. 

You choke and moan again, but you don’t try to fight him. Instead, your toe curls and you twist. Your orgasm is building faster than he wanted but he figures he can just give you more. He feels the stress of the day melting away as he watches you slip into the mind-numbing pleasure he gives you. He does that. He does it perfectly and controlled and with excellent form. 

“That’s right. You fucking love this, don’t you? Love me and my dick.” 

You wail and shudder as your insides uncoil. He delivers one more measured stroke and you cum hard. Your curl into him as your muscles tense. Clutching onto his hands so tight the knuckles crack. He can’t even move his hips once your legs lock together behind him. The waves of your orgasm wash over you and your walls wring out wetness around him. He wants to cum too, so bad, but he forces his way out of your hold and lets his climax fizzle out before it can shred him.

You whimper at the loss of contact. Your eyes peel open to see him not far away, hovering over you and breathing deeply. His thumb finds your clit and draws circles around the under stimulated bud. “Why...” You can’t catch your breath. “Why did you not—”

“Don’t want this to be over just yet.” 

Don scoops you up and moves you towards the top of the bed. Your back rests against the headboard, a pillow jammed under your hips. He props your legs open and plants a few kisses on your sternum and ribcage before trailing down your belly. Your spasming, dripping core is fully exposed to him and he ravishes you with a ravenous tongue. 

The velvety muscle curls and licks around your clit. It moves fluidly through your folds and prods your clenching entrance. “Hnn, Don!” You’re sensitive and lightheaded and now he’s giving you more than you bargained for. 

He mouths at your core for a while, making an even bigger mess of you. Your fingers tug at his hair and grab at his shoulders but he cannot be coaxed away. His lips, bruised from your rough kiss, suck on your clit and drive you insane. He braces his hands on your thighs and dips his tongue into your hole. You shiver and grind against his mouth as he tongue-fucks your sensitive core. Each brush of his tongue along your walls makes your toes curl and your chest heave. You didn’t get a chance to really recover from the last orgasm he gave you and he’s already steadily working you towards another. 

His thumbs find the petal-soft labia and spreads your folds. You bawl. His tongue flattens out and draws over your exposed parts. Don is relentless in this, his coarse tastebuds relishing the sweetness at oozes out of your cunt. He licks from your clit to your hole, circles the tip just around the inside, then licks back to your clit. Don suckles at the bundle until your thighs shake before he allows his teeth to graze the swell of nerves. Slick and saliva drip down his chin even as he slurps down what he can. 

You chant his name, “Don. Don. Don—” desperate and horny.

His hand leaves your clammy thigh, a rough fingertip pressing on the edge of your hole. His mouth works your clit, a faint slurping filling the breaths between your noises. One long finger pushes in. Then a second. Two rugged digits stroke your pussy and make you squirm. “Fuck Don, fucking—hell!” He can barely hear you cursing he’s so immersed. When you’re not looking at him buried between your thighs or studying the back of your eyelids, you’re watching his hips hump the comforter and sheets. 

Freckles like constellations dot his sinuous back. The pointed ridge of his spine divides the expanse of muscle. He’s tense. Still bothered by whatever has gotten into him today. He digs his fingers into that sore spongy g-spot and you writhe. Pleasure radiates from your overwhelmed core. The next high approaches fast as an avalanche. He works a third finger into you and it’s over. You go completely rigid as you cum again, gushing around his fingers. 

“That’s it, makin’ such a mess.” Don smirks, lips shining with cum.

You think he’s finished when his mouth leaves your cunt and lunges into a sloppy kiss, but then his fingers drag through your folds and pinch your clit. You jolt and keen, still fighting through the aftershocks of the last orgasm, and now he’s belligerently overstimulating that sensitive bud. You can’t get a word in with his tongue down your throat either, all you can do his clutch at him and whimper.

Once your lungs are exhausted of air, his mouth pops off your lips and he wedges himself between your thighs. “Stop trying to close your legs.” 

“Please—it’s so—f-fuck-ing—I can’t!”

“You can take it.”

His fingers rub fast, slicked up by your cum. He catches your clit between his digits and pinches again; it’s just enough pressure to border on pain. He bullies you against the headboard and steals your words away again. You try to kiss him back only to pant into his grin as you begin to wheeze. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Your blood is boiling, body spasming, your mind blank. Your third orgasm hits just as hard as the first two, making you cry out. He eases you down and pulls you back down the bed. He falls into place behind you and lifts one of your tired legs.

“Don, I can’t.”

“Give me one more, one more.” He promises, arm wrapping protectively around you. Your body feels like lead as the arm curled around you props your leg up. The other disappears and then promptly reappears with his cock pinched between his fingers. He pushes the tip through your folds and collects your slick. He’s already drenched in precum, a wet spot on the sheets from where he was grinding.  “Can you do that for me?” He rests the tip against your weeping hole, waiting for you to reply. “Need you to talk to me, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck, I—yes,”

He nudges the tip in and gently works his way back in. He’s long and thick and well aware that he’s a lot to take whether or not he was just inside you minutes ago. But he’s going too slow, that same stupid pace that drove you nuts earlier. 

“Not again, Don, please not a-again!” Fat tears drop across the bridge of your nose as you slump against him.

Don’s free hand soothes you, “Shh, don’t worry, just don’t want to hurt you.” Upon your distressed whines he begins to fuck, hard and fast. He rests his cheek on your temple and rolls his hips as fast as he can while still pushing deep. You go alarmingly silent, and gun grabs ahold of your chin. “Hey, hey, you okay?” 

“Hnnn!” 

You clench and his pattern falters, he’s painfully hard and hungry for release but you must cum first. You raise up on one elbow; Don follows and slips his arm through the newly formed crevice. His fingers find the pert pink but that is your nipple and trace around it. He flicks it back and forth and eventually pinches it between his index and thumb. A drawn-out cry leaves your drooling lips. Don’s free hand finds lifted knee and he hoists it even higher and rolls his hips harder. 

“Oh—” your head falls back, and Don pecks your temple. “I-hah-have to…gonna cum.”

“Yeah?”

Don fucks you so hard the bed creaks and mattress shifts, his skin slaps against yours and leaves behind a sharp sting. His leftover frustration bubbles up and takes over. He’s absolutely savage in giving you your last climax. Broken moans tumble out of his lips as your pussy constricts around him. You suck up empty breaths and Don knows you’re close. He drapes your suspended leg over his hip and reaches for your clit. He musters up enough coordination to find his way through the mess and stroke the aggravated organ. He feels where his cock has stretched you and lets out the most guttural groan as he pinches his throbbing cock between his fingers. 

Black spots obscure your vision as you cum. You thrash and collapse into him, “I got you. I got you. I’m right here.” He whispers into your ear as you cream around him. He takes it for as long as he can withstand, wanting to help you ride out your high, but when the dam bursts he has to pull out and roll onto his back. He strokes himself from balls to tip once, twice, before his insides are racked with his delayed orgasm, and he spills creamy white semen all over his stomach. He pulls you close, rubbing your tummy with the hand still tucked under you. 

“You alright?” He partially sits up and brushes back your hair. Sweat has beaded on your forehead and your eyes have shut tight. He jostles your shoulder until you nod. “Good, let me clean you up.” 

He climbs off the mattress and crosses the room on his shaky legs. He draws a warm bath, adding some bubbles to it before scooping you up setting you in the tub. “Are you okay, Donny?” Your eyes open just a hair and kiss his hand. The blisters and callouses hurt your heart. 

“I am now.” He returns the kiss to your nose before turning to analyze the state of your room. The mattress is damn near falling off the bedframe and the sheets have somehow been tugged from the corner. He lugs the mattress back onto the frame and replaces the sheets. He scrubs his cum off his belly then he’s climbing into the bath with you. The hot water eases the soreness in his whole body. 

You soak together, billing and cooing about the day. Don lets it slip about practice and you snort. “That’s what this has been about?” 

“Hey, now,” A smile plays at his lips as you tease.

You swat him, “Don’t even play innocent. Not after what you just did.” 

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m only teasing, Donny, I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, you worry wart.” You kiss his tender lips. He cleans you with soap and and washes your hair, fingers massaging your scalp. For a while you rest your head on his chest. Until your eyelids become heavy and you’re in danger of falling asleep in the bathtub. Don helps you out of the tub and into some pjs before he’s ushering you into bed. “You should stay.”

“You want me to?”

“You ask too many questions, Don, get in.” He slips in and nestles himself against you. He’s still bare, knowing he’ll get too hot in his sleep and also knowing what he’ll be like in the morning. The only reason her got you dressed was for the soul purpose and privilege of undressing you later. But that’s for the morning and for now he just wants to cuddle up and sleep off a long day. 

...

Dear reader,

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this fic please check out my other works on my masterlist. Requests are open if you want to ask . Have a nice day.

-the author

#boys in the boat #don hume x reader #don hume #jack mulhern

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Excuse me?

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

The Boys in the Boat

These works are based off the versions of the boys from the movies and the actors who played them.

(*) indicated NSFW minors do not interact or I’ll take your kneecaps

The Boys:

Holding You

Stealing Kisses

Joe Rantz:

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Joe finds himself utterly gobsmacked when he discovers that the pretty face he’s seen at the shell house is the coach’s daughter and not his wife.

Don Hume:

Perfect Form*

Don finds you after a rough day of practice and all he wants is a little control.

Piano Man*

Nothing but Don and his beautiful hands

#boys in the boat #joe rantz x reader #joe rantz #don hume x reader #don hume #bobby moch x reader #bobby moch #tbitb #callum turner x reader

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Hey girly!! Im too shy to ask this without the anonymous filter but first of all I’ve been reading through your blog and I love it honestly. I was wondering if you are open to requests if you’d be able to write up something about joe rantz (I am absolutely LIVING for blonde callum) and maybe a coaches daughter trope? he saw her when he went to sign himself up, at the practices all that jazz and just them like becoming friends then more than friends, the boat scene where he gets his seat taken away from him maybe? thank you so much and again I love your work! xx

Hello, my lovely anon. Glad to see you in my inbox. I apologize for the wait but I've been coming out of an awful slump and I was trying to make this piece not total garbage. I hope you enjoy it and I hope I see you in my inbox again.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Joe Rantz (Callum Turner’s) x reader

wc: 4,600

Joe finds himself utterly gobsmacked when he discovers that the pretty face he’s seen at the shell house is the coach’s daughter and not his wife.

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Joe Rantz had come to the shell house in search of work. He’d hoped that making the team would cover his tuition and get him a room and he needed it so desperately. Roger Morris stood next to him, chewing nervously at his nails. “Sorry, Joe, didn’t realize competition would be so tight.” He mutters, spitting out a shred of his fingernail. Coach Ulbrickson was going over the basics of practice. It sounded like absolute hell to Joe but he was out of options. He fidgeted with the number painted on his jersey. Sure, he was strong from a lifetime of rough labor but so were the other boys. Most of them were broke too and just as desperate. Joe didn’t know if he had what it took to stand out but he’d be damned if he couldn’t make a life for himself because he couldn’t muscle up some money for college. 

As Ulbrickson speaks, a shadow appears in his office window. It’s too far for Joe’s nervous gaze to actually study the figure. He tries to focus on coach but the shadow continues to draw his attention. Roger notices too. “Who the hell is that?” Joe just shrugs. The shadow never leaves the window even as Ulbrickson finishes up and the boys get split up. Joe can’t dwell on the figure any longer because he’s being herded into the middle of shellhouse. He begins a horrible set of workouts. His body is made for hard work but he’s never actually worked out before. His muscles aren’t used to straining this way. 

It’s not long before his breathing becomes labored and sweat is pouring down his back. His curls hang down his forehead, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. And just when the pain is becoming unbearable the coaches are swapping them out and Joe is put on a junky old boat and an oar is pushed into his hands. They start rowing and instantly, the only thing on Joe’s mind is how bad his back hurts. Pained grunts and groans echo across the water as the boys struggle to keep pulling the oars. 

Eventually, it’s all over. Joe stumbles onto the dock in front of the shellhouse and feels his knees shaking with excursion. Men begin to drain away from the shellhouse and as the numbers dwindle, the shadow in the window of Ulbrickson’s office reappears. It moves through the glass panes like a swan through water. Then the office door opens and Joe sees your face for the first time. 

“That was some tough practice, huh?” Roger bumps Joe’s shoulder, a crooked smile on his face. Joe cannot respond and Roger follows his gaze. “Washington, Washington, what finery you enjoy.” 

You descend the steps and take a place between Ulbrickson and Bolles. Ulbrickson puts and arm around and Joe feels his heart wither a little. You’re probably Mrs. Ulbrickson. Though he can’t shake the impression that you look a little too young to be with Ulbrickson. 

“Alas,” Roger throws up his hands, “Finery we cannot also enjoy.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I’m not! How was that crass?” Roger purses his lips and nudges Joe. 

Joe just buttons up his jacket and picks up his books, “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

The very next day, Joe is suffering through practice. He aches all over and his muscles scream at him. He’s already shaking when he gets done with the basic strength building exercises. Most of the boys are. There are fewer numbers today but this does not better Joe’s odds by much. They clamber into Old Nero and start rowing away. His wrists twinge and his knees spasm. He rows and rows until he thinks his body will give out and then Ulbrickson is directing them back to the shellhouse. Jow crawls out of the boat, soaked to the bone and stiff as a board.

Then he sees you again, this time your sorting registry papers with Pocock. Your back is turned to him, so you don’t notice his longing stare. He keeps telling himself that you’re a married lady and that he should be focused on making the team, but nothing seems to chase you from his mind. 

Coach Ulbrickson sweeps across the dock and places a hand on top of your head, an odd gesture between husband and wife but Joe wouldn’t know about those things. Since his group was the last to use Old Nero, they get the privilege of stowing the oars. Joe begins unlatching the mechanism when he shifts on his knees.

It happens so fast he can’t clock what’s happening. First there’s the sensation of slipping, the horrible thrust of his legs flying out from beneath him. He twists mid slip, and his side smacks the dock painfully before he’s swept off the dock by his own weight. He plumets into the cold water with a catastrophic splash and agonized shriek.

When Joe resurfaces a dozen hands are reaching for him. He grasps onto George Hunt’s forearm and allows Shorty to hoist him onto the sodden wood planks. A fluffy white towel is draped around his shoulders; firm hands rub his chilled biceps. “Are you alright?” You face appears before him.

Joe is almost too stunned to speak, “I—yeah, yeah I’m okay.” 

You tuck the ends of the towel into his hands, “Better get showered up and dressed.” Joe just nods and stumbles past you and into the locker room. Roger follows closely behind, teasing Joe relentlessly.

“You’re fallin’ harder than I thought.”

“Roger!” Joe grinds his teeth, huffing and puffing. “You need better jokes.”

Joe spends that night struggling to focus on his schoolwork. He has math homework that needs doing. He has books to read. The one in his hands now periodically goes in and out of focus as Joe’s mind wanders. On the page is the story of a western novel, a man had found a girl walking alone the road at dusk, all on her own. He didn’t want to leave her to the coyotes, so he offered her a ride into the nearest town. They were riding horseback across the prairie. Her arms wound tightly around him; her hands splayed over his chest. 

Her hands—

Her hands—

What is wrong with you, Joe?

Joe reads this line over and over again. Each time he nears the end his brain short circuits and all he can think about are your hands on your shoulders. You hadn’t even really touched him, at least not his skin.  Yet the only thing shooting through his neurons are the sensations of your fingers along his skin. That imaginary touch he can conjure up so perfectly. He eventually gives in and skips down a few paragraphs. He reads late into the night and the phantom touches are still nagging his senses when he closes the book and rolls over to sleep. 

…

Day after day, Joe sees you at practice. You congratulate him when he makes the team and help him with his technique every once and a while. “Roll your wrists just a bit more.” Your fingers would poke at his forearms and direct him in graceful strokes. It fries his brain. You give pointers to the rest of the team too, working closely with Bolles and Pocock to get them in racing shape. It’s not long into the season when Ulbrickson decides to switch coxswains. 

“This is Bobby Moch. Your new jockey.” Bolles announces one day. Bobby is short and slender and sharp tongued.  The second he climbs in the boat and starts barking out commands, Joe is flabbergasted. Who is Bobby to talk to the team this way? But they all find themselves obeying his every word. What really irks Joe about Bobby is how friendly he is with you. You exchange jokes and poke fun at each other. Joe tells himself that he just thinks it’s inappropriate to flirt with the coach’s wife but beneath it all he’s incredibly jealous that Bobby can make you laugh so easily. It makes Joe pine for attention in a way that he never has before. 

The day of their race against California, Joe is all jitters and nerves. He bounces on the balls of his feet and shakes his hands, trying to loosen the anxiety. Streamers and garlands of flags decorate the locker room and the campus. People have gathered in clusters along the course and wave flags of purple and gold. The smell of popcorn and peanuts permeates the air and Joe promises to indulge himself if they win.

As the crew carried their shell down to the water, they begin chanting to themselves. “Bow down to Washington!” They neglect the varsity’s jeers and clip their oars into position. They spot Coach Ulbrickson in the stands, you at his side. And then there’s another woman. And Ulbrickson hugs her. And then he kisses her.

Right in front of you! What is going on?

“Rantz! Eyes on me!” Bobby hollers. But Joe can’t help stealing another confused glance. “I said quite drooling over coach’s daughter and LOOK AT ME!”

Joe feels like an idiot. He puts his head down in shame and tightens his grip on the oar. Ulbrickson joins them on the dock and gives one of his famously encouraging speeches. Joe is only half paying attention. They push off and are left with lovely Bobby hyping them up while they wait for the race to start. They lean forward, like a bow drawn for a shot. And then the white flag flies and the boats shoot away from the docks.

There’s nothing but blur as Joe rows. He can only focus on the muscled shoulders of Don Hume in the stroke seat as Bobby screams at them. “28!”

About halfway through the course, Bobby demands the stroke rate be upped and Don performs. The shell lurches forward, eating up the distance between Washington and Cal until the JV boat surpasses the Berkeley blokes. Then the boat is cutting across the finish line, a clean win. Adrenaline rushes Joe’s veins. He throws his fists in the air as the team splashes and roars. They’re inevitably drowned out by the crowd who bursts up in a shower of peanuts and Washington flags. 

Coach Ulbrickson, the new woman Joe assumes his Ulbrickson’s wife, and you rush the dock as the boys climb out of the boat. “Excellent job.” Mrs. Ulbrickson shakes their hands as they unclip their oars. Bolles is compassionate enough to give them each a pat on the back as they hoist the boat over their heads and haul it off. 

Joe can’t help but notice the copious amounts of onlookers pooling around the shell as they carry it back to the shellhouse. They set it down on the stands and before they can even take their hands off the shell, they are bombarded by Washington fans. Girls reaching out to stroke their biceps or kiss their cheeks. Joe has never received attention like this once in his life. He’s as polite as possible, brushing off a few girls here and there and shaking the hand of the occasional fellow. Shorty has accumulated a few lipstick stains on his cheek. Don Hume is blushing from the tips of his ears down to the point of his freckled nose. Chuck and Roger accept a few hugs. They bask in the winners’ glory for only a few moments until the varsity team strolls by. They make a comment to Moch that Joe doesn’t catch but judging by the way Bobby’s shoulders square he can make obvious conclusions.

“You rowed so well today, Joe.” He hears your voice, and his palms start to sweat.

“Thanks, I uh—” It occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know a thing about you. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten your name.” You smile at him, and syllables fall out but the crowd is too loud. “What?” Your grasp his shoulder and lean in, the sound of your name echoes off the shell of his ear. 

When you pull away, you’re still smiling but before Joe can ask you another question, Bobby is buzzing by with a play-by-play of exactly what happened in Bobby’s world. 

You shade your eyes and peer down at the docks, “Looks like dad is almost done with the varsity. I should get down there.” You say, and Bobby turns around to talk to Shorty. “Hey. Will I see you at the party tonight?” Your hand rests on Joe’s shoulder. He prays you can’t feel his heart skip a beat. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good. You had better save a dance for me, Joe Rantz.”

You leave him breathless, the butterflies in his stomach so vicious that he shudders. He watches you disappear down the pathway to the dock and his heart starts hammering with anticipation. You want to dance with him. You want to touch his hands, touch him. And then he remembers that you already did that, he was too focused on the motion of your lips that he’d hardly registered the sensation of your hands on his arm. Damn! What had it felt like? He’d remembered it’d made him flabbergasted and choked his speech but he couldn’t remember how the grooves in your palm felt as they brushed over his skin. The warmth of your fingertips. He curses himself out and vanishes into the locker room to get changed.

…

The dance rolls around rather too quickly and Joe is swimming in nerves. He has to tie his tie twice because he messes up so badly, he can’t even draw it tight to his neck. Roger found out all too quickly and hasn’t let Joe catch a break.

“A date with coach’s daughter. Careful Joe, Ulbrickson might throw you off the team if he catches the wrong look in your eye.” 

“Shut up, Roger, I’m not greasy like you”

“Ouch, that hurts me.”

“Clearly not enough.” Joe hisses as he finally gets his tie right. 

“Feels like I’m a father about to send his kid off to prom.” 

Joe sighs and throws on his suit coat. “Oh, please—”

“Look at you fly, shooting out of your league.” 

Roger works a smile onto Joe’s face, and they set off for the party. Spring is finally warming the campus up from a brutal winter and a few couples mull around outside. Joe and Roger find their way into the crowded gymnasium, both shocked by just how loud it is. Joe can’t even hear his own thoughts. They spot the team almost immediately, clustered around tables, drinks in their hands. A few of the boys are dancing with some lovely dames, a few are leaned against the wall having close conversations. Don is sitting by himself on a bench a few feet away from the refreshment table, watching the dance floor. Joe is turning to follow Roger towards the other boys but an arm loops through his, “Thought you weren’t going to show.” You practically shout. 

Joe can’t help but grin as you capture his attention. “You weren’t joking.”

“Not a bit, Rantz, didn’t have any other dancing plans except for this one.”

“Guess I should make it worth your wait then.” Joe leads you into the thicket of bodies.

He prides himself on the laugh you let out, “please do,” you say as he takes your hands and spins to face you.  He places his hand high on your waist and cradles the other gently in his palm. He can feel the smooth plains of you hand against his. Each crease and each callous. His are no doubt unbelievably rough from the rowing and he would feel bad but right now all he can feel are your fingers lacing through his. “You’re not half bad.” You tease. Joe knows his cheeks are heating up to a flaming red. Probably his ears too. 

His hand migrates to the small of your back as the music changes into a soft slow song. “I’ll be completely honest,” he starts, “I had no idea you were the coach’s daughter.”

“Then who else would I be?” 

“I thought you were his wife.” He looks away sheepishly, but your laughter is so unrestrained and whole that Joe’s heart melts. You can’t stop laughing either and it’s contagious. 

“You’re an engineering student, right?” Your shoes brush as you sway with him. 

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Joyce.” Joe’s heart drops. In his infatuation he’d forgotten all about her. “She was trying to hit on you, but she figured out that your attention was elsewhere.”

“You too are good friends then?”

“Just since the start of the year. We have an English class together.” You and Joe talk for a while, it forces you to be close and neither of you care to separate. Eventually, you move outside and sit with sit with Joe on the steps of the gym. It’s still chilly out and you sit close to Joe which he doesn’t mind one bit. At some point your head rests on his shoulder and you close your eyes. Joe can do nothing but stare down at you, his mouth agape. 

“Why is your heart beating so fast?” You trace his knuckles with your pointer finger.

Joe’s head pounds, his mouth dry, “This has never happened to me before.”

“None of the girls from high school? Never?”

“Not one.”

You look up at Joe and reach to smooth back a blond curl. “Shame, they were missing out.” This makes Joe smile again and he’s immensely pleased with how easily you do that to him. Make him happy. He hasn’t felt like this since… he can’t remember when. Sure, he was happy when the team won but that was different. That was pride. So was making the team. This feels more affectionate, closer to the heart. He wonders if this is what love feels like but that would be silly; he’s only known your name for a day. He’s also never been flattered quite like this. Besides Joyce, he can’t think of anyone else who’s actually been interested in him. Certainly not one who compliments him the way you do. 

People start to drain out of the gym very slowly and Joe checks his watch. “So late already?”

“Guess I should get home; my dad will be wrought with worry.” You joke and straighten out your skirt. 

“Can I walk you home?”

“I would love that.”

Joe offers you his hand, “Where does coach live?” 

“Not too far.” You accept his calloused hand and direct him off campus. Surprisingly, Joe has read the book you’re reading for English and time flies as you discuss the book. Then Joe makes a sobering comment that makes you stop and study him. 

“His parents remind me of my own.”

Joe realizes what he’s let slip, “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m okay.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Joe presses his lips into a line and stares down at his worn shoes. A wave of self-consciousness washes over him as he realizes how ragged of a life he has lived and just how much it shows. “Well—”

“Is this why you have a hard time trusting your team?”

“Hey now,”

“Sorry.” You take his hands.

He grimaces and squeezes your soft palms. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” 

Joe sighs and swipes a thumb across your knuckles. “My Pops just… left me one day. Told me I’d be fine on my own.” Joe gives you parts of the story. Mostly what he feels like stomaching at the moment.

When he’s finished you let go of his hands and cup his cheeks. He sinks into the touch, soaking it up like a flower budding in sunlight. You don’t say anything, you just look at him. You look at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered and his heart trembles because he has never once known what it’s like to be that for someone else. And then you stand on tip toes and plant a hearty kiss on his forehead. “This is it actually,” you gesture behind you at the hosue that must be the Ulbricksons’. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice?”

“Yeah.” The spot on his forehead that you kissed tingles. “Nowhere else I’d want to be.”

…

The Poughkeepsie Regatta rolls around all too quickly and Ulbrickson has to make a decision. The varsity boat who deserves it. Or the JV boat who could win it. His hands sweat as he stands on at that pulpit and reads off his preplanned speech. As he talks, he thinks about the future of the rowing program. The jobs it has provided him and Bolles. About how Pocock would have to find work elsewhere and it’d kill Al Ulbrickson to send him away. 

He leans into the mic and spits, “and that boat is our JV boat.” It has to be them. They have to win. Moans and groans blow his way as the crowd rejects his announcement. Regret washes over him but he cannot take this back. He has to be right about his crew. He tips his hat and hustles off the podium as the JV bursts into celebration. He has to be right.

…

Joe is more than pleased to see you on the train to Poughkeepsie. He slides into the car with you, and you chat away. You were fast friends the night of the dance and have since become closer. The kiss on the forehead still lingers sometimes, especially when Joe sees your lips form your smile. You entice him into some card games and eventually a game of chess. At some point, he decides that he needs to sleep and bids you goodnight so that he can find a train car to sleep in. But before he does, he sneaks a chaste kiss onto your knuckles. 

His good mood is stamped out the very next day when the team takes to the water. They don’t row good, and frustration starts to build. Bobby and the coaches try and get them working together, telling them that it’s just nerves and new water. But tensions rise regardless. The days start to dwindle, and the crew is getting worse and worse. 

Blame starts to turn to him, and Joe is at a loss. He doesn’t want to believe that he’s holding the team back, but he thinks back to what you said that night he walked you home. But the most awful feeling creeps over him, not an ounce of care. What’s wrong with him. This crew has been the only family he’s had in years. He needs them. But he can’t bring himself to admit it. 

Before he knows it, it slips and Ulbrickson is exiling him from the boat. As the crew watches Joe storm away, their spare crawls in and they set off for another row. Bolles taps you on the shoulder, “you had better see if you can do anything. Enlist Pocock if you have to.” Your father nods along.

You set out to find him, not that it was hard there’s not many places he can go alone. He’s stuffing his suitcase when you find him. “Don’t start.” He snaps. Then he sees your expression and his anger sours. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t—”

“Don’t give up on your team, Joe.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, you’re quitting and throwing everything you’ve worked for away.”

“Don’t, don’t even start to pretend you know me.” He realizes too late that he’s made everything so much worse and before he can fix a thing Pocock is at the door.

“I could use some help putting another coat of oil on the shell.”

You duck past Pocock and leave Joe with a painful pit of remorse in his stomach. He follows Pocock and takes the talking to straight to the heart. As he lathers on a thick coat of oil, he figures he can bargain with Ulbrickson in the morning, but he should make a proper apology to you now. He racks his brain for anything that would make it right, but he’s horrifically inexperienced and it’s crippling him now. He feels like a child having a tantrum. He feels miniscule and insignificant.

After Joe dunks his brush into the whale oil can for the last time, he figures he’d better just confront the issue head on since he has no way of handling it delicately. He has no grace and he’s sure you’re aware of this. Pocock gives him an encouraging pat and takes the can from him. Joe winds his way back to the hotel and through the halls. Your room is on the second floor, third door down. He knocks gently, eyes lingering on the hideous carpet and tacky sconces. The door swings open after a moment and Joe is met with your disapproving glower. His tongue seems to swell in his mouth so badly that he worries it’ll flop out when he tries to speak. 

“Coffee?” You ask when you realize he will stand there silently forever if you don’t let him in. 

“No… I just wanted to—to apologize.”

“Oh really.” Your eyebrow quirks.

Joe is fumbling for words. You stand aside and motion for him to step inside so you can have this discussion in privacy. “I know that was wrong to take out my frustration on you. That wasn’t fair and none of it is your fault.” He twiddles his thumbs. How does he go about this without absolutely butchering it? “I just—” As he trails off, he notices a hurt dullness in your eyes. He recognizes it as pity. “You and the crew are really all I’ve got, and I’m so scared I’m going to lose it.”

“These boys aren’t going to leave you behind unless you separate yourself from them like today.”

“I know.

“Really?”

“Pocock made sure I know.”

The edges of your lips tilt up. You pull him down onto the foot of the bed and take his hand. “Are you actually going to try and trust them?”

“Don’t have enough faith to put it in anyone else.”

You squeeze his hand and trace a finger along his jawline, sweeping a knuckle under his chin. You force his stubborn gaze to you and find nothing but desperation. Wanting things like this doesn’t come natural to Joe and it shows, but he’s not so different from the other boys in that boat. 

You reach up and fiddle with a curl, “apology accepted.” Tears pool in the corners of his eyes and he tries to choke them down. You place a hand on his chest and rest your forehead on his. His breath fans over your cheeks. The tip of his nose brushes yours. His shoulders sag inwards and he reaches for your waist. 

“Can I—may I kiss you?”

Joe’s sweetness never fails to amaze you. You cradle his face and bring him closer. “Yes, Joe.” His breath hitches and his lips finally meet yours for the very first time. He’s gentle but generous and lets you kiss him for as long as you like. His arms wrap around you fully and hold you to his chest. He gets the feeling that he’ll be craving these moments all the time now, finally understanding what Roger and Chuck rave about. He’s hooked on your lips and your weight against him and when you pull away it breaks his heart. 

“You should get cleaned up before you talk to my father, you smell like whale oil.”

...

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading this. If you'd like to request, feel free to do so. I always love you in my inbox. I hope you enjoyed this fic and if you like it please check out my masterlist for more. Have nice day.

-the author

#boys in the boat #Joe rantz #callum turner #joe rantz x reader #callum turner x reader

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Holding You

Boys in the Boat

The cast from the movie: Joe Rantz, Bobby Moch, Don Hume, George “Shorty” Hunt

Fluffy cuddling sessions with some of the boys

Enjoy this garbage!

Joe Rantz:

He’s such a busy body that it’s hard to get him to slow down for 10 whole seconds. He’s always had to work, it’s the story of his life. So comfort is foreign to him.

The first time he holds you of his own, unassisted accord is during tryouts. He can’t get a good reading on his position and is fretting over the money and schooling. He’s practically tearing out his hair trying to make it all work out. He’s so frazzled that his brain goes numb and he can’t seem to make decision on anything.

He goes for a walk through the library and finds you tucked into a deserted corner. It’s quiet, isolated, and finally a thought pings off the blocked thinking centers of his brain.

How about a hug?

You noticed his labored footsteps approaching and then to him with a smile. And then he’s draping himself over you, letting his arms find the curve in your spine and nestle there. His chin fits perfectly on your shoulder where his cheek can brush past yours.

And then he sighs, leaning more of his weight on you. He’s clearly exhausted. “You alright there, big guy?”

“No.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No, I just…” he closes his eyes and relishes the moment, “just wanna be like this for a bit.”

His rough hands smooth down the back of your sweater. His hair tickles your ear. You can feel the swell of his chest as he takes in deep breathes. He relaxes and straightens up, pulling you against him. His lips meet your temple stay planted there.

This is just what he needed. His brain starts to function again. He takes careful note of how you feel tucked into him, the scent of your hair and sensation of your breath on his jaw.

Eventually he’s back at an equilibrium and pulls away. He presses a kiss to your forehead and fiddles with some strands of your hair, eventually he starts peppering kisses all over your face.

“Thank you,” he says between each peck, “‘feel so much better now.”

Bobby:

Bobby always kept his room unearthly cold, leaving his windows wide open all day and through the night. It’s because he piles blankets on his bed. And also because he spends a lot of time cuddling with you. He’s a devout cuddler and would prefer to never get out of bed. Most days you get up first and leave him to wallow by himself.

So, he hypothesizes that he can make you stay in bed longer if getting out is much less favorable. Therefore, the room must be frigid.

This is how most mornings go. Bobby shifting slightly in your grasp. His wiggling rouses you. A cold clamminess clings to your cheeks and makes you grateful for the heap of blankets over your shoulders. It’s wintertime, and even the blankets would not be able to keep you warm if it wasn’t for the doubled body heat trapped under them.

Bobby is tucked flush against you. He’s touching you from his face tucked into your neck all the way down to your feet which at sandwiched between his.

You shrug the blankets up a little higher, the morning is still so young that you can afford to sleep in a little.

Bobby grunts, squeezing you between his biceps. You kiss his temple and stroke his shoulder blade, fingers skating over the thickened muscles of his back. He’s a little stiff from the extended practice he had yesterday.

“You’ve got to stop leaving your windows open.” The cold nips at your ears.

Bobby grumbles unhappily, “No.” There’s an audible hiss as he sucks in a frustrated breath and wedges himself into that warm crevice between you and the mattress.

As you’re forced on top of him, coldness rushes to the surface of skin the sheets had protected. “Bobby!”

You can feel his lips curling into a smile against your neck. You cling to him, buying right into his wicked little scheme. It doesn’t help that he’s arguably more comfortable than the mattress. He’s all dense muscle and soft skin and warm smiles and sugary words.

“You’re a menace, an absolute terror.” You pout, letting him hug you fully.

“You love it. Don’t even try to lie.”

You mutter and lift your head so you can look into his sleepy eyes.“I don’t know, might love this a lot more if I could sleep without getting frostbite.”

“I’m not closing the windows. Not ever.”

“C’mon can’t we—”

He peels his hands from your sides and cups your face and says real slowly, “no.” Then his sunshiny smile dissolves as his lips greet yours good morning.

Don Hume:

He’s a secret cuddler but this surprises no one. I just get the inkling that he’s such a softie and craves touch and gentle words, even just the slightest morsel of affection.

He tracks you down after work, feet aching and back sore. Long day of classes, long day of practice, and then a full shift of tedious labor. He’s been banking on the memory of you all day long.

His feet grow cold, the newspapers stuffed in the bottoms of his worn out boots not insulating the ragged leather. All he can think about is how much his body hurts and how he would just like to drape himself over you and listen to you talk and finally feel better.

You’re lounging on a sofa in an empty common room when he finally stumbles upon you. You peek over the top of your book and see his lumbering figure, hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets and shoulders hunched. The tired has seeped from his stiff gate up into the lines of his face.

“Hey, Donny,” you set the book aside and lean onto the armrest, “long day?”

He hums. The distance between him and the couch seems increasingly difficult to cover. But he’s determined to make it there and he does. He squishes you into the couch cushions, hands still crammed in his pockets. He releases a big sigh. Your heartbeat drums steady in his ear; your fingers comb through his hair, tangled from a windy practice.

Eventually, he works up the energy to abandon his pockets and snake his arms around you. Don revels in the newfound ability to breathe easy. He soaks up the calmness like a sponge. His brain goes numb and all he can think about is the sensation of your fingers in his hair.

He’s always hungry for these moments. Life is hard on him but there are times when it’s kind and you are one of them. Your fingers brush over his nape and he shudders. And then yours massaging his tense shoulders. He grunts as you work at the knots. You want to tell him to take it easy but you know he never will. His conscience worries him into overworking himself. It doesn’t help that he’s been living this way for so long and is now hardwired that way. You know it won’t matter what you say, he’s too driven. So all you can do is take care of him after.

You can feel him melting into you like ice cream on a hot summer day. The fatigue is kicking in. After a while you leave his shoulders be and settle one hand on his lower back and the other on the crown of his head. His hair is gossamer soft and he smells heavily of wood shavings. You wonder what job he’s picked up now.

He’s tucked himself up under your chin, arms still wrapped around you. “Can I sleep?”

“You want to sleep here?”

“Mmm…”

You sigh, he’s nodding off a soon you won’t be able to get him up. “How about we get you cleaned up and you can stay in my room.”

“Really?” He shifts so you’re now cheek to cheek.

“Really.” You rub his sides, encouraging him to get up. “C’mon. It won’t take too long.”

“Can we…. Can we sleep…together?”

You quirk a brow teasingly which makes him blush.

“I didn’t mean like that.” His eyes match his pouty lips.

“We can sleep whichever way you meant.”

He slowly clambers off, “Not funny.” He mutters, allowing you to drag him by the arm up to your room.

By the time you’re both crawling into bed, his eyelids are drooping and he’s almost knocked out before he can lay his head down. He pulls you onto his chest and takes his turn of playing with your hair. But before long his hand stills and he huffs in his sleep. You eventually drift off too, cradling in his arms.

George “Shorty” Hunt:

He will cocoon you in a baking hot swath of muscled arms and fluffy blankets. It’s positively sweltering. You worry about sweating to death, passing away of heat stroke but Shorty doesn’t fret over such things.

He’s such a hugger, always touching you really. As much as he enjoys all the attention he gets from the girlies he prefers to hang off your arm like a one-of-a-kind handbag. He doesn’t mind being an accessory as long as he’s yours.

Naturally, George loves cuddling. He was born to be a big spoon. It’s just so easy to curve around you and squeeze you tight. You fall asleep like that most nights. His cheek rubbing against yours as he settles in.

“Have a good day?” He asks, lashes fluttering on your temple.

His hand is rubbing your shoulder, relaxing the muscles, “yeah,” you murmur.

“Tell me about it.”

You grown, “Nothing exciting happened.”

“Tell me the mundane, then.”

He loves hearing about every little thing you do. He’s longs to be involved in absolutely everything but he’s got so much to do in a day that he has to settle for this. Maybe that’s why he clutches you so tight, like you’ll slip through his fingers. He just wants to make up for being busy and not spending each second with you.

As you talk to him, George’s hand leaves your shoulder and rubs down your side. He thumbs at your hip and pokes your ribs. “Do I get to hear about yours?” You squirm as he tickles you.

“Went to class, then I had to row an unholy distance with Moch screaming bloody murder at me. Little prick.” Your laughter fills his ears. Shorty loves Bobby but only outside the boat. “Didn’t know such a small guy could be so loud and lewd.”

There’s hardly room for his chest to expand as he breathes so you feel every flex of his muscles. At this point he’s mostly on top of you. You feel the soft curve of his lip on your jaw whenever he speaks. He’s so warm and smells so good. You both slowly talk each other to sleep, nodding off some time after he finishes complaining about Ulbrikson’s lectures.

He’s awake only a short while after you fall asleep. He can finally feel the tension easing out of his upper body. He’s comfortable and sleepy and the weight of you against him is, perhaps, the most peaceful he will ever feel.

Dear Reader

This is my first piece for The Boys in the Boat. If you want, feel free to request something for them (meaning the dudettes from the cast). Thank you so much for reading and have a good day.

- the author

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

hi I was wondering if you would be comfortable in writing a kinda smut or a short story on Don Hume Tsym love your work

Sure thing, anon. What did you have in mind? I just wanted to know if you want anything specific or not.