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roosterforme · 2 months

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Covering the Classics Part 2 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: Anna knows her new coworkers want her to meet their friend Bob. But she's too hesitant, afraid to get herself in a situation where she's pining after someone new. During a spur of the moment shopping trip, Bob is delighted to bump into a woman he can only describe as adorable. Too bad he's never been great at the follow through.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, eventually 18+

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more! Thank you to @mak-32 for the beautiful banner!

By the end of her first week teaching, Anna had learned many things, almost like she was a student herself. That nice, secluded ladies' restroom she found was secluded because one of the toilets regularly overflowed. The coffee in the teacher's lounge was actually disgusting, but the donuts were available every day. And Dr. Pham from the sociology department asked her out three times on Thursday, apparently because she wore her hair in two braids like Princess Anna from Frozen, a mistake she wouldn't be making again.

And she was so tired. She started to lose her voice on Friday morning from how much she had to talk in her lectures. She took the wrong notes to class with her and had to improvise an hour long class on Emily Dickinson, because she was too afraid to give one of her students the keys to her office door. So she sweated it out, but managed to sound somewhat coherent as she dismissed her class at noon.

She pressed her lips together. If she ran to get her sandwich and peanuts really quickly, she could join her new friends by the weird tree. After two days of joining them for lunch, she really liked both of them. She just didn't want to get their hopes up about their friend Bob whom she was supposedly perfect for.

Anna wasn't perfect for anybody. And frankly this Bob guy sounded like a dreamboat, which just made it worse. He'd probably laugh after taking one look at her, and if she opened her mouth and tried to talk to him, he'd run away scared. She already turned down their invitation to go to the Navy hangout bar on Saturday night, citing that she was too exhausted. But it was really because she needed to stand firm with herself and do everything she could to protect her feelings from now on.

After another few seconds of contemplation, she went to her office and got her lunch before heading to the quad. But today it was just Jessica there eating lasagna and garlic bread from a plastic container while Anna's stomach growled in jealousy.

"Hi," she greeted after she chewed up a bite of her perfect looking lunch. "It's just us today. Dr. Rosenthal apparently had a bunch of questions about the math curriculum and took Advanced Calculus out for a long working lunch at Covewood."

Anna had barely been in the city for more than two weeks, but even she had heard of Covewood. "That's a five star restaurant. A romantic date night hot spot."

"Mmhmm," Jessica agreed as she sunk her perfect teeth into the garlic bread.

Anna realized her own experience was fueling her next sentences, but she said them anyway. "Isn't she married? Her husband is okay with that?" she asked softly.

Advanced Physics burst into laughter. "Bradley loves Dr. Rosenthal. He's in his seventies, and he's one of the sweetest people at the school. They have him over for dinner sometimes. He actually did my tenure review."

"Oh," Anna replied, embarrassed that she could hardly relate to someone who trusted their spouse. "That actually sounds really nice."

"Hey, are you sure you don't want to come out tomorrow night? No pressure. I just think you'd have a fun time. The guys are all sweethearts."

Anna looked down at herself and her sad sandwich. She didn't even have money to spare for a beer that she would probably drink half of before she wanted to leave. And it didn't matter if the guys were sweet, she knew her two new friends would be champing at the bit to see how she and this Bob person interacted. "Not this weekend," she replied. "Maybe another night."

Instead of socializing, she spent her Saturday window shopping in North Park. She had a budget of exactly zero dollars, but she could entertain herself for hours this way. She gasped when she found a two story bookshop that claimed it contained new and used and rare finds, and she ran across the street to get to it.

It was darker and quieter inside than the sunlit, traffic filled streets, and when Anna took a deep breath, it reminded her of a cozy library. The clerk behind the register waved instead of speaking, so really, it just kept getting better. When she noticed the wooden sign on the wall informing her that The Classics were upstairs, she made her way up the creaky steps to a loft area with row after row of tall shelves.

"Perfect," she muttered, walking to the end of the open space and turning down the last tight row of bookshelves. She wasn't alone, but the only other occupant was a tall, slim man with broad shoulders and tidy, sandy colored hair. He seemed to be so absorbed by what he was reading, he didn't look up when Anna reached for an enormous copy of Shakespeare plays.

She almost moaned out loud; it was annotated and contained every play she had to teach in her Thursday morning English 300 class. It was well worn, and the cover felt nice in her hands. Shit. Of course it was seventy bucks. That was more than she spent on groceries last week. Maybe she could expense it to the department? She should probably know how to do that. Maybe she could text one of her new friends and ask if that was allowed.

But she slid the book back into place as a Vonnegut she didn't yet own caught her eye. She reached out for it with a steady hand, but as soon as her fingertips met the spine, a much larger hand, complete with graceful yet calloused fingers, wrapped around hers. Everything suddenly smelled clean like soap and also intriguingly like tea leaves. And then she heard a voice next to her ear that made her bite down on her lip as a ripple of pleasure teased her spine.

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

--------------------------

Bob had never been to this store before, and he wasn't really planning on stopping by today, but Mickey dragged him in and then ditched him for the children's section at the back of the store. Bob looked around downstairs, but as a poetry fan, he found that section to be seriously lacking, so he headed up to the loft instead.

He considered himself well-read until he realized how many classic novels he'd never even heard of before. And they all sounded really depressing. Which was kind of the point, he supposed, but if he was going to get something new to read, he was in the mood for a more upbeat story. Maybe a romance or a European adventure he could get lost in. Maybe a sweeping, romantic tale where the nice guy gets the girl for once.

After several tries, he still wasn't finding anything close to what he was hoping for. As he re-shevled The Bell Jar, he decided to just reach for a book at random. Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut? Maybe that would be more his speed. But when he reached for it, his fingers wrapped around a soft hand complete with glossy, burgundy fingernails instead of the actual book. He jumped an inch in the air, because he hadn't even been aware anyone else was in the aisle with him, let alone a woman who smelled like sweet perfume.

"Oh. I'm so sorry," he stammered, already mortified. Then she turned to look at him over her shoulder, and he wanted to jump off the loft railing and run out the shop door. There was only one word to accurately describe her: adorable. She had dark red hair done up in a messy braid, big brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. "Oh."

"It's okay," she replied softly as she tried to hand him the book. "You can have it."

He shook his head, completely distracted, as he kept finding more things about her face that he liked. A grin curled along his lips as he said, "No, it's all yours. Really. I was just looking for something new to read."

She glanced down at the cover and then back at his face, and maybe he was imagining things, but it looked like she was blushing a bit. "Wow. I wasn't really expecting anyone else to be interested in reading a sarcastic take on global destruction on a sunny Saturday afternoon."

His eyebrows shot up. "Is that what it's about?"

Her laughter was also adorable. "Yeah, I mean... it's Vonnegut," she said with a bit of an eye roll. Oh no. She knew what she was talking about, and he kind of didn't. He was probably about to sound like an idiot.

Bob cleared his throat and pointed at a random spine to buy himself time. "What's this one about?"

She cocked her head slightly to the side and said, "Two murders and a kidnapping."

"Oh," he said with a little laugh. "No thanks. How about this one?"

He wasn't even looking at the books now at all, preferring to watch her facial expression change as she checked another title. "Oh, that one's good. Also about murder."

He chuckled and pointed at another. "This one?"

She smirked and looked up at him. "Jealousy, rage, hatred, and also a lot of murder."

"Wow," Bob replied with what he was sure was a stupid looking smile. "I was hoping for something a little tamer? Perhaps less murder-y? Maybe I should go down and look in the children's section?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and listened to her laugh again.

"I could recommend a few books with little to no murder. Maybe even a happy ending," she told him, and he watched as she pushed her braid over her shoulder.

"I'll believe it when I see it," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest. To his shock and amazement, her gaze followed his movement, and her blush returned.

When her tongue darted out between her lips, Bob could feel his heart beating in his temples. Her brown eyes drifted back up to his face, and he wondered if this was how Jake or Bradley used to feel when girls paid attention to them at the bar. It was decidedly really exciting.

He was going to be bold like his friends. He was going to ask her for her number. Maybe he'd see if she wanted to help him shop for some books, and he could buy her that horrible Vonnegut that she wanted, and then he'd ask her very nicely for her number.

"Floyd!"

Bob watched you jump as Mickey's voice echoed through the store.

"Floyd! Let's go!"

"S-Sorry," Bob muttered, stepping past her and heading for the loft railing. "Just... hang on for one second?"

As soon as Mickey looked up and saw him, he said, "We gotta go, man. I got some books for my nephews, but we'll be late to grab a drink before D&D if we don't leave now. You know how she gets when we're late." He was shaking a bag of books and heading for the door.

Bob did know for a fact that Jessica got annoyed when they showed up late because they got hungry or distracted on the way to The Hard Deck. "Just give me a minute," he told Mickey, but he was already outside.

He swiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and turned around to find the aisle empty. Oh no. He checked the next row of shelves, and the next, and the next, until he got all the way to the stairs, but the adorable redhead was nowhere to be found. And he had no idea what her name was.

"Hello?" he called out softly, checking each aisle again until he was back where he started. Bob might have believed that he imagined the whole entire exchange with an attractive woman, except that there was one book propped up against the others right where he and she had been standing.

"A Room With a View by E. M. Forster," he mumbled as he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He glanced around again, but she was well and truly gone, leaving nothing except for what seemed like a book recommendation.

"Floyd!"

Bob sighed and tipped his head back in frustration. "Coming!"

He descended the stairs slowly, head swiveling in every direction, searching for brown eyes and a braid while he held the book. Gone. He paid for A Room With a View and headed outside to find Mickey looking quite annoyed. What he didn't see was the mystery girl watching him from the far end of the loft.

-----------------------

"She was real," Bob insisted as he held his glass of ginger ale a little tighter. "Just because you were too busy yelling doesn't mean I made her up in my mind. She had red hair and brown eyes."

Mickey gave him a skeptical look. "That's actually a really rare combination. And I know for a fact you happen to have an excellent imagination, my friend."

Bob cradled his forehead in his hand. "Why didn't I ask for her name and number?" Then he paused. "You know what? It doesn't even matter. There's no way she would have agreed to give it to me."

He thought about the book he bought sitting on the front seat of his truck next to his dice bag and character sheet, and he considered just going home for the night. Maybe he could start to read the book. Maybe he'd feel like writing.

Then he felt an arm slip around his waist. "Hi, Jessica," he said as he blushed when he looked down at Jake's petite girlfriend. A second later, Bradley's wife was next to him as well, and Bob realized they were wearing matching smirks.

"Hey, Bob," Jessica replied, giving him a little squeeze. "We were just wondering if you happened to like redheads."

Mickey snickered before he tipped his beer bottle back and finished the drink. "He loves them. Daydreams about them."

Bob shot him a withering look. "She was real."

"Who was real?" Bradley's wife asked as her husband came up behind her and set his chin on her shoulder. Great, now he was going to have a full audience of people informed about his embarrassing afternoon of not even knowing how to ask a woman what her name was.

"There was a cute girl at the bookstore in North Park earlier," he muttered. "She had red hair, and I fumbled the ball."

Bradley chuckled. "You know what your problem is, right? You're too nice. Sugar met me when I was an absolute fuckboy, and she fell hard."

"I've been having a decade long lapse of judgement," she replied, and Bradley kissed her neck. "Don't listen to him, Bob. Girls love nice guys."

But Bob knew they didn't. Even the woman from the bookstore dodged him after approximately five minutes of flirting. If you could even call that flirting. He finished his ginger ale, and said, "We need to go. It's almost time for D&D. I'll drive."

Mickey nodded and said, "I'm ready." He could probably tell Bob had reached his limit with this conversation. His friend may be an extrovert to the extreme, but he was good at recognizing when Bob needed a break.

Jessica nodded as well and patted him on the chest before she pranced off into Jake's open arms. They shared the most adorable looking kisses before Jake straightened out her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Have her home by midnight, Bob!" he called as he released her.

Bob nodded wishing there was someone besides the elderly woman who lived in the duplex next to him that cared if he was out past midnight or not. Even though he always looked forward to playing Dungeons & Dragons, he kind of wanted to head home and call it an early night. Nothing sounded as good as sending an email to Nat before reading his new book. But he would wait until later, and maybe he would even be in the mood to get his laptop out.

-----------------------

Anna went back to her studio apartment empty handed. Well, that wasn't quite true. She didn't buy any books, but she did splurge on a six dollar bottle of wine which would probably taste disgusting. She just hoped it would help her sleep through the night after reading some sad poetry and eating a piece of toast for dinner.

That guy from the bookstore was going to linger in her mind for a long time whether she wanted him to or not. She was more attracted to him after five minutes in his presence than she was to Kevin at any point in the past five years. And if she was going to start thinking about Kevin, she was probably going to cry.

The toast was good, but the wine was bad. And she did cry a little bit. She was never going to get attached to the idea of being in a relationship ever again. She was never going to have herself that level of intimacy just to have it ripped away. She wouldn't allow it. Relying on herself would have to be enough. Handsome strangers with muscular, veiny arms and cute glasses who made her laugh were not part of the plan. That's why she ducked behind the end cap after she left him a book she thought he might like. She watched him buy it for himself, which left her almost breathless. If she allowed herself to, she could picture him sitting in a coffee shop sipping some tea and reading that book.

"Enough," she whispered, vision a little sloppy from the wine. She opened up the website called PoetsAmongUs, read a bookmarked collection about how good it would feel to be loved completely, and passed out.

The realization that she was going to have to spend all of Sunday afternoon getting ready for the week was made slightly easier by the fact that she only had four hundred square feet of space to clean. And then she thought about the beautiful home she once had in New Jersey, and she had to finish the bottle of wine to help her get through her notes on The Great Gatsby.

She was still thinking about that hot guy with the glasses on Monday when she grabbed a donut from the teacher's lounge. Indulging in a little fantasy here and there about being loved and cared for wouldn't be so bad. And putting his face to it just made it even sexier. When she wasn't teaching, she let her mind wander to some possibilities that would never happen again. Pretty eyes, lean muscles, soft looking hair, pink cheeks. He probably had nice friends, too. He probably never cheated on anything in his life.

"Hey, Anna? Are you alright?"

She looked up from her bag of peanuts and realized she'd been so deep in thought, she wasn't paying attention to the lunch conversation. "I'm sorry," she replied, fighting the urge to groan. She wasn't very good at this stuff and should have probably just eaten lunch in her office like she did the past few days. The fact that it was Wednesday and she was still distracted was concerning to her.

"Don't apologize. You just seem lost in thought," said Jessica as she ate another perfect looking lunch.

"Do you want some chips and hummus? Bradley packed me too much food today," her other friend said. And of course he did, because he sounded like a damn dream.

Anna ate a few chips and sighed. "Have either of you ever had your heart smashed to bits?" She didn't really mean to say that out loud, but now that she had, she was met with an awkward silence that she wanted to run away from.

"Yeah," Advanced Calculus replied softly. "And I did it to myself."

"Not my heart as much as my hopes and dreams," Advanced Physics added. "But for me, I think that was much worse."

Now the silence that followed wasn't quite as painful, but Anna was still a little embarrassed. "Yeah. All of the above." She cleared her throat and tried to think of something else to talk about, but her mind was still on the bookstore. "Hey, why didn't you tell me that San Diego is full of hot guys? They are literally everywhere. I went window shopping in North Park and got sucked into a bookstore, and I bumped into a guy with glasses who smelled so nice."

"Ohhh, what did he look like?"

Anna sighed. "You know how you can just tell a guy is really strong even though he doesn't have bulging muscles?"

"Mmhmm."

"He was like that." Anna bit into her sandwich and chewed it slowly. "Pretty eyes, kind of the color of a lake. Sandy hair. Wire glasses. Soft spoken. He smelled like a cup of tea."

A few seconds later, she was snapped back from her drifting thoughts as Advanced Calculus asked, "Did you say this was at a bookstore in North Park?"

"Yes," Anna replied with a nod.

"Did you get his name?" Advanced Physics asked.

"No," she answered, still embarrassed over the fact that she hid from him.

And then she thought she was going to get whiplash again.

"Was he about six feet tall?"

"Was he slim but not skinny?"

"Did he blush when he smiled?"

"Will you please come to the Hard Deck this weekend?"

--------------------------

Bradley is so proud of the fact that Sugar fell for him when they were in college. Beer Boy just gets better with age. This little Bob and Anna meet cute might spell disaster when they figure it all out! Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 3

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natriae · 2 months

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Oh to make out with omi omi like it’s so messy and hot and surprisingly he love it too. Maybe one day u are having drinks and things get heated. OMGGG a roommate au fuckkkkk my mind goes burrrrrrrrrr

NO FRR needy omi makes me go brrrr

I'M SO SORRY FOR NOT WRITTING THIS SOONER

WARNINGS: 17+, BONER ALERT!!, drinking

Friday nights with your roomate weren't unusual. The two of you often going to the fanciest bars in Tokyo with the best views. You'll have to thank the Volleyball Association for his hefty paycheck. The two of you didn't get to see each other often between you pursuing your master's degree, Kiyoomi traveling and his tough practice schedules. The most interaction you guys have had in the pass month was passing him in the hallways. Him always being half dead and you... well you weren't in the best shape as well.

So you decided that the last friday of the month was Omi and Y/N time. While you wanted to spend this time showing him how greatful you are he took you in, omi had the idea of going to "better" establishments. By better he means 3 star michelin restaurants... the ones you can't afford.

Yes, it was nice to see that his name allowed the two of you to experience these beautiful places, but as of lately these seemed more like dates rather than two roommates catching up. Not that your opposed to a date with Omi. Have you seen his body? But he's seen you at your worse. Crying to him at the bar in Ongiri Miya about how your getting evicted from your apartment and how your behind on loan payments. He's seen you sick and begging for him to get you toilet paper. If anything he probably takes you to these places to be his wing woman.

One too many drinks later, and the two of your are stumbling out of the restaurant to his luxurious car. Kiyoomi was much better at hiding his drunkenness than you where. The street lamps were just dim enough to hide the pink dusting his cheeks.

All of your weight pressed into his side while he attempted to keep you upright. "Y/N you need to work with me," the taller man grunts before decides to lift you up over his shoulder. "we need to go home," he breaths into the chill night air.

"whoa, big boy take me on a date first," you giggle into his back. Hitting one of his butt cheeks with the palm of your hand.

You're flipped back upright once you reach his car. He opens the back door and tosses you in. It takes a moment for your brain to register that he got in next to you. "why aren't you driving?" you question, laying your head on his shoulder.

"I'm drunk...gonna wait till I sober up a bit," he states closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Always so responsible. "Also we live together, and that was a date, so I wouldn't be in the wrong," he says sternly looking down at you.

Popping your head up you look at him with furrowed brows. "what do you mean that was a date?"

"Was it not?" He questions, more so to himself than to you. While Kiyoomi is lost in his own thoughts yours run wilding thinking of all the times the two of you have gone out like this. He never said any of these were dates...

You watch as Kiyoomi's adam's apple bobs in his throat. If his face wasn't flushed enough it's clear now. His ears bright red as he stutters out his next words. "d-did you not want this to be a date?"

Did he really think these were all dates? You attempt to look at him in the eyes, yet his fail to meet yours. His head remains looking at the window leaving you with only the view of his red ear. Memories flood your mind in attempt to find the word date leave his mouth during any of your plans. Yet all you can remember are the times Kiyoomi was left stressed he wouldn't have time to shower and change, how he spent an abnormally long time on his hair, or how he always would sneak his card to the waiter so he paid for your meal.

"Hey, look at me," you whisper, lightly moving his chin to face you. His pupils widen over his already dark eyes making them look like perfect tapioca pearls. "we're these all dates?" did you want these to all be dates? Kiyoomi nods his head slowly, and you drop your hand from his face. Unwanted touch was not the man's specialty, yet his hand drops to yours. Placing it back on his cheek, as he looks into your eyes.

"I didn't know how to ask you, and I definitely drank to much tonight," his face flushes more as he rubs your hand softly. "Miya told me to ask you tonight, but i was.."

"Kiyoomi you can say you were nervous," you whisper in the dark car inches from his face.

"never," he smirks. That's something you can tease him about tomorrow. You want nothing more then to kiss the stupidly handsome man. "didn't think you'd like me.. you know with my habits," he states barely loud enough to hear.

"how can I not, at least i know you don't have shit stains," you giggle, leaning closer, noses almost touching. He giggles with you, a sound you don't get to hear often. The deep breath he takes is almost enough of a distraction for you to miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips.

"Kiyoomi"

"huh" he responds on autopilot.

"do you wanna kiss me?" you ask, eyes widening like that of a doe.

"may I?" the gentleman in him asks. Not even a second later your leaning completely into him. Leaving a soft kiss on his lips. His eyes remain shut after you seperate. Your nose still touching his, a small smile escapes as you lean in to kiss him longer. His hand comes to rest on your neck to push you futher into him. You may have broken Kiyoomi.

He bites your lower lip as his hand leaves your neck to wrap around your body while his other hand grabs your thigh to help situate you on his lap. Both of your hands hold his face as you deepen the kiss. You can't help, but strattle him while your tongues explore each others mouths. It's mess and sloppy as saliva drips from the corner of your mouth. His large palms move under your dress to kneed your ass. Your not even sure this is your Kiyoomi with the way his hand slaps, strach that, spikes your ass. Kneading the flesh before repeating the action. Your left unbuttoning his shirt as he begins to trail kisses down your neck. His hands go to waist to push your heat to his hard on.

They were right, it's always the quiet ones.

Your hands tangle in his hair as your left grinding onto him. At this point your dress is bunched up around your waist, allowing Kiyoomi's hands to play with the string of your thong.

Kiyoomi's deep breaths lead you on as you kiss down his neck. "y/n, y/n, not here," he breathlessly rasps. He hears your whine as you grind a little harder into him. He laughs before bringing your face to look at him. His hairs a mess, shirt halfway unbottoned, and his breathless. What god do you have to thank for this sight.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #kiyoomi sakusa #sakusa #sakusa x reader fluff #sakusa x reader #hq sakusa #hq headcanons #hq imagines #hq smut #hq #sakusa smut #haikyuu smut #haikyū!!#haikyuu fluff

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leclsrc · 1 year

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see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?��

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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jungkookstatts · 6 months

Note

Big fan of your work! Since requests are open I was wondering if you may do a jk smut “holy sh*t i think you got ME pregnant” riding and complete eagerness for jk 🫣

[Summary]: Jungkook is a little too obsessed with the idea of making you his. About making you both his wife and the mother of his kids.

[Theme]: Non-Idol AU (or Idol AU, however, you see it), Established Relationship AU, Pre-Fiances(?) AU

[Rating]: 18+ literally just sex, oral (m receiving), doggy, spitting, choking, ass slapping, hair grabbing, creampie, cockwarming, impreg kink, dom jk, sub reader, literally just vile I'm sorry

[Word Count]: 2,016

[A/N]: This literally took me almost 4 months, I apologize deeply. I also wrote it and then reread your ask and realized I didn't really follow it too much ㅠㅠ I am sorry I hope you still like it. My mind just went "woo-woo sex!!"

Your boyfriend is a big brat. Sometimes, even a bigger brat than you.

This all started because he was being a big cunt driving you home from your date. He took you out to a fancy restaurant for your 3-year anniversary, but for some reason, he was being a complete prick all the way home. Something about how you looked at the waiter a certain way and he didn’t like it.

So now here you are, your silk dress thrown somewhere on his bedroom floor, and your panties ripped down the middle. He’s naked and rock-hard in front of you, looking down at you on display on his sheets.

“You think it’s funny, huh?” your boyfriend smirks, his tongue coming out to lick at his lip piercing.

“I mean, yeah, a little,” you laugh. He’s so pent up, so overworked over nothing. You literally want to marry this man — he has nothing to worry about. It’s funny, but you’re also extremely turned on. Jungkook mad and jealous, is a huge, dangerous combination you can’t help but bend at the knees over in the bedroom.

His eyebrows knit together angrily as he pushes your legs up, his cold fingers sliding up your folds.

“A-ah,” you gasp, wiping the laugh off your face. His long fingers play with you, sliding and circling your juices between your folds.

“Not so funny now, is it?” he chuckles. He inserts a finger into you, and you grab onto his wrist in a useless attempt to calm him down for a moment. But he takes your wrist on his own, pinning it against the bedsheets next to your head. “Am I a joke, hm?” he whispers against your neck. “You think it’s funny to look at other men when I take you out?”

“N-No, Kook,” you swear. “I only look at you.”

“Damn right you do,” he bites your neck harshly, causing you to arch your back into his chest. You know for a fact you’re going to be purple and blue tomorrow. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/n,” he smiles against your ear. “Let me fix it for you.”

“K-Kook,” you whine, knowing where this is going.

“Get up,” he demands. You feel your pussy tremble at the look in his eyes. He’s going to torture the shit out of you, and you couldn’t be more excited and scared at the same time.

Your boyfriend sits down at the edge of his bed, spreading his legs and pointing to the space on the ground in between them for you. You fall onto your knees, sliding your hands up his thighs until they’re inches from his swollen cock. He’s so hard — it almost looks painful. But he looks down at you with hooded eyes, smiling devilishly at the events to come.

“Suck it,” he demands. And you do.

With your small hands wrapped around his cock, you give him a test pump before licking a long stripe from base to tip. The sensation has his head falling back, and you feel yourself dripping onto the floor at the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing from pleasure. You put him into your mouth, your tongue flattening against his frenulum so deliciously, that he grabs your hair in his fist and pushes you down further. The action causes you to gag, not ready for the sudden change in pace. But you accept it graciously, adjusting to his length in your mouth as you move with the pace his hand on your hair sets for you.

It’s always hard to adjust to him. You hate to admit it, but your big-brat boyfriend has a big-brat cock. You don’t think in the three years you’ve dated him you’ve been able to call yourself “used” to his size. But he likes it rough. He warned you when you said you didn’t like rough sex all those years ago that he’d change your mind. And boy, has he. You’re an absolute slut for this man, and he gets a tiny ego boost every time you submit yourself to him like this.

“That’s it, baby,” he coaxes you.

You bob your head onto him, looking up at him with your full mouth, eyes watery and big. He almost cums at the sight, pushing you off for a moment to compose himself.

You come off with a pop, a messy line of spit connecting your mouth to his dick.

He grabs your jaw with his palm, his thumb jutting into your mouth. You take his thumb in your hand, enclosing it around your lips and sucking on it just as you sucked his dick.

“Open,” he demands again. You do, opening your mouth and pushing your tongue out. Your boyfriend leans forward, taking your chin in his fingertips, and spits into your mouth. You smile, giggling with a mouth full of his spit when he slightly sits back, looking at all of you. He was about to say something, but you lean into him, taking his dick into your mouth again and sucking him harder and faster.

“A-ah-Y/n,” he moans quietly, although his grip on your hair returns harshly. “Ffuckkk—hah.”

He nearly laughs at the pleasure; you’re so perfect for him it’s funny. You know every single one of his pleasures, and he knows you do when you begin to play with the skin between his balls and cock as you fuck him with your mouth. The sensation has him pulling you off his cock again for good, himself on the edge of release.

“Get on the bed,” he pants.

“How?” you ask, resting your hands on his thighs. He leans forward again, but this time his hand comes around your neck, choking you a little more harshly than you expected. Your eyes search for him, completely lust-filled and intense.

“How I like you best,” he whispers against your lips. You lean in to kiss him, but he pulls away, teasing you in the most evil way possible.

You pout, but get up on your feet and lay down front-first against the sheets. You feel him come up behind you, touching the back of your thighs softly, gliding his hands up your skin until they meet the round of your ass. You listen to him moan softly as he spreads them apart, taking a good look at your swollen, dripping cunt.

“God, you’re so wet,” he nearly whines. “You gonna let me knock you up, sweetheart?”

“Mmhm,” you whine. The anticipation of his cock inside of you is getting too intense, and you wiggle your ass at him in an attempt to get him to get a move on. But he only slaps your ass hard, surely leaving a handprint. You gasp sharply, toes curling at the surprise.

“Fuck, I want to put a baby in you so bad,” he slaps your ass again. “Wanna show everyone how swollen I’ve made you. That you’re carrying my baby because you’re my girl.”

“J-Jungkook,” you gasp as he lands a third harsh slap on your ass. You almost feel like you might cum — he’s always hinted at wanting kids with you, but hasn’t really brought it to the bedroom. It’s hot, to say the very least. That, and the combination of his big hand slapping your ass.

“No one would question you’re mine,” he grabs your hips, pulling them up into the air where he situates the tip of his dick against your cunt. “You’d be too busy having my babies to give anyone else a glance other than me.”

You open your mouth to say something, but he’s already pushing inside of you, stretching you so well like how he always does. You fold your arms in the space above your head, arching your back into him as he slowly bottoms out. This position always allows his cock to kiss your cervix so delicately, you squirm knowing he’s going to pump you so good once he’s finished.

“Fuck,” he spits, panting at the sheer feeling of your walls around him. “Y-You good?”

You just moan against his pillows, nodding your head as you push your hips back, slipping further into him than you were before. Jungkook grabs your hips tightly, pressing his fingertips harshly into your skin as he pulls out and slams back in with force. You moan loudly into the fabric, but Jungkook pays you no mind, pushing your head further into the sheets as he fucks you like a demon.

His hips slap against yours, and you find yourself coming undone within minutes of his torture on you. The man behind you only laughs, his thrusts becoming harder, trying to push past the absolute grip you have on his cock from your orgasm.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groans, head lulling back in disbelief. “You’re all mine,” he grabs your ass harshly before landing another slap onto it. “Say it, Y/n. Say you’re mine. Say you belong to me.”

“Koo,” you tremble, completely overstimulated from your orgasm.

“Dammit,” he grips your hair in his fist, forcing you to look up. His body looms over yours, his breath tickling your ear as he demands again, “Say it.”

“I’m yours, Koo,” you whine. “I’m all yours; only yours.”

He grunts in your ear at your words, dick slightly twitching inside of you. The way you say his name sounds so sweet. He never wants to hear his name from another pair of lips. It only sounds right when it’s coming from you. The thought of you being his forever, of the diamond ring sitting in the top drawer of his closet wardrobe, looms over him. God, he can’t wait. He’s so eager and so very impatient. He wants you, he wants you as his — as his wife and the mother of his children — so badly, he can almost taste it. He wants to be your husband already.

“Fuck, dammit,” he curses, head resting against the back of your shoulder. He still fucks into you, hips unrelenting and only quickening with the orgasm he denied of himself just a while ago while you were sucking him off looming over his head. “M’ gonna cum.”

“Cum for me, baby,” you permit him. Your voice sounds like honey in his ears, and you find yourself cumming for a second time when his thick, hot ropes spill into you. It’s so much — his sweet voice filling your ear as pleasure takes over his body, the way his cum pumps into you filling you with so much of him you feel so full and used.

“A-ah, Y/n,” he says softly, kissing your shoulder with wet, soft kisses. “Fuck, you’re so good to me.”

“I love you,” you respond as your knees give out on you. He simply falls on top of you, letting you lie down with his cock buried deep inside of you. He plugs you up, even though he’s softening slowly by the minute.

“I love you, too,” he smiles.

“I think you might have gotten me pregnant,” you slightly turn your head toward him. Your boyfriend comes up to you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he smiles gently.

“You’re fine with that?” you ask him, a little surprised.

“Yeah,” he hides his face in the crook of your neck. “I want like…an entire army of children with you, so I’m completely fine with that idea.”

“I’m not having more than two kids,” you scoff.

He simply looks at you with his bunny eyes, feeling embarrassed by his eagerness.

“Maybe three, but that is pushing it,” you change your mind. Fuck, this man has you wrapped around his finger.

“Regardless, I’m gonna make you mine,” he says surely, turning you on his back.

“I am yours,” you confirm as you push the hair out of his face.

“Officially,” he corrects you.

You don’t even have to ask what he means by that when he stares at your ring finger gently before kissing you into the pillows, the hand on your waist slowly tracing circles on your lower stomach with his thumb.

----

[End. Do not copy. Original work of @jungkookstatts , 2023]

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ghostssweetgirl · 1 year

Text

jealousy simon 'ghost' riley x reader (smut)

Pairing: fem reader x simon 'ghost' riley [smut]

CW: fem reader, fem pronouns used, slight dom ghost, jealousy, alcohol intake, possessive/jealous/makeup sex, p in v sex

nsfw under the cut ! minors , do not interact !! 18 ++ !!

alternate version here

word count: 2.6k~

Always being close to your Lieutenant Ghost, it wasn't ordinarily weird when you went out to pubs, bars, or the combined, such as where you'll be tonight - a busy bar/restaurant downtown. Except for this time, you had been in your feelings and discovered your own towards your superior. You contemplated telling him, but to be safe, you wanted to wait until you had a few drinks in, in case he doesn't accept it, you can blame it on the alcohol. (lmao blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a alcohol 🤪 I'm so funny guys... LAUGH OR ELSE😈)

You ordered your first drink and found a table to sit at while waiting for him. Of course, it would be hard not to notice him, as big of a man as he was. So, you busied yourself on your phone in the meantime.

15 minutes go by and you sigh, looking up to the entrance at the right time when he walked in. Your face instinctually lit up, waving at him. He returned the wave before gathering a bartender's attention and being handed a bottle of whiskey as he made his way over to you, grunting as he sat down.

"What's up, Lieutenant?" fuck you were already being awkward.

He tilted his head, noticing you acting strange but not pushing it. "Hello to you, too."

You grabbed the menus and handed him one before barely skimming through it, closing it, and setting it back. None of their entrees looked appetizing, so you're going with safe food.

"I don't know why you grab a menu. Y'always get the same thing," he joked. "Tenders and chips."

"And you always get a steak. Medium rare with scalloped potatoes and mac n' cheese," you played along. You knew him well, if not better than he knew you. Who were you kidding, he was a very observant man. You wouldn't be surprised if he knew more about you than you thought.

"Guess you do pay attention," he chuckled as he closed his menu. He lifted his mask and took a long swig of whiskey.

After you enjoy your meals, you drink about 6 [or however many cups/shots you want, idc] more cups while Ghost's on his second bottle, you're filled with laughter, and feel very giddy. Your body jolted as you remembered what you wanted to tell him tonight, and by gauging his mood, it really wouldn't be a bad idea, especially at this point.

"Need another one. Be back," he told you, getting up to the bar. It was pretty busy now, a bunch of women gathered at the front.

You tried to keep your eyes off of him, and you even picked up your phone to attempt to distract yourself, but it stayed in your hand, falling to the table as you watched what was happening. A woman, a very attractive one honestly, peeked at Ghost, checking him out and smiling ear to ear as she approached him. You figured of course he would look, she's showing off her whole body in that damn outfit she was wearing. You couldn't read her lips because of that damned big smile, but it was very obvious she was flirting.

You watched as her hand bravely snaked up his forearm. He turned his head slowly, and his eyes scanned over her body. Oh, how your heart sank. But you pursed your lips, nearly fighting back tears as you watched the interaction. He shifted in his step, still waiting for his bottle. His head bobbed as he spoke, and you only hoped he wasn't reciprocating her intentions.

And if that wasn't bad enough, soon as two barstools cleared up, they sat next to each other. Your breath fastened as you kept trying to pry your eyes away. His hand lay on the small of her back while she sat up on the stool. You're finally able to look away, rage filling your head as you pick up your wallet and pull enough cash to cover the bill and then some, with a hefty tip.

What the fuck was taking so long for the drinks, and why the fuck was he touching her? At this point, you didn't want to know. You were ready to confess your feelings, to hope that you could call him yours, but of course, some slut would pull him away - ruin your chance. You almost saw red as you huffed, picking up your stuff and storming out the door, walking a good while to where you parked, damn the busy city.

She'll keep him busy, y/n, don't worry. He won't notice you're gone, and sure as hell won't care - you told yourself.

You were about 10 feet from your car when you surprisingly heard a deep voice calling your name, getting closer every second.

"Y/N!" he called.

You ignored him, booking it into your car, and fiddling with the keys to unlock it. Goddamn, if he wasn't as fast as he was, you barely got your key into the door when he took your keys away from the door, grabbed your wrist, turning you to face him.

"What the bloody hell has gotten into you, y/n?" he asked in a stern voice, concerned. "You've been acting weird all night, talk to me."

You rolled your eyes. You bit your tongue as you didn't want to say anything too mean, but fuck if you weren't livid with him. It wasn't his fault, you knew that. You know he didn't know and couldn't read your damn mind, but for some reason you expected him to. You huffed, not being able to help your venomous tone as you replied, "Nothing! Nothing is wrong! I'm going home!"

You once again try to open the door, hurriedly trying to escape.

He slammed the car door shut, towering over you, almost raising his voice. "What the fuck is your problem, y/n? Fuckin' tell me. I'm not going back and forth with you and I'm not fucking chasing you. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

Tears pricked your eyes, finally falling as you stammered, trying to find the words. You gave up, looking at the ground. Very careful with his words, he gently cupped your chin. "Hey, hey. Come on," he sighed. "Don't give me a hard time. Just tell me."

"I-I just wish you would notice how I feel for you, Ghost! I've had a fucking crush on you for... I don't know how long now! And seeing you flirt with that... that bitch! I just... I got so mad, I was..." you sniffled, stopping yourself from going on a ramble and trying not to be disrespectful towards some random girl who honestly didn't deserve it as you knew it wasn't right to hate on people.

"Flirtin'? I was flirtin' with her? Sweetie, no..." He wiped your tears away with his thumbs, carefully not to smudge your eyeliner. "Fuckin' hell, I'm sorry. That was nothing, y/n. It meant nothing."

"Yeah, right," you scoff, finding it hard to believe him, remembering how he was looking at her. "I'm sorry. I should have never said anything. Please, just let me go home."

"Y/n... Let me get us an Uber... We've been drinkin' luv," his voice softened, showing genuine concern for you. While it was somehow convincing, you still felt anger. "Will you let me come home with you? Please."

You don't think you've ever heard him say 'please' like this before. You fought with yourself mentally, until of course, you caved in.

"Whatever," you replied.

You didn't talk to him on the drive home, making it obvious you were mad at him as you faced yourself against the window. He tried to touch your shoulder in comfort but you pushed him away. When the car finally came to a stop, you got out in a hurry, and for no reason, sped walk to your door even though you know full and damn well you invited him back here with you.

You locked yourself in the bathroom as you needed a moment to straighten up and change into pajamas.

Finally calming down, you walk to your hallway. Looking back and forth between your bedroom and the living room, your body moved on its own to where he was.

You both make eye contact as you come and sit down. You sit down, hugging your thighs to your chest. "So..."

"So. You have feelings for me, yeah?"

"Yeah... I guess I do, so now what? I ruined our friendship?" you shrugged, trying to find any bit of discomfort in his face - eyes - that damn mask.

"No," he shook his head, leaning into his knees, keeping eye contact. "Not at all."

"Well," you look down. "Now what, Lieutenant?"

"Quit callin' me that."

As you find his eyes again, they seem more relaxed as they look you up and down. "Simon."

"Okay... Simon," you repeated his name.

Awkward fucking silence. Fuck it, you were going to sleep.

"Since we're fine, I'm going to sleep."

"Not yet you are," he softly groaned, getting up, listening to his knees crack before he knelt before you, a sight you must admit was heavenly. Knees spread on the ground, still at face level. His hands rested on his thick, muscular thighs. "Y/n... I do like you. Have for a long time."

You have to shake your head to look away from his bottom half. "Do you mean that? Or are you just saying that?"

He looked at your hands, softly pulling them away. Your thighs spread as they fell on the couch. His thumbs rubbed the top of your hands. "Mean that, truly." He pulled away from one hand, lifting his mask above his soft, pink lips before he planted a loving kiss on your hand, before turning it over to kiss at your palm, letting you cradle his face.

You relaxed into his touch, a breath you've been holding for a while finally releasing. His soft eyes met yours for a moment, you saw the universe. Time stopped as you both leaned into a passionate kiss, he cups both sides of your face as he takes in all your mouth had to offer, every taste lingering from your fruity drinks mixed with his tobacco and whiskey combination.

It wasn't long before he hoisted you up, letting your legs wrap around his torso while he blindly walked in the direction where your bedroom would be. The kiss only broke when he asked you which door to go into.

He hovered over you as he set you on your bed, the bed sinking in where his hands held himself up. He moved on from your lips to your jaw, sucking down into your neck, licking a stripe up your pulse. His knee maneuvered between your thighs, grinding into your heat, surely already sopping wet. Finally feeling how he touches you, kisses you, handles you - you could orgasm alone from just this.

He lifted his hands, brushing over your lips which greedily took his index finger in, sucking on it, swirling your tongue around it, earning a sinful groan from Simon. He fixed his position, hiking his knees up next to your hips as he took his fingers out of your mouth with a pop of your lips, switching to another pair.

His hand glides over your breast, sliding over your perked nipple, reaching underneath the band of your pajama pants, to the hem of your underwear. "You sure you want this, luv? Don't know that I can hold back if you say 'yes', doll..." he warned.

"Yes, yes, I want this," you breathed. With your consent, two thick, wet fingers found your throbbing clit, rubbing it in slow circles. Your body tensed as you gasped in pleasure, biting your lip as you looked into his dark, lustful eyes.

"So fuckin' wet f'me. All for me, right, lovie?" he cooed.

"All- Oh! Only for you, Simon~!" you back bowed off the bed as you swear you were already approaching your first orgasm. His fingers spread your folds before finding your clenched hole. The squelch nearly bounced off the walls of your pussy as he slowly and eagerly pushed two fingers in, carefully pistoning his fingers inside of your spongy walls.

"Fuck~, so fuckin' tight and wet. Can't wait to fuck you silly. Make you feel so damn good, baby..."

"Simon!" you whined as he hit that spot, your pussy clenched relentlessly, making it harder for him to thrust in and out as your orgasm washed over you, gushing all over his fingers, slick and thickly coating his fingers.

"What a good girl, yeah? You did so well, baby," he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your sweaty forehead as you caught your breath. He smirked as he cleaned off his fingers, and you embarrassingly watched, blushing as you saw his eyes roll back at the taste of you - your cum. "Ready for my cock, luv? Yeah?"

Oh, how you nodded before he even finished the sentence. He swiftly pulled your pants off before taking his off. He slapped your clothed pussy, watching your body shiver at the impact and chuckling at your state.

You look down to see his cock, and your eyes widened. How you were going to take him, you didn't know but you knew it would ruin you~.

He kissed at your naval before slowly pulling your underwear down. "Can you take all of me, lovie?"

"Mhm!" you were eager to please him, even though you were unsure if he would fit.

He teased his tip between your folds, gathering the remaining slick from your orgasm before pushing his thick head into you slowly.

"Fuck! S-so big, Simon..." Your legs quivered but readied to lock around his hips.

"Too tight, fuckin' hell..." he strained, having to physically hold back from slamming into you all at once.

As he inched in deeper, your back arched higher and higher, eager to fully take him into you. He stretched you out nicely until his tip kissed your cervix, and he bottomed out. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his shoulders, he leaned down to suckle at your neck, deafening his groans into your skin.

"Don't stop, please... please," you begged. You needed more, needed him to ruin you and show you that he's yours and you his.

"Fuckin' hell..." his eyes rolled back at your pleas, obliging instantly as he picked up the pace. Your tightness was surely going to milk him of all that he had, but he didn't think he could last too much longer due to the sweet, sweet melody he was creating from your moans that echoed off the walls.

"Right there, Simon~! Oh my god!" your legs shook even as they were tightly locked around his waist. Your nails clutched at the back of his neck, so focused on the pleasure you didn't notice the wetness that was blood that was pooling around your nails from your scratches into him; he didn't care, he was getting off to pleasing you.

"Cum with me, lovie..." he demanded softly.

White heat licked the back of your eyes before you saw stars, nearly blacking out. He falls on top of you as he paints your insides white, the heavy weight of his body was in fact very comforting, and you found yourself slipping off to sleep.

He allowed you a moment before he woke you, wanting to help you clean yourself off before heading to bed.

"You with me, darlin'?" he chuckled as he rubbed your cheek, lovingly staring into your eyes, looking over each feature of your face.

You smile. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. That was... so good."

He smirked, deeply chuckling. "Right, let's get you washed up, babe."

He helped you up, leading you to the bathroom, and that's mostly all you remembered of this night.

As you lay in bed, you smile yourself to sleep with Simon next to you. Before dozing off, you wondered...

Why was I mad again?

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justabigassnerd · 5 months

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Protected

Pairing - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x daughter!reader

Word count - 1,654

Warnings - creepy guys, protective Jake & Mickey, being made uncomfortable, angst, fluff

Summary - when you get bothered by customers at work, Jake and Mickey can't just stand by and watch

A/N - hey y'all! sorry it's taken me so long to get a new fic out, I swear I'm trying to write faster but I be struggling. this was a request sent in by @stupendousnightmaretrash so here's a formal apology for taking so long. anyways I won't ramble, as per y'all, please send in requests, feedback, and enjoy!!!

Growing up it had always just been you and your dad, and you were perfectly fine with that arrangement. There would be a small number of people that would come in and out of your life, but your dad stuck around no matter what and he was all you needed.

Then he got called back to Top Gun.

After completing the mission he was called back for, Jake and his squad were offered a permanent position at Top Gun so they could all remain together which brought a new array of people into your life. You knew Javy of course; he and your dad had formed a close friendship early on so having him back in your life was a welcome surprise. Then there was the likes of Bradley, Bob, Ruben, and Natasha who became your honorary uncles and aunt. Then there was Mickey who somehow became like a second father to you. He was the youngest of the Daggers and so everyone had assumed he’d take more of an older brother role towards you, but he showed his complex maturity when he helped you solve a problem you were having, and you often found yourself going to him with problems you weren’t ready to talk to your own dad about yet to get advice from him.

A couple of years down the line, your dad and the Daggers were still based in Miramar and life was just as good as it was when the team first became an official squadron. You had recently turned sixteen and gotten a job working at a little restaurant along the beachfront for a little extra cash. It wasn’t the best job in the world, but it was something.

One evening, after a long day of work at Top Gun, the Daggers decided that they’d visit the restaurant you worked at to grab some dinner and to also surprise you while you were working.

The squadron turned up and waited excitedly to be seated and Jake couldn’t help but smile when he saw your eyes light up upon seeing the team gathered. You found them a table and handed out menus to everyone. The smile never leaves your face as you talk to them, getting their drinks orders before heading off to go and get their drinks. When you returned with their drinks you took their food orders and took them to the kitchen before returning to your section and seating two middle-aged men at a table near the Daggers. At first, they were polite, thanking you as they initially sat down and gave you their drinks orders with kind smiles but as the evening progressed their behaviour shifted. When you brought them their meals after the Daggers were just about halfway through their own dinners, the two men started looking you up and down, making uncomfortable flirty comments and one of the men even tried to run his hand along yours as you placed his food down in front of him. None of the men’s comments or actions went unnoticed by Mickey, who nudged Jake and pointed out how uncomfortable you clearly looked while serving the two men. When you moved away from the table to grab more drinks for the two men, Mickey and Jake exchanged a look and pushed their chairs away from the table, rising in sync and crossing to the two men.

“Can we help you?” One of the men asks, raising an eyebrow as they stare up at the two aviators who fold their arms across their chest in tandem, glaring down at the two men.

“You can stop bothering my daughter, that’s how you can help me.” Jake says, jaw set as his gaze grows colder by the second. The two men share a brief glance before letting out small chuckles.

“With all due respect. Your daughter is very beautiful.” One of the men has the gall to say, making Jake almost shift to land a punch on that man’s cocky smile, but Mickey was quicker, grabbing Jake’s shoulder and pulling him back a couple of paces to reduce the fight risk.

“She’s also sixteen years old. She’s just a kid!” Mickey has to hold himself back from screaming it in the man’s face as his friend shrugs.

“Well, she looks older.”

“And you still think that makes it okay?” Mickey says as Jake shrugs Mickey’s hand off his shoulder and approaches the two men, bracing his hands on the table, and leaning down so he’s in their faces.

“You two have about five minutes to pay your bill, give my kid a good tip and get your sorry asses out of here.” Jake’s voice was low and threatening, but the two men chuckled once again.

“What exactly are you going to do if we don’t do that?” The man asks, smirking cockily as he leant back in his seat, arms folding over his chest.

“I’ve got an entire team of naval aviators behind me, and they will not hesitate to get involved on my kid’s behalf.” Jake is seconds away from throwing a punch when the men laugh in his face.

“I have your- what’s going on?” Your return should’ve been expected yet in the moment all four men had forgotten you had gone off to get drinks.

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.” Jake says, straightening up and flashing a smile in your direction as Mickey drops his defensive stance to make everything seem more natural.

“Exactly, sweetheart. Are those our drinks?” One of the men says, condescension in his tone as he looks you up and down, frowning when you begin to look uncomfortable at his words.

“Oh come on, you can’t serve us with a smile?” He then says, and Mickey immediately walks over to you and takes the drinks off the tray.

“Mickey, what are you doing?” You ask in a hushed whisper as Mickey winks quickly, refusing to answer before turning around and slapping the biggest grin on his face and approaching the table.

“Here’s your drinks.” Mickey says, placing both drinks down making sure he spilt a bit over each man as he put them down.

“What are you doing?” One man says, standing up and attempting to brush the drink off his trousers.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to be served with a smile. I must’ve gotten a bit carried away.” Mickey says, the grin never leaving his face as both men grab napkins to wipe at their clothes while Jake crosses to you.

“Why don’t you grab the bill for these two? I have a feeling they’ll be leaving soon.” Jake whispers, watching as you nod lightly and head back to get the bill for the two men. Jake and Mickey return to the table with the Daggers, telling them that the situation appears to be defused and that since they had finished up all their meals, they’d get the bill and pay after the two men left. Jake kept glancing over at the two men as you brought over their bill and thankfully their mouths remained shut and they paid for their food and drinks silently before finishing their drinks and leaving the restaurant. When they left, you went over to the Daggers table and got them their bill and took the payments. You said goodbye to each Dagger in turn as they left but Jake and Mickey stopped in front of you.

“We’re going to wait outside for you, I know you don’t have much longer of your shift, and we want to make sure those assholes don’t come back.” Jake says, both he and Mickey smiling softly at you as you nod, thanking them before rushing off to finish off the rest of your shift.

Mickey and Jake sit outside the restaurant on a bench just by the beachfront and watch people taking evening strolls along the beach and listen to the sounds of seagulls calling and waves crashing against the sand. The two men found themselves talking about how work was going for them to pass the time until they heard you calling out for them, and they both turned and looked over their shoulders, a smile coming to their faces as they got to their feet and crossed to meet you halfway. Jake reached you first and trapped you in a strong but gentle hug.

“Was the rest of your shift, okay?” Was the first thing he asked as he hugged you, feeling you nod against his chest.

“Yeah.” You say as you pull away from the hug, moving to hug Mickey who embraces you happily.

“No one else bothered you?” Mickey checks in as he releases you from the hug.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Thank you, by the way. Those guys really gave me the creeps.” You admit, briefly casting your gaze to the floor before looking back up at the two men.

“No need to thank us, sweetheart. We’ll always look out for you.” Jake says with a soft smile.

“Honestly, if you two weren’t in the Navy I would’ve asked my manager to hire you guys. We could do with some people to help us handle the creepy guys. And I think Mickey would be an excellent waiter, he’s got the customer service smile down.” You say with a slight laugh, making both your dad and Mickey let out laughs of their own as they imagine Mickey being a waiter.

“Come on you, let’s get home.” Jake then says, the laughter dying down as Mickey slings an arm over your shoulders and tugs you into his side as the three of you begin to walk away from the restaurant, chatting and laughing the whole way as you enjoy each other’s company. The events of the evening are now behind you as you cherish getting to spend time with two of your favourite people. And you wouldn’t trade them for the world.

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teddybeartoji · 6 months

Text

彡 HONORED AND READY TO CRY

☆. contains: 18+ mdni, boyfriend!satoru gojo x fem!reader; sub!satoru and dom!reader, established relationship, satoru is wearing a white button-up and black slacks (my favourite pretty boy), reader is wearing heels and a dress, satoru is tied up wc: 1.6k

what a sight.

satoru gojo, the honored one, the strongest, fully at your disposal. sitting legs spread on a chair with his hands tied behind his back with his own tie. both of you know, if he wanted, he could get out in a millisecond. but the fact is - he doesn’t want to. he loves this. he loves being put into his place. likes it when his pretty little girlfriend takes control, makes him beg and whine.

the first four buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, his sleeves are rolled up behind his back and his black slacks are already too fucking tight, the obvious bulge straining in his pants.

you’re sitting on a chair opposite of him, all dolled up. the two of you had just gotten back from your restaurant date, it went well, of course. but as always, your boyfriend couldn’t hold his hands to himself and is now getting punished for it. you know he does it on purpose, but hell, you’re enjoying this much as he is. possibly even more.

you’re sitting with one of your legs over your knee, leaning back in the chair and a smug smile on your face. you love him like this. pupils dilated, head threatening to fall forward as if it’s too heavy for him to hold up, cheeks and neck all red and flushed, chest heaving already. you haven’t even done anything to him.

your smirk only widens when he connects his crystal blue eyes with your lust filled ones. you take the leg resting over your knee and place it down on the ground, spreading your legs and slightly pulling the hem of your dress up, exposing your baby blue panties. his eyes drop down and when he sees the obvious wet patch on them, he lets out a deep groan. he tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it’s so hard to focus, it’s hard to fucking breathe.

“mm, what is it, baby?” you purr at him.

“p-please…” satoru whines out as he tries to thrust his hips upward, in order to get any sort of relief, his eyes rolling back into his head in the process.

you chuckle lowly at his desperation. “this is your own fault, you know.”

he swallows and nods at your words. “i-i’m sorry, baby.”

still leaned back in the chair, you slowly raise one of your legs and move it over to his crotch so your heeled toes are just barely touching satoru’s bulge.

his breath hitches.

you hum as you drink up every single one of his movements. he’s your sensitive boy.

you push up against him a bit more and his head falls back, chest rapidly moving up and down. his fingernails are leaving strong marks inside his palms behind his back, fuck. you lean a bit forward in your chair, mesmerized by his want and need.

“satoru.”

he lets out a weak whine and you see his adam’s apple bob.

“look at me.”

satoru slowly raises his head and meets your gaze. he feels like he’s going to melt. like he’s going to melt into a puddle right here, right now. you’re doing so much and yet so little to him, he’s going insane. he watches you bite down on your lip and another meek whimper leaves his pretty lips.

you slowly drag your foot over his one thigh to his knee, down his calf, then to his other leg, up to his knee, over his thigh again and back to his bulge, all while keeping eye contact with the man.

his eyes seem to well up but he refuses to turn away from you. he ruts his hips against your foot and the slight pressure from it makes him groan. fuck, you look divine. you look hungry, like you’re going to pounce on him any second, like you’re going to devour him alive.

the eye contact is making the both of you crazy. he is definitely going to cum in his pants but it feels like you might also orgasm completely untouched, only by watching him writhe and whine under you. he’s outright putty in your hands and your hands only. nobody else gets to see him like this. it’s all for you.

you apply a bit more pressure to his crotch with the ball of your foot, the heel slightly brushing against his balls. another loud grumble escapes his throat and his eyes almost close but he’s determined to burn this version of you into his mind.

rubbing it now, you eyes burn into his. he keeps grinding his hips against your foot and he seems oh, so desperate.

“does that feel good, hm, baby?” a tinge of condescension in your tone evident but he doesn’t hear it, too busy focusing on the pleasure you’re giving him. he only nods as an answer.

“you’re a big boy, use your words.”

“f-fuck, yes. it feels s-so fucking g-good. huh, shit.” he babbles out and you laugh. “p-please, please don’t stop. baby, please, fuck.”

the temptation to touch your now soaked cunt is so high but you know he’s gonna take care of it, of you, after you’re done with whatever this is. no matter how much you tease him, bully him, he will always make you feel good, make you cum, make you shake and tremble in his caring strong arms. make you in turn moan and whine for him. and you can’t help but feel excited, knowing what a long night this will turn into.

you know he’s close because he finally lets his eyes roll back into his head. his forehead and neck are covered in a sheen of sweat and some stray hair are clinging to his face. poor boy. hips still wildly rutting against you, like a good puppy, so incredibly desperate for your touch. he just need a bit more. satoru thinks about your hands on him, your fingers in his hair, you dragging your nails down his chest, his back, your mouth on his, your soft lips trailing his thighs, leaving purple marks in their wake—

“ask for it”

you break his thoughts with your sharp question and he feels confused, overwhelmed. ask for it? he feels you all around him, your perfume clouding his mind. the pressure of your foot on him and your eyes, your eyes. he’s so fucking close, he just needs you to—

“ask permission to cum.”

fuck.

you press down even harder and it borderline hurts but it feels so fucking good. you feel so fucking good. you make him feel so good. you’re the only thing on his mind. he just wants to cum. wants to cum for you. he wants to thank you. thank you for being in his life, thank you for making him feel things he never has before.

you see his adam’s apple bob again, the tears in his eyes threatening to drop. the dangerous smile on your lips is immovable, you’ve never felt more powerful. satoru, on the other hand, hasn’t felt this frail ever. you’re going to break him under your touch and then put him back together and that excites him more than anything.

his pants are so fucking tight, the collar of his shirt, albeit unbuttoned, is choking him. he can’t breathe properly. the tie around his wrists is really beginning to dig into him and it’s just too much. you’re fogging his fucking brain.

he’s so close, it hurts.

“p-please! baby, fuck! i’m so- ahhh! p-please, i need it!” he slurs. he sounds drunk, his words falling from his mouth so fast, like he has no control over them.

“what happened to using your big boy words, satoru, hm?”

the way his name sounds coming from your lips almost does it for him. tears paint his cheeks, falling to his white shirt, leaving big wet stains. his own lip quivers and an embarrassingly high-pitched moan escapes his throat.

“c-can i cum? please, darling? m'sorry, okay? f-fuck, please, can i cum? i wanna cum f'you. so badly. p-please?” his words all slur together, his desperation evident. the need for you bubbling up from the bottom of his heart.

the chesire cat grin on your face only widens at his pretty words.

“cum for me, baby”

you press down just a tad bit harder and the tension in his lower belly finally snaps. and he sounds heavenly. he’s letting out such beautiful moans and groans, you feel your own arousal drip down your thighs. his dick twitches in his boxers as he soaks them with his cum. he’s trembling now and his chest is heaving so heavily, one might think he’s going to pass out. hell, he thinks he might pass out.

you take your foot off of his crotch and gently place it over his strong thigh, not once taking your eyes off of him. his lips are a bit swollen, tear stains on his face. he’s the most beautiful boy in the world and he’s all yours.

still coming down from his orgasm, the wet patch apparent on his black slacks, trying to calm his breathing. you pull your leg from his, only to drop down from your chair, down to your knees and crawl between his long legs. he’s startled by your sudden actions but he doesn’t have the energy nor the courage to ask about it. all he can do is stare down at you with with wide eyes and a flushed face. you rest your head on his thigh and look up at him with dark eyes and a wicked smile.

he feels himself twitch again in his pants.

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laz-kay · 3 months

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One of the greatest developments in Bob’s Burgers imo is that Rudy is just… there now. There’s this unspoken rule around Rudy that he’s practically an honorary Belcher, and he casually slots himself into their lives so effortlessly. His character has been so well developed over the years that he now fits into any circumstance the Belcher’s find themselves in.

He ditched two separate Thanksgiving meals with his Mom and Dad just to see how The Belcher’s Thanksgiving played out, ended up eating with them, and probably stayed the whole evening.

He’s made multiple appearances in the kid’s fantasies, especially Louise’s. Gene and Tina even included Rudy in their renditions of Louise’s future, because of course Rudy is going to be there. Why wouldn’t he be?

When his family’s dinner took a turn for the worst, his first port of call was the restaurant. He knew he’d be safe there and would automatically click into whatever situation the Belchers had going on. He’s such a natural fit.

Tina, Gene and Louise have always sat by themselves at lunch; it's their tradition to hang out over their breaktime. Rudy sliding his way into their conversation here feels so natural and unforced, like he was always a part of their family. They're so used to him being around, they don't even question when he turns up out of nowhere.

The only other character who comes close to what Rudy has with the Belchers is Teddy. Teddy has been a constant since season 1, but he is yet to have an episode based solely around him without the Belchers looming over the storyline. "Thanks-Hoarding" was about Teddy, sure, but the Belcher's still had a huge role to play within that episode and was from their POV as opposed to Teddy's.

"The Amazing Rudy" was from his POV throughout, and the Belchers were a secondary narrative. He's the first character outside of the main five to have an episode of their own, and I think that's a statement in itself.

Idk, man. I just really think he's neat and deserves the absolute world. I could talk about him all fricken day tbh.

#regular sized rudy #rudy stieblitz #rudolph stieblitz #bob's burgers #bobs burgers #running down a gene #bobs burgers season 14 #gene belcher #tina belcher #louise belcher #the belchers #character analysis #episode analysis #bobs burgers gif

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tropes-and-tales · 1 day

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It's That Simple

Day 16: Praise Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst, kinda (Bob gets deflated); talk of panic attacks and self-doubt; smut (handjob); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5656

AN: This was requested by an anon!

AN2: If you've been around a bit, you know the drill: this isn't edited or re-read or beta'ed.

It’s another terrible first date.

Bob struggles to even snag a first date. He’s unassuming; he lacks the swagger and extroversion to stroll up to a woman and talk her up. Most of his dates are obtained from other members of the Daggers—double dates, set-ups, stuff like that.

The latest one was set up by Fanboy, a friend of his sister. Within moments of meeting his date, Bob knows it’ll be a mess: she makes a face when she greets him at the door, and it goes downhill from there.

It ends when she gets a text. An emergency, she tells him, and Bob is too smart and perceptive to buy the lie. But he’s a gentleman, so he nods seriously and offers to drive her home or wherever she’s needed, which she declines. He pays the bill of their abortive dinner, and he pretends not to notice how his date practically skips out of the restaurant and into the waiting car of a friend.

He should go home to lick his wounds. Another failed date, another night alone. He sees the stretch of his life in front of him and despairs that he’ll ever meet someone, and he should go home to sulk, but he goes to the Hard Deck instead.

He might as well break the news to Fanboy, at least, and maybe Nat can cheer him up with her usual sarcastic humor.

-----

The Hard Deck is as packed as always, and Bob—in his date clothes of dress pants and a button down shirt—stands out among the uniformed pilots and fellow wizzos. He finds the Dagger Squad, confesses his failure to Fanboy, then settles into a stool near Nat and Rooster.

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry, Bob,” she says.

“Her loss,” Rooster offers.

Bob shrugs. It’s not anyone’s loss but his, but he offers them a weak smile that fools neither of them.

It’s Hangman who sidles up to Bob, and in an uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness, the cocky pilot offers to be his wingman—which makes Bob laugh, and it comes out laced with some bitterness.

“No offense, Bagman, but you’d be a terrible wingman,” Bob says.

“What? Why?”

Bob lifts his hands in a helpless shrug. “Because you’re….you. And I’m not like you at all.”

“So?”

He scoffs in frustration at Bagman being so obtuse. As if any woman would look at Bob if he walked up to them with Jake at his side. It’d be like an Aston Martin rolling up alongside an old Honda Civic, and that’s the analogy he uses to make Jake understand. But Jake shakes his head, clasps him on his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“Nah, Baby on Board. You got it all wrong. You just need some confidence.” Another teeth-rattling shake. “Trust me, there’s a girl out there for you. C’mon.”

Bob finds himself powerless to resist as Jake pushes him off of his stool, then shoves him gently in the direction of the crowded bar.

-----

The first pair that Jake sidles up to is a bust, but it’s not Bob’s fault: Jake had hooked up with the one woman before, forgotten about it completely. He’s moments from getting a drink tossed in his face when Bob tugs him away from the danger and they pull back, reevaluate.

The second pair is a bust too. The first woman doesn’t even let Jake get the full sentence out before she’s wagging her ring finger in his face.

“Married,” she says, her words clipped. “Move along, sailor.”

The third pair? The third pair works out. Jake hones in on one immediately, a blonde with big doe eyes, but the second one—you—rolls her eyes at him.

But when you turn to study Bob, you don’t roll your eyes. You hold out a hand, introduce yourself, ask for his rank, then pat the empty chair beside you.

“Settle in, Lieutenant,” and your smile is easy. “Let’s chat while we watch your friend strike out, huh?”

-----

It turns out you’re drunk, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For one, you’ve fallen in with Bob Floyd, the most gentlemanly man a drunk, single girl could come across. He’d never take advantage, and in fact, he’ll end up driving you home at the end of the night, getting you into your apartment. He will take your shoes off of you, tuck you into your bed, and press a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on you before he sees himself out.

For another thing, Bob Floyd has fallen in with you, the most fiercely sweet drunk that a down-on-himself man could come across. You’re one of those loud cheerleader types when you drink; the kind of woman who chats up other women in the bathroom, who tells them they’re beautiful, that you love them. With your friend and Jake otherwise engaged, Bob finds himself caught in the tractor beam of your charm.

“You look sad,” you tell him around the rim of your glass. “Are you sad?”

You’re drunk and Bob is sad, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes that glitter in the low light of the bar, so he tells you. He tells you about his terrible date, the latest in a string of terrible dates, that he’s been single for so long and he’s not entirely convinced he’ll ever meet someone, that he’s too scrawny, that his glasses are terrible (one date called them serial killer glasses), that he’s too reserved to ever catch the eye of a woman, too unremarkable looking, let alone—

“No!” You cut him off by exclaiming it, a near-shout, and your hand finds his forearm and grips him there. “You’re gorgeous, Bill! Don’t even say you aren’t!”

He grins despite himself. “It’s Bob. But thanks. I mean, it’s nice of you to say—”

“Bob. Yes. Sorry. Bob, not Bill. I say it because it’s true.” You release your hold on his arm and sit back in your chair, your eyes narrowed now as you study him closer. You’re quiet for a long beat, and Bob squirms under your attention, but then you tell him more and he swears he breaks out in a full-body blush.

“You’re gorgeous, really,” you tell him. “It’s just that you have a sneakier handsomeness, you know? Like, that one there—” You gesture broadly at Jake. “—He’s, like, Ken-doll handsome. Like, he catches your eye because it’s all symmetrical and stuff, and he’s fine, but symmetry can be boring and someone like you, it’s sneaky. You have a nice face, and these nice blue eyes, and nice hair, and I bet people think about you after the fact like, ‘oh, that Bob guy, he’s not bad at all,’ and then even later it’s like, ‘oh, Bob, he’s pretty handsome.’ Because you’re that sneaky sort of handsome and that’s the worst damned kind.”

Bob isn’t entirely tracking what you mean, but he shakes his head at the unearned praise, and he can’t stop the smile that’s plastered on his face. He probably looks like a dope.

“Why’s that the worst kind?” he asks.

“Because it’s deadly!” You lean forward again, put your hand on his arm again. “Sneaky-handsome guys are like a virus because by the time you realize they’ve infected you, it’s too late.”

Bob chuckles. “I’m a virus? Suddenly my night has gotten worse, somehow.”

“No, not at all. It’s just…” You trail off, polish off your drink. You wave down Penny for another. “It’s just that you sneaky-handsome types never understand the power you have. Ken-doll over there knows he’s hot, and by the mere fact of him knowing he’s hot, he loses a considerable amount of hotness. But you have no idea you’re handsome, and that makes you even hotter.”

“I think there’s a string of women in the San Diego area that would disagree with your assessment,” Bob replies. “But I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“Oh, them.” You flap a hand, a dismissive wave. “There’s a lot of idiots in the world, Bob. You can’t let a string of women in the San Diego area make you feel bad.”

“I guess I just need to find someone who isn’t an idiot.”

“Ah, well!” You set your drink down and wave your hands in front of yourself in a ta-da sort of flourish. “Cal Tech graduate, Bobby. I work for NASA.”

He feels a warm flush at you calling him Bobby. “You’re a rocket scientist? Definitely not an idiot, then.”

“Astrobiologist, actually. And only an idiot sometimes, but never when it comes to the sneaky-handsome men here at the Hard Deck.”

Bob shakes his head, a little embarrassed at how much he likes you, a drunk stranger, talking him up. He tries to dial it back, afraid he’s going to fall in love before last call.

“You’re way too smart for me, then,” he tells you.

That makes you arch an eyebrow at him. “You afraid of smart women, Bobby?”

“Not at all. It’s just that smart, beautiful, and sweet? Do you understand the power you have?” He keeps his tone light, teasing, but he’s in over his head with this: he’s definitely going to fall in love before last call.

Of course he is. His question makes you laugh, a warm sound that knocks free the lump in his chest from his earlier failed date. Your laughter makes him feel drunk even though he hasn’t touched a drop; he feels warm and light and big-headed at how kind you’ve been to him, how sweet, but your laughter is the sound that makes him fall in love with you.

-----

The two of you stay until last call. Bagman and your friend disappear hours before then, and you shrug at Bob, say you called it all wrong, that you didn’t think Jake was your friend’s type.

Bob drives you home. You’re unsteady on your feet, so he hovers near you, but you manage reasonably well until it’s time to unlock your door. He watches you try it, then he reaches out and takes the keys from your hand.

It’s the first time he touches you.

He gets you inside. He gets you to your bedroom, and you flop gracelessly across the mattress, and Bob immediately goes into caretaker mode. He slides your shoes off of you, sets them in a neat row by your closet. He makes his way to your kitchen, gets you a glass of water, then stops in the bathroom. He rummages through your medicine cabinet—you use the same brand of toothpaste as he does, the same type of toothbrush, and Bob marvels at the strange intimacy of learning these things, the everyday things that not everyone is privy to about you. He finds some ibuprofen and shakes two out, then takes them and the water back to you.

You’re already drifting off to sleep, and Bob has to cajole you into sitting up. He gets you perched on the side of the bed and gives you the pills and water, which you take without complaints. He takes the empty glass back from you, and then there’s a moment—

—you sit on the edge of your bed and Bob stands over you, and you look up at him with your bleary eyes and he sees fear. You’re understanding what you’ve done, maybe: you’ve invited a strange man back to your place and you’re drunk, and he could do anything, and Bob sees the flicker of uncertainty, the beginning of fear in your eyes. It makes him feel sick because he’d never take advantage. It makes him sick that the world, being what the world is, makes this fear lance through the whiskey fumes in your head.

He reaches down to the foot of your bed where there’s a blanket neatly folded. He shakes it out, urges you to lie down, and when you do, he covers you up.

“Be sure to drink more water when you wake up,” he tells you softly.

The nascent fear fades out of your expression, and it’s replaced by a loose, goofy grin. You free a hand from under the blanket and give him a sloppy salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Bob sees himself out but not before he’s struck with a bit of brave optimism. He sees the little whiteboard by your refrigerator, and he writes out his name and his number. He drives home and sends up a silent prayer that his sneaky-handsome virus has already infected you, charmed as he is by your earnestly drunken (albeit clunky) analogy from earlier in the evening.

He wakes up the next morning and feels less hopeful. He queues up a playlist and sets out on his morning run, but his morning pessimism is misplaced: you call him a mile into his run, and Bob stutters in his steps to hear your voice—a little rough, but sunny nonetheless.

“I’m looking for a guy named Bobby,” you tell him over the phone, and he can hear the smile in your voice. “Lieutenant Blue Eyes.”

-----

The two of you make plans to meet up at the Hard Deck, but you don’t call it a date so Bob doesn’t either. He’s in unfamiliar territory: things have always been a date or not a date in the past, but he’s noticed that many of his Dagger teammates speak in looser terms—meeting up, hanging out—with potential partners. He’s unsure how to handle it; if he seems too casual, you might miss his interest. If he comes on too strong, he might scare you off.

He decides to just turn up in his uniform, as he usually does, and when he arrives at the Hard Deck, you are already there. You’re perched in a bar stool and chatting to Penny, but when he strolls in, you see him.

You smile at him as he walks over to you, but then you shake your head in a mock-rueful way.

“Oh, no,” you say as you hop off of your stool. You open your arms and Bob steps into them, and you hug him warmly like you’re old friends. “I thought maybe it was just whiskey-goggles that night, but you really are cute.”

Bob chuckles. He releases you, then takes the stool beside yours. “Well, I’ve been downgraded. You called me handsome that night,” he points out.

“Sneaky-handsome, actually.”

“There seems to be a whole spectrum here that I was never privy to.”

You wave down Penny who comes and takes your orders. Once your drinks are in front of you—a hard cider for you, a shandy for Bob—you click your glass against his.

“Here’s to the sneaky-handsome men of the world,” you say.

Bob ducks his head and grins “And to the rocket scientists,” he adds.

A date or not a date…the evening passes in a blink, and you leave Bob that night entirely sober after long conversations and a lot of easy laughter. You pull him in for another hug before you part, and this hug lingers longer than the hug you gave him as a greeting. When you pull away, though, you gaze at him with a somber expression.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” you tell him. “For being a gentleman when you took me home.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it.” Your hands on his upper arms squeeze him a little firmer. “You could have taken advantage, and you didn’t. You’re a good one, Bob.”

He shakes his head, tries to wave you off, but you squeeze him again. You don’t let him shrug off your thanks. You don’t let him downplay his goodness.

“You are a good man, Bob,” you repeat, and you stare at him, like you’re daring him to disagree.

Bob, who finds that you’re something of a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t dare to disagree.

-----

He’s still not entirely clear if this is dating or not. Neither of you actually says the word. You text each other steadily, and you meet up sometimes at the Hard Deck, but your schedule isn’t great and Bob’s is even worse. He worries that he’s missed his chance. When he talks about it to the other Daggers, Hangman rolls his eyes and tells Bob he should have taken his shot earlier, that Bob is pretty much friend-zoned now, but Nat rolls her eyes at that and says he’s overthinking it.

Of course Bob overthinks it. Bob overthinks everything.

He doesn’t know yet that you overthink everything too. That you are going through your own pangs of regret, that you think you’ve missed your chance too, that your friends circle around you too and give you tough-love pep talks to build up your courage to take the lead on this burgeoning thing with Bob.

And ultimately, Bob’s hunch that you’re a force to be reckoned with is correct. In the end, you take charge.

-----

You end up inviting him over for dinner on a night when your schedules align, and Bob overthinks that too.

What if it’s a date-date, and he turns up too casual, with nothing in his hands—no wine, no flowers? Or the opposite—what if he dresses up a little, brings you a mixed bouquet, and it’s just a casual friends-type thing?

Bob has no idea how he can manage the systems on a sophisticated plane because his brain grinds to a painful halt the moment he starts to contemplate this dinner at your place. It’s Nat—it’s always Nat, with her no-nonsense lens into the mystique of her fellow women—who smacks some sense into him.

“Wear a nice shirt, shower beforehand, and take a bottle of wine,” she tells him.

“But what if—”

“It’s always polite to take a gift, Bob.” She rolls her eyes, heaves a sigh. “And it’s always polite to, you know. Shower. Show up fresh-smelling and neat. Jesus Christ. Just go.”

So Bob turns up at your apartment, a mid-tier bottle of wine in his sweaty hand. Freshly showered, a daub of cologne behind his ears, and a nice blue button-down that brings out his eyes.

And it’s a good thing he took Nat’s advice too, because you open the door in the sweetest sundress, and there’s music softly playing and the most heavenly smells wafting from your kitchen. Bob realizes all at once that it’s a date-date after all, and his heart does an alarming little stutter in his chest, enough to stun him until you take his hand and gently pull him inside.

-----

Part of Bob’s issue with women is his inability to pick up on subtle, sometimes invisible cues. He has always fallen in with the sort of women who play mind games, who play coy and say one thing while meaning another. He always feels back on his heels; it feels like women speak a language he’s only slightly fluent in, so he’s always playing catch-up to translate what they mean.

But it’s refreshing with you, in this moment, because as you both sit down to the feast you’ve prepared, you just talk with him. The two of you chat about your lives, you catch each other up since the last time you’ve talked, and Bob almost forgets to be nervous.

Almost. A pair of tapered candles flicker between you and cast your lovely face in a golden glow, and low, bluesy music sets the soundtrack as you eat. You sip at the wine he brought, and he eats your home-cooking, and Bob imagines an entire life like this…and he almost misses the way you keep swiping your palms along your thighs, like you’re nervous.

Almost. He leans into his WSO work, studies you closely like you’re a dashboard of lights and alarms and switches. He watches you a little closer, and he sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow a mouthful of wine, like you’re swallowing past a lump or going all dry-mouthed on him. He sees the deep breaths you take, the way you press the back of your hand to your neck, like you’re flushed and trying to calm yourself.

“You’re nervous,” he blurts out when he realizes it for sure, and you pause in where you’re lifting the wine glass to your mouth and stare at him.

“I am.” It’s that simple. No mind games, no coy pretending.

“It’s just me,” Bob says.

You smile at him, and it trembles a little at the corners. He can feel the nerves in you now, and he reaches out a hand across the table, palm up. He makes a grabby motion with it until your smile firms up and you lay your hand in his, and he grasps you lightly.

“It’s just me,” he repeats.

“And I like just-you,” you tell him. “Like-like, I mean. I wanted to tell you so tonight.”

His heart does that wicked little stutter in his chest, but he squeezes your hand. “Sounds like you just told me then.”

“Guess so.” You watch him, and your smile seems tremulous again, so Bob replies, “I like you too.”

It’s that simple. After you each put yourself through your own overthinking hell, each suffering through your own sleepless nights and needless worrying about dumb things like friend zones, it comes down to a moment so simple that it’s stupid: just the two of you holding hands as you confess your mutual feelings matter-of-factly.

-----

It feels too easy. After months (years) of struggling to even land the occasional first date, suddenly Bob’s dream girl turns up just like that. It feels too easy, and so Bob slips into his overthinking almost immediately.

It goes fine after dinner, when the two of you trade nervous kisses on your couch until the nerves burn off enough that your mouth slotted over his feels natural, that you move in concert with each other—your head tilting one way, his tilting the other, no longer bumping noses or knocking his glasses askew.

It goes fine as you climb into his lap, the solid weight of you a welcome sensation because Bob’s head feels like it’s filled with helium, drunk and fizzy from the feel of your lips against his, your tongue against his own.

It goes fine when you climb off of him, shaky-legged like a newborn foal. When you hold out your hand and take his to lead him back to your bedroom.

The moment he finds himself stripped down to his boxers and lying on your bed is the moment it falls apart.

It’s like every mean comment, every brush-off and ghosting, every roll of the eyes and beleaguered sigh and overheard commentary about him crowds into the room and leaves no space for this moment with you. Bob thinks of all the feedback he’s ever gotten on dates—the serial killer eye glasses, the lack of muscles, the lack of game. He tries to take a deep breath and finds he can barely pull in a lungful, and his throat feels like it’s closing on him—

And he can’t get hard. His near-erection from making out on the couch deflates, and even though you are perched over him—you’ve shed your sundress, and you’re in the sexiest, sweetest lingerie set, powder pink, like the underside of a cloud at sunrise—he cannot coax himself back to attention.

The panic that floods him—he recognizes the feeling. He’s felt it a million times. He feels the hot, splotchy redness as it breaks out across his chest and neck, and his face flushes furiously bright, and you notice it all in real time. The sultry, heavy-lidded look on your face disappears and is replaced by pure concern.

“Bob? Bobby? Are you…okay?” You reach a hand out and cup his face, and your palm had felt warm earlier but now it feels cool….which proves how hot he’s flushed, how feverish his panic makes him feel.

“I’m sorry. Shit, honey. I’m…I gotta go.” He tries to sit up but your mattress is soft and he flails a moment, and if Bob were just a bit younger he’d burst into tears at how sideways this has all gone so suddenly. You served him up the perfect evening, you’re kneeling right beside him in the hottest fucking lingerie, and he’s been reduced to a stuttering, red-face idiot who can’t even get hard—

“Hey.” You lay your hand on his bare chest, steady him. “Hey, hey, hey. Take a second. Just breathe, Bobby.”

“I gotta—”

“Just relax.” You press against his chest, tap your forefinger against his skin. “Breathe for me, okay? Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not. Fuck, it’s not!” He raises his voice, winces at how shrill he sounds, and the dam in him breaks. Something in him dislodges, and it all spills out: every mean, rotten thing he’s ever thought about himself. Every bit of unfair criticism, every insult and slight and how his own insecurity has twisted it all into a crippling imposter syndrome. How he only ever feels competent at his job but how he struggles with everything else, and now how he’s fucked it all up with you because he’s overthinking, always trapped in the own tangled maze of his mind, always waiting for the other shoe to drop because he’s not good enough, he can’t even get hard even with you looking like a dream—

“Hey. Whoa.” You remove your hand from his chest, but you scoot over to sit beside him, turned to face him, your expression very similar to the night he met you—the same easy smile, the same studious eyes.

“Nothing’s ruined. You haven’t fucked anything up. Take a breath. Is this because of that bad first date you had the night we met?”

He nods. “A little bit.”

“There’s been other bad first dates, I guess?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re worried this is just another bad first date?”

“Yeah.” It comes out a croak, a roughness in his throat.

“Hmm.” You lean forward, press a soft kiss to his forehead. “You wanna hear about my worst first date ever?”

“No, honey, it’s okay—”

“His name was Justin.” Another soft kiss, this one to his temple. “Good job, good looking.” Another kiss, to the other temple, right at his hairline. “Picked me up and gave me flowers, took me out to San Diego’s most exclusive restaurant that has a reservation list a mile long.”

Bob chuckles weakly. “Sounds awful,” he says, wry.

You hum again, kiss his flushed cheek. “He was charming at dinner.” A kiss on his other cheek. “Said all the right things. Asked about my life and listened to my answers.” The lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose, and it makes him smile despite himself.

“Halfway through dessert, a woman comes up to our table.” Bob feels the gentle press of your lips at the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to kiss you back, but you pull away.

“It was Justin’s wife.�� A flurry of kisses now, to his chin, along his jawline, near his ear.

“He was cheating,” Bob says.

“Nope.” A kiss, this one lingering, under his jaw, on his neck. “Turns out, this was a little game he and his wife play. Some weird cheating, cuckolding fantasy.” Your lips skate over his pulse point. “He takes a girl out, his wife pretends to catch them, and then they go to a nearby hotel to fuck each other senseless.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.” You lift your head to gaze at him. “Asshole left me with the bill for dinner too. So Bobby….you’re not my worst first date. You’re not even close.”

“Honey—”

“You have no idea how hard you’re gonna have to work to really, honestly fuck this up.” You grin at him, and then you straddle his lap again, and he lays his hands on your hips and stares up at you.

“Because you’re, like, exactly the sort of man I’ve always been looking for. You’re that sneaky-handsome sort, and you’re smart and sweet, and you took care of me that first night when I was too drunk to make good choices.” You cup his face in your hands, and you stare at him hard, that sweet forcefulness on full display, like you dare him to disagree with you.

“It’s already a sure thing, Bobby.” You lean forward, kiss him gently. “There’s no pressure to do anything tonight. Don’t even think about needing to do anything. How about you just let me love on you, and you just relax, and if you can keep your secret wife from busting in and turning this into a cuckolding fantasy, we’ll end the night just fine, okay?”

That makes him laugh, and it breaks the spell of his terrible ruminating. Bob laughs, and he slides his hands from your hips up to your waist to feel your soft skin.

“I didn’t even think of getting a secret wife before I came here,” he confesses.

“See? It’s a sure thing, then.” You lean forward again, whisper in his ear, your warm breath making him break out in goosebumps as you tell him to just relax and let you love on him.

-----

The antidote to Bob’s awful overthinking, as it turns out, is your care and praise.

As far as first dates go, this is the one where Bob learns something new about his own sexuality. He learns, thanks to you, that he has a praise kink, because your hands and mouth and body on his feels amazing, but it’s your words that make him hard.

Loving on him means you touch him everywhere. You kiss him everywhere. You stroke him, press your soft lips to him, lick against parts of him until he feels like he’s on fire in a way that is completely different than his panic attack. You kiss every inch of his face and neck. You trail your mouth over his shoulders and collarbones, across every bit of his chest and belly, and you praise him whenever your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

Look at you, Bobby. Hiding this body away under that uniform.

You praise his arms, the muscles of his chest and abs. You praise his shoulders and back, the smattering of chest hair, the trail of hair that leads down and disappears under the waistband of his boxers, and you glance up at him, the question in your eyes as you toy with the elastic.

“Can I?” you ask, and Bob nods, swallows hard, and you go lower, you push his boxers down and his cock is there, hard from your honied words.

“Holy shit,” you blurt out. “Bob, are you for real with this?”

It probably seems like a cliché, like the pretty girl in a movie who somehow never realized she was pretty, but Bob has never really considered his size. He’s been around plenty of other penises through the course of his career, but he’s never exactly eyed up other men and measured himself against them. The handful of women he’s slept with never said anything so he assumed he was average, but you praise him here too—you tell him he has a beautiful cock, and Bob blushes at the compliment. He’d never call it beautiful, but when you wrap your palm around his shaft and grip him gently, he’d agree to any adjective you might offer, so long as you never let him go.

This feels too easy too, but the panic never claws at Bob’s throat again. You’ve chosen him, you’ve made it a sure thing for him, and you’ve cut through his awkward moment of near-flight to get him to this: your body stretched alongside his, your breasts pressed against his arm, your hand working against his cock while you whisper praise in his ear.

And every time doubt starts to creep in—he should be touching you too, he should be making you feel good too—you hush him, you still his mouth by kissing him, and you tell him that he has all the time in the world for touching you, but he should let you take care of him now.

His orgasm creeps up in fits and starts, and it seems to ratchet closer with each bit of praise you lavish on him, more so than each movement of your hand working against his cock.

“I want you to come for me, Bobby,” you whisper against his neck. You kiss his pulse point, a plush, open-mouth kiss that makes him shiver as you grip him tighter, work a faster rhythm with your hand. “Come for me like a good boy.”

He wants to be good for you; he wants to do as you say. Some not-so-small part of him craves your approval, and maybe the two of you will play around with that sort of dynamic in the future, but for now, he just wants to obey you. He wants to do his part to salvage the night he thinks he almost ruined, so he breathes in time to your strokes, focuses on every sensation—the softness of your breasts pressed against him, your wet, hot mouth kissing him, the light scent of your perfume. The tension in his belly is a coil, and it tightens and tightens until it snaps, and his hips stutter against your grasping hand. He gasps out your name, warns you, and then a beat later, he comes. He spills over your hand, thick ropes of cum coating your fingers and wrist, spilling over onto his belly.

“Just like that, baby.” You kiss his panting mouth, and he feels the curve of your lips as you give a pleased smile. “It’s that simple.”

#bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #top gun maverick #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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lunarw0rks · 7 months

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Honestly need more twt links.

🫣

TWITTER LINKS [ 141 / LV + KÖ ]

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST ───have a request? ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX ˎˊ˗

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warning(s): literal p0rn, f/m, no hard kinks included!

•‧₊˚⊹ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (18+) ‧˚₊•

PRICE

『 Price never has you on your knees.

Not kneeling on the wood floor, instead, on your hands and knees on the soft bed. His last wish is for you to be straining yourself, especially at the expense of pleasuring him. Wrapping your lips around his cock, short, sloppy bobs of your head echo through the bedroom.

John can't resist touching you, squeezing the flesh of your rear, whispering praises while your throat allows as much of him as possible. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 You and Price sneaking off to the bathroom.

Going out to dinner with John and his colleagues, bored with mindless chatter and military talk that you don't understand. Finding yourself bent over the fancy vanity of the restaurant washroom, surely fraying the fabric of your evening wear.

Price holding back, not daring to go too mean of a pace, otherwise, everyone will hear. 』

SIMON

『 Using you and Simon's new kitchen for the first time.

New homeowners, determined to get good use of the new space. You were supposed to be unpacking utensils but ended the afternoon leaning over the unused dining table. Simon's fingers in your hair, bullying his cock into you — as he wants it to be your first memory in the home he bought you.

The best part of not living in a flat? No more holding back your moans. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 The best way to keep Simon busy.

No more fidgeting while he stares off into space, he needs to do something, and it's you. Being directed to climb atop his face, grind your slick cunt along his tongue until you reach a sweet finish. And him, unable to resist palming and stroking himself through his jeans — the denim clinging to his aching length.

You're using his talents in the best way. 』

SOAP

『 Simple, shared pleasure with Soap.

Using one another's hands to dissolve into pleasure. Johnny's fingers swirl around your soaked entrance, swiping along your puffy clit and matching your hand's rhythm. You squirm against the mattress, allowing the pleasure to further the speed of your fist. Pumping his cock with one hand, clenching the sheets with your other. Getting each other off, Soap yearning for the cunt he's teasing to be twitching around the cock you're caressing.

Your soft hands are no match for his calloused ones. You simply do it better. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 You and Soap celebrating his new rank.

He's been promoted to 'Captain Mactavish'; both exhilarating and ego-boosting for his career. Soap's newfound authority gives him an alluring roughness — a scarred, buff body capable of doing so much to you. Congratulating him by letting him use you, exert the frustrations of leadership into your cunt.

Supporting your husband and his stressful career, in your own way. 』

GAZ

『 Gaz is all about the little things.

His smooth lips wrapped around the mounds of your breasts, suckling and kissing the sensitive nipple. Kyle is practically worshiping your chest, without any expectation of the same treatment on his own body. All before the thought of pleasuring you has crossed his mind.

A little appreciation goes a long way. And speaks volumes, even when his mouth is occupied. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 As usual, Gaz driving you mad.

From binging your favorite show to laying across his lap and writhing, yearning for his long fingers to fill you up. Instead, it's blissful torture; those fingers playing with your clit in a zig-zag motion, Kyle giving your heat light smacks as a way to further the tease. Whatever pixels displayed on the screen become an afterthought.

Gripping onto his arm, praying that your desperate squeezes will be enough to convince him. 』

ALEJANDRO

『 Alejandro never asks to switch positions.

Why not combine his two talents: agility and surprise? Rocking your hips on his cock, chest to chest. His mouth curved into a sneer as you're on the brink of coming undone; gushing around his length with shaky legs — just like he'd relished many times. Instead, he waited until your moans turned into whimpers, flipping the two of you until you lay flat. Your mind is dazed from the sudden change, but so quickly overcome with release.

The new position allows him to pound into you, using all the stamina he gathered from watching you bounce. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 Office visits with Alejandro.

Privacy is among his many privileges on base. His large desk, the organized files, his tall bookshelves — and the seclusion of a Colonel's office. Usually, Alejandro is too occupied for any nonsense, even when you visit. You surely caught him on a good day, which was a rarity when surrounded by the chaos of Las Almas.

Against the tower of books that resembled a library; but no silence was necessary. 』

RUDY

『 Rudy ensuring your pleasure, first, second, and last.

His mouth's favorite taste, and his ears' favorite sound. Your thighs hooked around his head, heat grinding against his face at the same pace of his masterly tongue. Roaming in a circle around your trembling bundle of nerves, kissing along your sticky lower lips. You tangle your fingers in his dark locks, every rock of his head sending the tip of his nose into your clit.

One of the many ways of keeping you satisfied. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 Morning sex with Rudy.

Shivering from the fan that's been rotating all night, but too occupied with each other to power it off. Or for Rudy to take his eyes off your nude body. Without blankets, every bit of you is in view, savoring one another's warmth, chest to chest as you practically tie tongues. He wouldn't have it any other way.

The perfect send-off before he's forced to get ready. If he can let go of you at all. 』

KÖNIG

『 The mere size of König.

He adores the size difference; the power of his abnormal height, as well as the obvious gift to come with it. Your body folded against the white sheets, his swollen, girthy length barely fitting into your soaked heat. König goes slow until he can't hold back — increasing his pace to hear the irresistible moans spilling from your lips, overwhelmed by his size filling you to the brim.

Half of his length, and you're stuffed full. König's already imagining the day you can take all of him. 』

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

『 Your quickies with König.

It's no secret that he's busy; busier than the average busy person. Sometimes, quick releases are all that's left with him. Either way, you're left shaking, and the release is as sweet as ever. Hovering behind you, quick ruts into your heat until you get off, washing away the stress of everyday.

Unfortunately for König, his stress never leaves. Fortunate for you, that means more quickies. 』

╰┈➤ PREVIOUS 141 LIST // GAZ & SIMON LIST

˖⁺‧₊˚✦ divider cred. - cafekitsune ⊹₊｡

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miraclewoozi · 9 months

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VERSACE ON THE FLOOR. -l.jh

ooh, i love that dress but you won’t need it anymore –

Or, the time you and your homebody boyfriend* decide to just… not go to your dinner plans.

pairing; lee jihoon x fem reader. content; fluff, suggestive (MINORS DNI). established relationship. warnings; relatively warning free (y'all i didn't even swear???) but just in case -- a couple of dorky jokes, reader wears a dress, makeup and heels, making out, undressing. let me know if i've forgotten anything. w/c; 2.4k (apparently i am in my shorter fic era? party.) note; if there's one thing i'm gonna do, no matter what day of the week it is, it's be disgustingly delusional about jihoon. get ur dentists on speedial, it's a tooth rotter (/j). note 2.0; i've had this one in the drafts for so long i had forgotten all about it! but then VOTF came on shuffle a few days ago (and i started thinking about light a flame woozi at the same time, which nearly fucking killed me), so. here we are. enjoy.<3

You don’t go out for dates very often. Not anymore, at least.

When you and Jihoon first got together, he took you out all the time. For dinners, to cocktail bars, to the movies, for walks down the beach, picnics by the river. It didn’t matter where you went as long as it put a smile on your face — all he ever wanted to do was make you feel special. No expense has ever been too great for his favourite girl, after all; he’s always loved to spoil you.

Now several years into your relationship, you’re a real pair of homebodies. Sure, he could take you out for a four course dinner at an expensive restaurant in the middle of the city, or reserve a table at a pretentious cocktail bar that plays slightly too loud music that’s always just to the left of either of your tastes. Then again… He could cook a nice meal for you to have at the apartment you share, where you can make your way through a bottle of bubbles without one of you needing to stay sober to drive home or else risk your lives in a sketchy cab.

It’s something you’ve talked about several times, and on every occasion, it’s quite apparent that you’re both very happy with the way things are. If anything, it makes it all the more special when he tells you he needs you to keep your weekend free because he’s making plans, and he wants to whisk you away.

Like now, for instance. The hotel suite he’s booked is gorgeous and you’re perched on the edge of the plush bedding, bent over double so that you can properly fasten your shoes while he finishes getting ready in the bathroom. Now and again, you hear a grumble or a click of his tongue float through the ajar door; every time, you feel a smile play at your lips as you shake your head. He never changes. (You’re so glad.)

“Jihoon,” you call to him softly. You can practically see how he’ll be standing – facing the mirror, on his tiptoes to lean over the bathroom counter and get as close to his own reflection as he possibly can. Pouting as his fingers drag through his hair to try and fix the strands in place just a tiny bit better. “Don’t you dare come out here looking like Sonic the Hedgehog. You know the more you play with it, the more annoyed you’re going to get.”

A few seconds later, he emerges, an eyebrow raised in challenge, an amused grin tugging his lips out of their habitual frown.

(And lo and behold — his hair looks absolutely fine.)

But the second he sees you, whatever witty comeback he was obviously very proud of dies on his lips, and you straighten up with only one of your shoes secured to your foot, the other just slipped on over your toes.

“Wow,” he says, in that soft, deep, quiet way that he does when you’ve really taken his breath away. You watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows; you see his brow crinkle and his eyes widen, as if he’s trying to see as much of you as he possibly can. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” you nod proudly, sitting back and smoothing your hands over the dress you’re wearing. “From our first anniversary.”

As his eyes move over you, taking in everything from the way the straps sit on your shoulders to the way the hem lays across your thigh, your own eyes move over him. The top three buttons of his shirt are still unfastened and his tie hangs either side, tucked beneath his collar but not knotted yet. His slacks have been cleanly pressed, a neat, crisp seam running down the front of both legs. Shoes shined to perfection. Expensive watch strapped around his wrist.

He might just be the most handsome man in the entire world.

“I remember you saying you really liked it, so… I dug it out, special.”

“You look incredible,” he says. It’s so gentle, so sincere, that you think your heart is about to burst clean out of your chest. Warmth trickles the length of your spine, and it isn’t exactly helped when you realise – only now as he starts to cross the room to get closer to you – that he hadn’t moved an inch since he surfaced from the bathroom almost a full ninety seconds ago.

He shrinks down so he’s rested on both of his knees in front of you, skilful hands moving to help with the shoe you hadn’t managed to lace up yet. every time his fingertips so much as brush against your skin, the electricity in his gentle touches shoots all the way from the point of contact up to your brain and leaves it fogged, impossible to make any sense through the thick clouds of intimacy and adoration. More-so as he smoothly lifts your leg a little and presses his lips once to the inside of your ankle, even foggier still as he trails kisses up the length of your calf towards your knee.

“Jihoon,” you laugh breathlessly, laying a hand on his shoulder as you feel his tongue press lightly against your skin. He finally sits back on his heels, running his fingers up and down the backs of your legs; he’s successfully managed to hike your dress up a few inches now, too, and he keeps flitting his gaze between your face and your thighs. “We can’t – we’ll be late.”

“We have ages,” he frowns, shuffling closer and trying to bump your knees apart, but you keep your muscles engaged and he doesn’t pull at them that hard, so they don’t budge.

“We have to get there, too,” you remind him. He throws his head back and sighs dramatically. The neckline of his dress shirt seems to open a little more when he looks back at you, drawing your attention down the length of his neck to his bulging chest, and the muscular forearms that he crosses in front of it.

“And this is why we don’t go out.”

“What, because you’re horny all the damn time?” You tease.

He gently swats at the top of your thigh before soothing it with another small kiss.

“Because when you look this good, how am I supposed to want to go and eat a steak instead?”

He grins up at you from the floor, quite clearly delighted with himself for his little gag. You, however, flop back onto the mattress and cover your face with your hands.

“That was so bad,” you chuckle. You’ve been trying for years to not melt to his very specific sense of humour, but it’s all been completely futile. Your reluctant laughs turn to sweet, breathy giggles by the time he lays both his arms across your legs and rests his chin on top of them. You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him; he’s staring up at your face like he thinks he’ll never see anything as beautiful as you for the rest of his life.

“Maybe… We don’t have to go out for dinner,” he suggests. “Maybe we can stay in tonight, too.”

“Horndog.” You tsk. But you’re not disappointed at the idea of staying in, either, regardless of whether your teasing implies otherwise. “I knew you’d say that.”

“No — really,” he swallows. You aren’t sure if you can feel his heart beating a little faster where his chest is pressed completely against your shins, or if you’re just imagining it. But the tips of his ears are going pink too, so you think it’s safe to trust your intuition on this one. “I mean-… we don’t have to go. I could-…”

He bites the inside of his cheek before he looks down, pressing his forehead against his arms and hiding his face completely.

“I could do it here.”

He says these words quietly. Mumbles them, really. You aren’t sure if you were meant to hear, or if he was just talking to himself. But either way, it has to be worth a shot to find out.

“What do you mean, Ji?”

One, two, three seconds pass. And… Nothing.

“Hey.”

You bounce your thighs a little so he’s forced to look up at you, and you can see something swimming in his eyes. Something brewing. He sits back from you and pushes a hand through his hair; a few strands lose their stick to the rest of the main body and tumble down over his forehead. Exactly in the way he was trying to prevent.

“I could just do it here.”

He says this louder. Clearer. With much more finality. You sit up properly, then, both your hands clasped together in your lap.

“Do what here, baby?”

His eyes find yours and you sit there for a few moments, unwrapping each other's minds with nothing more than a look and a matching pair of gentle — but slightly concerned — smiles.

He moves one hand down and slips it into the back left pocket of his slacks. You think you can feel the world around you start to slow.

When he shifts a leg from beneath him so he’s on one knee before you and presents you with a glittering diamond ring, it stops altogether.

“Jihoon,” you breathe.

He glances between the ring and you, biting his bottom lip before he speaks.

“I had it-… I had everything planned.” He laughs, looking away from your face as even more rising heat becomes evident on his own. “Down to the second, even. But just like you always do — just like the first time I saw you, and just like every time since… You threw me a curve ball and… Somehow, you’ve changed everything. But you made it so much better.

“I think I was supposed to find you, y/n,” Jihoon says. “I don't know what’s up there, what’s in charge of when we meet the people we meet and why we fall in love with the people we fall in love with. but I know that they were really looking out for me the day you came into my life.”

You can feel your eyes starting to sting at the corners and you will the tears away, desperate not to smudge the makeup you spent so long trying to perfect. You know he’d love you either way — mascara tear tracks and splotchy concealer and all — but…

“I am so in love with you that sometimes, it really hurts. It hurts because I know that no one’s ever going to come close — about anyone in the world — to feeling the way I feel about you. I feel bad for everyone, a bit. Because you’re not-… you're not with them. You’re with me. But I wouldn’t want any of them to be with you, because-... and… and if you’ll have me, I want you to be with me forever.”

You don't know when you started slowly nodding along to his little monologue, but you definitely are. You’re not sure when you started holding your breath either, but that’s two for two. He looks up at you, expectantly, fluttering his eyelashes and stuttering out a long, deep breath.

“Y/n, will you marry me?”

Some decisions, you’ve always thought, are made for you at a cosmic level. Your favourite colours. Your favourite foods. Hot and cold weather people. Loving or hating marmite. A predisposition to enjoying scary movies or being the kind of person who hides behind a pillow.

This is another one of those. You don’t have to think twice about it — you just know. You know because a great unstoppable force managed to squeeze you together at the perfect moment in time; the ever-expanding universe around you has kept you and Jihoon side by side through everything it could possibly throw at you.

“Yes.”

Of course you want to spend your forever with him.

The word leaves your mouth in a whisper and everything flies back into motion. The first black droplet rolls down your cheek. His usually so steady hands fumble with yours to slide the ring over your finger. A perfect fit. You’re hurtling through space and time as he gets up off his knees and cups your cheeks, gently pulling you upright and crashing his lips against yours. You stumble into him slightly in your heels; his kiss is more a chaotic clatter of teeth and giddy laughter than perhaps the intense, romantic gesture he was aiming for, but it’s completely, utterly, unequivocally perfect.

Jihoon’s fancy dress shirt creases under your fingers as you ball it into your fists where the top buttons are spread open, pulling him as close as you can, laughter dying down as he loses himself in you and as you lose yourself in him, right back. He swallows all of your gasps and sighs, hands sliding down from your face to the sides of your neck, until he’s resting a palm on each of your shoulders. A single finger slips beneath one of the straps and he pulls it out of the way, down onto your arm, withdrawing from your mouth so that he can press a series of kisses down your cheek and to your jaw instead.

“Ji,” you murmur, tipping your head back and fumbling at the buttons running the length of his torso, trying and failing to get them open. He chuckles, his other hand coming to rest over yours to stop you. You lace your fingers together, feeling him squeeze. Your heart pounds.

“Let's take our time,” he whispers to you, thumb grazing over your collarbone. “Okay?”

All you can do is nod as he kisses lower, and lower, pressing his lips everywhere he can while he’s still standing. Your neck and shoulders feel ablaze, tickling with the heat of the burning stars his mouth paints across your skin.

“Need-... Ji, you need to-... call… call the restaurant,” you stutter. “Gotta…. we need to cancel…”

The fleeting sting of his teeth against your throat interrupts you and you’re only aware of him reaching behind you to tug the zipper of your dress down when the material falls completely slack..

“In a minute,” he says, helping you walk backwards until your calves collide with the bed behind you once again. He eases you to lie down on the comforter and crawls on top of you, caging you in with both arms, taking hold of your left hand again.

He looks down at the ring on your finger, his entire face breaking into the most brilliant of smiles. Every inch, from the creases at the corners of his eyes to the paling stretch of his beautiful lips.

“My future wife needs taking care of, first.”

– no you won’t need it no more, let’s just kiss ‘til we’re naked, baby.

hehe thank u sm for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this bc it was a bit special 2 me. likes, reblogs, comments + feedback are all, as always, greatly appreciated.<3

#woozi fluff #woozi fic #woozi x reader #lee jihoon fluff #lee jihoon fic #lee jihoon x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen fic #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #j writes.#*#running off into the void now <3 don't perceive me BYE

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